Sweet spot

The day Peanut moved in was the last day of my third year Social Work practice placement. It had been one of the worst experiences of my adult life. The stresses of writing a dissertation and essays, working in a LA Children's SW team,  our own approval and matching panels and student experiences had me on my knees. It had been a long cold dark winter with introductions to Peanut grabbed between essays and goodbye visits with children I'd been allocated.

Then it stopped.

The winter broke and the sun came out and stayed out. My work was submitted and I had nothing to do other than consider if I actually wanted to be a Social Worker while I waited for my results. Most days I would load Peanut up in the bike trailer and we'd cycle down to the beach and I'd drink coffee and she'd have juice while we shared a scone. Some days we'd ride 20 miles. The sun shone every day for almost three months, we cycled two or three times a week and it was like the summer would never end. New dad and new daughter we slowly got to know each others little ways. I read a book about hope and love and started to feel better. The summer passed and we got on with our busy lives.

Three years have passed and we've had another busy winter, two part time jobs that have turned into more than a full time job so something had to give and this week I've left one one of them behind to create more space to do more.
Then today the sun shone again. MrsC was on a mission, everyone was out and I was left alone with Peanut.

Peanut occupies the sweet spot in our family life. Universally loved by all and benefiting from all the lessons that we learned making epic parenting fails. We know when to worry and we know when to shrug and say 'it'll all be fine'. Peanut creeps into bed some mornings, something we'd never let the others do and I don't care anymore. I know that she'll be 22 years old in about two weeks time, or so it feels, I know that fun you can have with a four year old is a one time offer. They don't stand still and as you celebrate development and maturing you wave goodby to some unique joys and pleasures.

So we got out the 'Yellow'  bike and we went for a ride to seek out coffee. She sat in the front basket* and laughed like a drain as we bounced up the lane. We found a cafe and Peanut had her first Slurpy and she talked my head off. I listened and laughed when she made fun of my accent and I bought her a cake she didn't need but liked cos it had hearts on. Another day I'll remember for a long time.

Real Dad

I was pottering in the utility room while Flossy was sitting with her big sister in our kitchen. Big Sister is 8 years older and has never lived with us but with her aunt/ We have a good relationship and she is canny kid, actually she's a young woman, works hard and keeps her nose out of trouble. Big Sister was showing Flossy a family photo album that she'd made.

As I pottered I overheard Flossy ask 'is that my real dad?' as she looked at different photos. It's a loaded word 'real' when attached to dad or mam for many adoptive parents (step parents too).
I paused when I heard Flossy say it. I just waited to see what was going on inside me. Nothing.  Flossy was using it as just a form of words no values or judgement. I'm way past insecurity or the need for affirmation in relation to my status as my children's father. I was interested to see how I reacted.

It contrasted to an event a few days later.Lotty had single handedly managed to dysregulate the whole family drawing all of us into her bonfire of our sanity. 

She screamed as she flailed around the house.

'You're not even my real dad'.

The words spat at me looking for maximum effect as she ran around the walls.

Words aimed to hurt, which is a little unusual for Lotty. I was a little hurt, mainly because I was disappointed that she'd tried to hurt. Without the shadow of a doubt  I know that Lotty loves me but I do like the kids to be kind.

It's a cliche of adoption parenting the image of a child shouting the barbed words to inflict pain on their adoptive parents. In all the years that the big three have been with us it's never been said,  I'm sure it's been thought but never said. As for Flossy she's more that able to use it as a precursor to why she won't do as we ask in almost all circumstances. 

Back to Lotty, I reacted more out of indignation with a subtle hint of smarm. 

'Oh, tell me something I don't know'. Said in the style of Rick from the Young Ones.

It didn't make things better.

Call me maybe

Me: Excuse me I was looking for a first phone for my 11 year old.

Sales assistant: Ah, you’ll be after a ‘trainer’ phone.

Me: Yes, ideally I’d like it to be as uncool as possible and with as limited use.

Sales assistant: of course sir, come this way, would you like it in kindergarden blue or vomit green?

So the conversation went on my recent trip to buy a phone.

It’s an oft discussed topic mobile phones and children. There’s a raft of good and helpful advice available and for each potential negative there’s a positive. So, after much thought and a veritable Magna Carta of rules, codes of conduct and terms and conditions set before Flossy we have relented and she got a ‘trainer’ phone for her 11^th birthday.

We’ve walked this path before and Sarah got a phone when she was 13 some 10 years ago. Of course it was the source of much strife and the police were very helpful. To be honest I’ve only ever found the police to be very helpful, and dare I say it more empathic than some Social Workers I’ve met.

Though it had been the object of much discussion, debate and dare I say a little tension I agreed and went and bought a phone that texts and calls. No more and no less. It feels like the right time and like any tool has the potential for good and bad so we are going to practice the good and limit the bad with a low tech phone.

Flossy got her phone and initially was a little crestfallen that it wasn’t an iphone 6 plus with unlimited data, hey the kid’s allowed to dream, she was then rather excited.

I felt fine, clear guidelines were issued and sanctions were discussed.

It lives in downstairs, it is not to be abused, Flossy buys calls, any calls to the police (other than genuine) will instigate permanent loss, threatening texts/calls will initiate time limited removal, etc. If all is well then we’ll consider moving up a phone model to something a little less uncool.

I felt fine right up to the moment when I put Flossy’s number into my contacts. What a funny feeling it was like a changing of the guard. A good and bad moment. Exciting as she grows into a young woman terrifying as she grows into a young woman.

I paused as I entered her details, things may never be the same…………………

Growing into dad

It was 16 years ago this week that I met my children, Sarah, Gracie and Ginger. It was the culmination, almost a year to the day, of us beginning the process of adopting.

That meeting wasn’t what I’d expected; in my imagination I’d anticipated a Walton’s moment, gushing feelings, embraces, tears and joy. The reality was far different it felt more like a slap. An jolt of awakening that this is really happening and I was going to be a dad.

Those first few weeks were, terrible feeling like I’d lost control of my self, ruined my life but unsure how to make it all ok. Great fantastic kids but strangers and no gushing love.  I felt an unbearable scrutiny, everyone seemed to be watching; Social Workers, foster carers, friends, family and the BBC film crew**.  I just didn't know how to raise my doubts so I embraced my attachment style, locked down my rising fear and kept going.

I was pretty sure I was ruining, not only my life, but the lives of these three little strangers. Too afraid to say, ’I’m not sure about this, could someone help me’, after all hadn’t I fought hard to prove I could do it? Questions about my age*, readiness, faith and motivation to take a sibling group of three had all been answered convincingly. But now perhaps it had all been a magnificent deceit of them and myself?

The next few weeks and months are a blur, new experiences and a slow shift from baby-sitting to parenting all set against the knot in my stomach.

Slowly, hour by hour, day by day and week by week I eased into this role of father. Riding the turbulence good and bad and at times hour by hour. Developing unique relationships with three little children. At difficult moments I’d think how today was easier than yesterday and this week was easer than last so perhaps tomorrow will be ok, perhaps in a year it'll feel ok. The knot eased the fear dissolved.

We did get there. I have grown into the role of dad, from early embarrassments of not even turning when my children shouted dad repeatedly to now,16 years later, still not sure what to do but probably good enough. Of course there are things I'd have done differently but that's the path of dads.

Not a week goes by when I don't see in a twitter feed news of someones impending introductions with their child and I confess to feel the icy fingers of terror and fear as well as the warmth of the blossoming love of 16 years ago.

*I was 27 years old.

**That's another story

Hurt: Part 2

I didn't anticipate the reaction people had to my last blog. I'd written it in a fit of pique after what is becoming a regular bust up at the weekends. The usual argy bargy leading us down a path we all regret. I spewed it into the drafts folder of my blog account and laughed to Mrs C that I'd just written a blog I couldn't publish.
She read it, insisted and after some thoughtful editing I posted it.*

Before I'd even Tweeted that I'd posted it or linked it up I started to get a few notifications, initially telling me to tweet a link then, after posting, the few became a torrent. Conversations snowballed and before I knew it I had only a thin grasp of what was going on. I was included in conversations that spiralled around the subject of holding, restraint, Social Workers and child violence.

Hundreds of notifications universally positive** and thankfully none of a sympathetic 'ah, hun you ok' type. Comments coming thick and fast all expressing the varied approaches and policies that Foster Carers, Social Workers, Therapists and Local Authorities had.

Parents and carers, some behind veils of anonymity, talked of holding their children to keep families safe without permission from the powers that be. Others told of pragmatic advice to just do it. Others of being instructed to not do it in any circumstance.
Encouragingly there were stories of people finding support and training, enabling them to therapeutically protect themselves and their child. Knowledge of de escalation techniques, backed up by sensitive and proven methods of control, safe holding.
Helping children to keep their inside and outside worlds safe.
Helping children and parents regulate.
Helping families to stay together.

Trying to make sense of it now I believe the crux of the issue remains that the risk of not using safe holding to keep my child, and others, safe is lesser than the risk of letting the behaviour run its course.
Professionals need to have a nuanced and long sighted perspective. Weighing cost and risk now against the potential long term consequences for parents and children. And dare I say it the stability of the family unit.

Amongst the notifications were some quiet voices, messages from scared, weary parents not knowing where to turn. Trapped between the policy decisions, short sighted risk aversion and the violence they were living with. People struggling not knowing where to turn.
Distressing to hear, not knowing how to affect actual help from a virtual place. Some still lingering with me now.

Was this just a Twitter storm in a teacup one weekend in March? Others have blogged, written and Tweeted before so I don't know. In the midsts of the notifications a swell of proposed actions was suggested, a gathering of voices to raise speak out and make this plight known, a 'flash mob' of blogs, or  'blog bomb', a gathering of experience and knowledge.
All to try and affect a change to a more informed model of practice for professionals, empowering, equipping and enabling the many carers and parents who live and love children who sometimes are unable to control their hands and feet.

So watch this space.


If you are struggling and are looking for support or advice I can recommend
The Open Nest who are able to offer advice, insight and support
or DM me on Twitter if you want or through the blog.


*I took out the sweary words and toned down my critical tone (come on I have my HCPC registration to think of).
** one comment accused me of being an angry foster parent, I invited them to look closer. They did and bravely apologised.

Halo

There appears to be a determined and almost immovable halo around adoption.

Believe me I've tried to knock it off and I've tried to present my own lived adoption experience as relatively normal but I see the same enthusiastic determination in the eyes of prospective adopters that I had in mine. Aaaaaah, adoption.

In social circles eyes well up and hearts swell with sympathy at the revelation of my children's status as adopted.
Aaaw, look they're fighting. Aaaaaah, Adoption.

It rubs off on at least two sides of the adoption triangle.

So, regardless of my insisting, and Mrs C's confirmation, people refuse to believe that I'm generally a grumpy old git. How could I be, aaaaaaaah adoptive dad. Bloody halo.


I don't get asked to volunteer on adoption preparation courses. Now it might be because I talk too much but it might be because I might put them off. Don't be stupid, they've all been touched by the adoption Halo. You can almost see them think:
"It's all gone wrong for him, he must be doing something wrong. I've seen Annie, it's a doddle. Adoption always works out ok in the end"

That's the halo.
Aaaaah, Adoption.

Sometimes it's a pain, when we ask for consideration or understanding then the halo blinds people. In their minds they're thinking 'Those children have been there for years, they should be fine now. I've read Oliver Twist and he did ok'. In their eyes I'm just over an over fussing type. Aaaaaah, adoption.

If I was a cynic I'd suggest that politicians have worked this halo out.

Politician 1: 'Nasty Social Workers are slowing down adoption approval.'

Newspaper: 'Aaaaaah Adoption. Those nasty Social Workers.'

Politician 2: 'Aaaaaah Adoption. Those nasty Social Workers.'

Man on the street: 'Aaaaaah Adoption. Those nasty Social Workers.'

Politician 1: (Halo)

But I'm not complaining we managed to get money off our last family holiday because the salesman 'found out' we had six adopted children.

Aaaaaaah, adoption.

2014: A review of the year.

It has without doubt been a most interesting year. High highs and low lows.

A few days into the new year and Gracie returned herself to the system that had passed her to us 15 years earlier. Looking back now it seems surreal, the events leading up to it and the act itself both laden with strong emotions and difficult experiences. We continue to wrestle with the what has happened and I'm sure we will for many year to come.

Days later we went en mass to the court for the celebration hearing to finalise Peanut's joining us. A great and remarkable day.
The high and low point of the year already set within the first weeks of January 2014.

The rest of the years has been the usual roller coaster of events with managing increasingly challenging behaviour being the constant underlying theme. We've broadened our range of theraputic support, without any assistance from Post Adoption Support services, more through conventional and unconventional means (Equine therapy). We will try anything, we have to.

I was nominated, with Mrs C, for the Happy list. We attended the subsequent event the most remarkable party I've ever been to, a room full of the most inspiring and humble people you'd wish to meet. I have spent the year clarifying that I did not have to 'be' happy to be on the list as I had not nominated myself, thanks BAAF.

Opportunities to share my experience of adoption have come through social media and blogging. However, my personal views on adoption have shifted more this year than I would ave anticipated. I still believe in adoption but increasingly I see orthodoxies in practice, thought and ethics that sit uncomfortably with me. I'm ruminating on how, where and if I should express them.

As the year draws to a close we watch the joyful, painful and delicate steps of reintroduction for our older children to siblings unfairly cast adrift 15 years previously. As we watch we consider our role in this new landscape and reflect on unexpected feelings and thoughts.

So that's our year in the vague.

Best TV: House of Cards (2nd year running).

Best Album: Ozzy Osbourne - Tribute (it wins every year).

Best book: Ruthless Trust (it wins every year).

Favourite colour: Red

All the best for 2015

Just a word of advice

'Just a word of advice'

It's an expression that fills my heart with dread. It usually means that someone is going to offload their opinion about what I'm doing wrong or how I should at least do it their way.

I much prefer advice that I've asked for than advice that's offered unsolicited. I don't take well to the tutting pensioner in the food isles offering wisdom whilst one of my offspring has a freakout over the lack of Peppa Pig shaped ham or some such.

A recent twitter thread highlighted the 'interesting' advice that was being given and how it was being received.

We all come to this adoption malarky on the back foot, our Social Workers are 'experts' and every suggestion or piece of advice is loaded. It's loaded with the bureaucratic authority they hold,  the unspoken reality that they are gatekeepers to what we want and need. So we nod politely and take on board what is said, after all they're the 'experts'. In different circumstances we wouldn't feel so amenable to advice offered but in this case we are.

If we chose not to follow the advice then we perhaps 'hide' what we intend to do.

The experiences and knowledge of others is invaluable but we must weigh it and measure it against our lives, our knowledge of ourselves and our gut instincts. In social work parlance we are experts of ourselves and our own experience. The approval process should lead us to this understanding so we can use it effectively.

Advice and guidance can be life changing and at times has been essential to us as individuals and as a family. But the spirit that the advice was offered and received seemed to be the essential factor. And not just professionals, family friends and pensioners, the same applies to you.

If you want to listen to me, get to know me and have a conversation then you've got a chance of being asked for advice.

We've been given a truckload of advice but standard' advice trotted out from 'standard' professionals is for 'standard' families and 'standard' children.
I don't know about you but I'm many things but it's increasingly clear that I'm not 'standard'.

For the record:

If anyone ever advises me  to 'relax' cos my child is 'picking up' on my anxiety, I will become the embodiment of the exact opposite of relaxed.

If you advise I use a 'star chart' to help her focus on not being 'angry', I might staple said star chart to your forehead.

If you advise that Flossy 'twangs' an elastic band around her wrist if she feels angry to distract her then I'll let her 'twang' it off your wrist to distract you.

And finally, if you advise Mrs C that she has 'control' issues, I WILL NOT restrain her. You were warned.

Outwitted

For this to make any sense you need to be familiar with Chief Inspector Dreyfus of the Pink Panther films

P (Peanut): Daddy?

Me: Yes.

P: What time is it?

Me: Errrr.......(Thinking she is 3 and has no concept of time), 10 o'clock.

P: Thank you......................... Why?
 
Me: Well(Not sure where to start)...................it just is.

P: Why?

Me: (Slightly perplexed) Do you really want to know?

P: Yes.

Me: Well, the world spins. (Smart arse patronising voice)

P: Ok. (Sincere voice)

Me: So, a long time ago people divided up how long it took for the world to spin one full turn. (Getting into it now)

P: Ok. (Interested voice)

Me: The people decided that they would divide it into 24 bits and that how we measure the time.
(I am über dad,  and she is going to be a genius)

P: Ok. (Understanding voice)

Me: So that's why it's 10 o'clock.

P: Ok, (Smiling).....................Daddy?

Me: Yes.

P: What time is it?

Me: 10 o'clock (Hoping this will be the end of it)

P: Ok,....................................Daddy?

Me: Yes. (This is wearing thin)

P: What time is it?

Me: I've just told you, you tell me. ( I can feel my inner Dreyfus rise)

P: 10 o'clock?

Me: Yes, I've just told you! (Dreyfus has arrived)

P: Ok (Smiling).................... Daddy?

Me: Yes.

P: What time is it?

Me: (Sobs)

I am broken, defeated and owned. I am Dreyfus, thwarted, destroyed and outwitted by a by a lesser intellect.

Throughout my parenting years I've been bitten, punched and kicked, insulted, slapped and wedgied, laughed at, offended and sabataged.

But this takes the biscuit.

National Adoption Week: Time machine

So after all the shouting and balling NAW14 is almost over and I'm sure I speak for many when I say it feels like it's been a long week. 

Challenging images and interviews on daytime and morning TV bring conflicting emotions as I consider the hopes of prospective adopters and the needs of children. Naturally I compare this to the stories that I hear in my day job and are piped into my consciousness through Twitter, blogs and Facebook. Good, bad, mundane stories of lives lived in parallel to the oblivious world around us 51 weeks a year then thrust into the spotlight for a week in November.

NAW is a good news story the politicians, of all sides,  and the media love adoption, it's a golden subject that reflects well on those who discuss it. But though the challenges of contemporary adoption are explained and laid bare I fear that the man and woman on the street hold fast to the orphan Annie fairytale*. 
I am confident that good comes of it and if one child is found a loving home then it is more than worth it.

So, tomorrow when the brouhaha is over I'll wake up, dust myself off and get on with my life slipping back into anonymity. 

However, I can't help but consider the future, how will the adoption landscape shift over the next year and the next 10, 20, 30 years. 
Practice that we consider as normal will be examined with the benefit of hindsight. 

What will be the long term implications of the recent rulings in relation to Placement orders and subsequent reductions in their number?

What will be the impact of the much publicised adoptions support fund?

Thinking further ahead will we look back with horror and shame as we do when we consider the circumstances, practice and societies seeming indifference of the 50's and 60's?  

Reading the BASW magazine this month the issue of Human Rights and adoption was raised with the reality that we are in a minority of nations that still place children for adoption without the consent of the parents. What will be the implications for the future?

Will we be aghast at the expectations placed on adopters in light of the experiences and needs of the children they parented?

Will there be any adoption re union programmes looking back through the years?

Will adoption be seen as a side issue compared to the number of children in care that need stable and secure long term homes?

Ifs and buts.

I'm not sure where we'll be and if we'll be seen as villains, victims or saviours.
I'm pretty sure I'll still be dad.

*In my retirement I intend to write my own musical "Annie: the Truth", with swearing, singing and fighting.

National Adoption Week: Quotes

At running the risk of never being asked to speak to the media again I would like to share with you a little experience I had earlier in the week.

A few days ago Mrs C spoke to a press officer at length for an article on National Adoption Week. The press officer asked if I could add to the article by emailing a paragraph explaining what I would say to a prospective adopter.

So I sat down and my mind went blank, then filled to overloading with all that I should say. I sat and looked at a blank page and was at a loss what to write. Harsh truth or Disneyesque stories of giddy joy.

Both wrong: both right. So what do I say?

"Adoption has been the most amazing experience of our lives and has built a wonderful family around us. It has been exciting. I can't think of any downsides and we could not imagine our lives without any of our children and would certainly not hesitate in doing it all again."

There are moments when this is true but our story is more complex

"Adoption has been the most difficult experience of our lives and we feel like a truly dysfunctional family. It has been challenging and I often wonder how I'm going to get through the day. I wonder if the pros outweigh the cons  and we often reminisce  at our lives before our children came. We would certainly not hesitate in doing it all again but we'd do it differently"

This is how I felt recently after being kicked, punched and slapped, but it the truth is more complex.

So, after what seemed like an eternity I came up with a form of words:

"Adoption has been the most amazing experience of our lives and has built a wonderful family around us. It has been challenging and their have been difficult days. However, the pros outweigh the cons  and we could not imagine our lives without any of our children and would certainly not hesitate in doing it all again."

It feels like a compromise, bland and meaningless. 
If you've met me and spoke to me you know the truth. 
I am for adoption.

Railway child

Lotty saw me across the crowded rail station, shouted ‘Daaaadddyyyy’ at the top of her voice and sprinted across the expansive arrivals hall.

Six feet before she reached me she left the ground and propelled herself into my waiting arms that enclosed around her into a spinning embrace.

Not a heart that witnessed this reunion could remain unmoved. The scene from the railway children loomed large.

I confess to being slightly overwhelmed at such a demonstration, a little lump was felt in my throat.

Lotty hadn’t seen me since breakfast that day.

For Lotty I occupy a space in her heart that only a father can, right then I was fantastic.

Reflecting on each of my children I see that I occupy a different place on the spectrum of parenting for each of them. It’s not static, it shifts and moves to accommodate, age, circumstance, emotions, reaction etc. At times I’m a father at times a commandant. I’m guessing that to be true for most parents.

But for my children this spectrum has a few places on it that go beyond ‘normal’. Their age, pre-care and foster care experiences have all influenced their expectations of dads and consequently of me. Their Internal Working Model and attachment strategies colliding with their idea of who I am and what I represent. Sometimes I’m perceived as the cause of all their woes, historic and present. I place myself as the rock that their pain, hate and anger crashes against before it reaches shore. I become the personification of all that they want to fight against.

But so what? There was no contract with my children, they gave no opinion on who they wanted to be their parents or even if they wanted parents. They didn’t get to read my Prospective Adopter Report or ask me how I was going to meet their specific needs. They were passed from pillar to post at the mercy of circumstance, parents, police, Social Workers, solicitors, barristers and judges.

Sometimes my children find it hard to be sons and daughters.

But I am always their Dad, regardless of how they see me I am their Dad.