Ms. Oh

That was my name, pre-HH. Oh, for Organized. I had my closet arranged, (of course!) but in addition, the hangers were color-coded. Oh, for OCD.


Then I decided to become a mom. This is my adoption binder. This does not include the Attorney binder or the Post-adoption binder or the Trauma Disorder binder. Or the Infertility folder. Or the Miscarriage folder.

To the right is our application, what we call the "big app:" 71 pages. What you don't see is all that went into the 71 pages: getting the child abuse clearance, the criminal check, social worker's interviews, photographs of our home and neighborhood, going to the IRS to get copies of our back w-2's, getting our birth certs, writing our autobiographies, including information about our nuclear families and our philosophy of child-rearing. When people ask me if we'll have a second, it's not a uterus I'm worried about; it's my carpal tunnel! I did all this while still working a more-than-full-time corporate job and commuting 48 miles each way. Did I say each way?


What is my point?


Oh yes. Boo comes home. Traumatized. Hyper-vigilent. Not sleeping. Not playing. Not looking at me. Clinging. No. That is not an adequate description. Velcroed. No. Is there a word for "suctioned on?" My OCD served me well. I kept his world very consistent. And constant. Any changes were made (and recorded) incrementally. I kept a minute-by-minute log of his first year with us. I have the notebooks to prove it.

I did loosen up and through those years of being home full time, raising and healing this toddler. Now this toddler has mysterisouly become a little boy. A little boy wearing size 13 XW shoes! Over the years, I stopped being so organized. I kept a rigid schedule of meals and sleep, and all but totally let go of everything else. It's time now to pick up the pieces of Ms. Oh and get Organized again. So that I can be a good steward of the 6 hours he's at school.

It's not as easy as it sounds. In fact, I should be getting organized right now!