Real

Peanut: Why are you so bossy?

I'd asked her to clear her plate after lunch, she wasn't impressed.

Me: Because I'm your dad and that's what dads are, bossy.

Peanut, thought for a moment and with a little giggle of self congratulation suggested:

You're not my real dad are you though? You're my ADOPTED dad. 

I pause, impressed at her logic and humour in an attempt to shirk her task......................... she smiles, I smile and put that right back at her.

Oh.......in that case you're not my real daughter, you're my ADOPTED daughter.

Without pause she corrects my clear mistake.

Erm....... NO. Real daughter. 

We had a giggle and a cuddle, it's clear that I've no real understanding of the inner workings of a six year old girl's mind.

There are endless, or so it seems, memes and words written about adoption and what constitutes love and relationship. Most of them feel hollow or desperate to my eyes. I don't need to qualify or justify my love, it is what it is. Considering my relationship with the six children, adopted children, that are in my family I see that they each define and perceive it differently. That has transformed and shifted as they have grown and their understanding of their story and the world that they live in has developed.

Right now Peanut is clear on the issue, I'm the fake one and she's the real one. I think.

Anyhoo, have a smashing Christmas break, whatever that looks like.

Love

I've been overwhelmed by some stories that I've heard over the last few weeks, traumatic experiences of families as they live with the outworkings of trauma in their daily lives.  Sitting in rooms talking to parents about the threats, intimidation, aggression and violence some live with  I'm struck by the love that keeps parents going.

Love is amazing, it's an ethereal thing that doesn't fit that well into social work assessments. We can use words like bond, commitment, nurture, empathy and compassion but they're pale shadows that can only point us towards love.    

Adoption works, however wonkily, because of love. What other 'model of permeance' would offer love like this. Fostering perhaps, but that's different. I say adoption works, I guess I really means that it often works.

The social media 'echo chamber' that I live in would suggest that all is not well in adoption. However, the figures suggest that more is right than wrong and for many children and parents adoption works, or at least is the best option left available for some children. .

Of course, adoption could be better, as a progressive I'm keen to see some of the dogmatic adherence to some aspects of it need to be swept away. Support needs overhauling, preparation and recruitment needs revisiting, you know all that.

But this week listening to stories of families living with abuse at the hands of their children it hangs heavy but love remains and endures.

I wish I'd been brave enough to ask, those struggling and those not, if they'd do it again and what would they say? What would I say?

The last year has seen some of the most challenging days we've had as a family. On the darkest of days, I've felt my love flicker. Those around me have given me permission to let my love die and to even 'make that call'.

But the love re ignites, how and why I don't know, and I find myself defending and championing and loving again.
It's rarely a Disneyesque, fluffy bunny, gushing sort of love more of a gritty, bloody minded, lime juice in a paper cut kind of love but love it is.

When I read that adoption isn't 'fit for purpose' I confess that I can't agree.

Would I do it again? Yes.

Trauma Denial Trope

So you're having a chat with a friend or a family member and you get round to talking about some incident at home or school. The usual stuff a challenge that  your little one has with crowds or anxiety in different environments and the subsequent unraveling or slip from the 'norm' of accepted behaviour. Then the person who you're talking to stops and drops in some trauma denial trope or other.

'Do you not think they should be over it yet?' or 'children need to be in that environment, that's how they learn'.

The conversation goes on and it's clear regardless of how thorough or scientific your description of the impacts of early trauma, loss and separation are they are not going to have it.

They really are not willing to accept my rational, detailed and factual explanation of my child's inner world.

Stop there, I'm stuck at that point. As I walk away from that conversation I can't help feeling more than a little frustrated that this person can't understand the inner world of my children. I feel hurt, of course you do you insult my child you hurt me.

I can totally understand people not knowing the impacts of trauma but refusing to change their position or accept facts seems genuinely shocking. More than that it feels like there's sometimes an accusation hidden in there.

That I'm weak and being soft on 'bad behaviour', a permissive parent, liberal do gooder or a bleeding heart. Do they think I'm afraid of calling out poor behaviour and instigating consequences and firm boundaries. It's hurtful that someone who, we hope, cares for us and would have our best interests at heart believes that we're misguided and are condoning, as they see it, unacceptable behaviour.

I wonder if it strikes to a deeper issue that in their minds my children remain 'others', cuckoos, part of our family but  not of our family. Do they consider my child to be a 'wrong un'.
I hope that's not the case, I really hope that's not the case.

I'm still surprised that 19 years after setting out on this journey there are still people close to us who are choosing dogma over science and judgement over compassion.

Automatic reply

Ping, the email bounces back. 

'Sorry I am currently unavailable. I am out of the office until Thursday 1st June 2019  
If you need assistance before that please ring..........................'

Oh, well that is so not helpful. I might as well put my question in a time capsule to be dug up when they knock down the council offices or when we reach the next millennia. 

I so am not ringing the duty team. I'll try someone else.


I call and the receptionist explains:

'They're not in this office, as you know our workers are all remote now, I'll email them and mark it 'URGENT', is that ok?'

I suppose, do think you could add an exclamation mark to give a little weigh to that? 

What a peculiar world we seem to have found ourselves in. I can't find myself cross with anybody, they're all cogs in the machine, this machine that pops out happy little families, or something like that.  We give ourselves to partnership with services and professionals, I say give but it often feels like there's no element of choice. An essay on power dynamics and gatekeeping has been in my mind for years. 

Anyway, I emailed this week to update a Social Worker on how we were doing and by the time I had a response form them the next day, a wholly reasonable timeframe, we'd moved all moved on somewhat. Uneasy calm was replaced by a very easy uncalm. 

Things move quick around here. We seem to measure our lives in minutes and seconds, we react and respond to each development. We dash to find support, advice, insight or to just even keep professionals informed. I started this post on Tuesday and by the time I get to this paragraph, Thursday,  we're somewhere else, somewhere new. For years I've looked for some sort of sense of coasting along but it seems to have passed us by we are definitely blown by strong winds. 

Professionals move in days and weeks and seem to miss lots of the turbulence, they appear periodically and that's ok. 

So, what's my point? No point just sayin'.

Managing

Managing

Verb: to succeed in doing or dealing with something, especially something difficult.

What does 'managing' mean? It's no indication of how difficult things are or how we are dealing with it. It's subjective. What is the value of saying we're managing?

We manage because we can't think what else to do, but what do I do to manage, what is the cost, am I really managing?

Every day I meet people who are managing. Some are managing well, others not so.

Some people manage, but they're on anti depressants, they drink a little more than they should, their relationships with partners and friends are in tatters.
They manage but can't sleep at night, they have to give up their jobs, they don't see their friends and they're frightened of their children.
They manage by locking themselves in their room or calling the police.
They manage but they're isolated, aren't able to go to church or to friend's houses.
From the outside looking in I think 'are you really managing?'.
I think, 'yes you're managing but at what cost?'.

I know more families than I care to count who manage way beyond what they ever expected because they love their children and have no other choice.

There have only been a few moments in our family lives where I've thought that I wasn't managing, fleeting moments where I considered the alternative. But the alternative was too much to bear, a choice that was more painful than the 'managing'.

Stepping back, I wonder are we managing or just not giving up.






Please note: this post is not a criticism of the survey that used the word 'managing' in it's reporting more a reflection on my thoughts and ponderings that popped out after I read it.

Blogging

I sat in a meeting this week and my daughters Psychiatrist looked at me and said one day you should write all this down.

I smiled.

I've realised that blogging is my primary self care, it's where I put most of my thoughts. I spill out all my feelings, thoughts and ponderings.  Just doing that is often enough, ugly, beautiful, raw, funny and frustrating thoughts.

Then I breathe, I feel better.

So I cut and paste, edit and polish, sanitise and fashion into something that doesn't offend, something that raises a smile or brings some hope. I protect the innocent and guilty alike and try to be fair.  Then I release it into the wild,  the internet, and walk away feeling better. My blog is about me.

I always had a hunch that losing my anonymity would present challenges of confidentiality and consent or worse. Right now that all seems very real and I don't know what to write anymore, I fear eyes are watching and looking for fault, picking up on words or intention. I've lots to get off my chest, perhaps more than ever before but as I sanitise my posts to the point of being bland, vague and indifferent they there's no catharsis just indifference and frustration.

There's stuff I can post, #cpv,  DfE and the like, but that doesn't scratch the itch.

So, I'm waiting and seeing and writing boring posts like this, though I do feel a little better.

Social Work Games

Peanut and Flossy are playing Social Workers again. 

It's hard to tell what is going on but they are clearly feeling passionate, I lean in and try and interpret the scene. 

Lotty, 11, is clearly working hard to care for her babies. It's not clear but I think the babies have been naughty, or that's what Peanut, 5,  seems to be saying at full volume. I don't like to criticise but her communication and intervention skills are not all they could be and as for her empathy? Well frankly they don't meet the required standard as set out in the professional capabilities framework for newly qualified let alone experienced practitioners. Peanut continues, if they don't behave you'll have to go away she shouts to Lotty. 

It doesn't feel like a sad or happy game, volume in my children's games is no indication of either. It feels like a matter of fact sort of game, it just is.

I heard once that 'I'm down on Social Workers', I don't think I am but I am acutely aware that we're often agents of the state and nobody wants to see us at the front door. Generally, there are no good reasons to see us, even if we're welcome, we're welcome because we're helping in a bad situation or meeting a need that we'd rather wasn't there. We try to be fixers. 

The game continues, Lotty's perceived 'non compliance' is testing Peanuts patients and the tone is turning threatening. Lotty, is arguing the toss, quite convincingly, but she needs to be careful Peanut is holding the cards in the game. Social Workers hold all the power.

Children play out what they see, what matters to them and their play can often be a window into their thoughts and feelings. Social Workers have been involved in most of my children's lives they've never played Social Workers until now.

I keep listening to them but I'd rather they weren't playing Social Workers.

Another Year

Another year and another collection of moments and incidents, some mundane, some surreal and lots and lots in between. Thinking about the last month, the GoodMrsC and I have re calibrated our thinking and we are measuring our lives in smaller increments, minutes, hours and days. Beyond that has seemed impossible and overwhelming.

The end of the year has been a challenge, after years of inviting and requesting support and been told on at least two occasions officially that there was nothing that could offered above what we were doing and were receiving had we found ourselves thrown into a whirlwind of activity. Mainly uninvited, initially unwelcome but from this difficult place we hope that good will come and early signs are promising.

Right now we're all a bit delicate, hurt children hurt and we've all been hurt the last few weeks.

It's all a bit vague and unspecific but it's still tender and ongoing. It's provoked lots of thoughts about contemporary adoption, systems, culture, children's Services and such,  I'm sure that I'll condense them into several blogs over the next few months.

Other than that, what a year, Peanut started school and Flossy moved up to year 7. Like many homes like ours school and all that it brings defines a large part of our home life in the most challenging of ways. We've a way to go, if I look too far ahead then I lose the thought that it's possible. As I said, we'll do a day at a time. I've enough faith and resolve to say that I can do today and probably tomorrow.

There's so much other stuff that's filling up the corners of my life, the survey on Child on Parent Violence raises lots of questions. Hopefully, it will be a start point for a more considered and informed approach to an issue that defines many family lives in the fostering and adoption community and beyond. Lots has been done but there's lots more to do.

Thank you for reading my blog, writing comments, interacting on Twitter, watching my stupid videos and listening to my rambling on my Podcast. I wish you peace, success, regulation, access to services and good fortune in the coming year, or if that's too long to imagine the coming days.


Albums of the Year
Ozzy Osbourne - Tribute
Public Service Broadcasting - The War Room/ The Race for Space

Book of the Year
The Child Catchers - Kathryn Joyce (It's taken me a whole year and I'm not finished yet)

Blog of the Year

Suddenly Mummy -Adoption and Fostering: Not a Competition

National Adoption Week 2016 - Long lost families 2050

It's National Adoption Week and I'd like to take you on a little strole through my imagination.

Imagine the scene, it's 2050 and I'm 79 years old. I go to the telly box and tune into my favourite bit of TV, Long Lost Families. The music swells and the presenters, a celebrity adoptee and a much loved presenter, start to tell you the stories that they are going to feature that week. Adult adoptees looking for the families that they were adopted from in the first years of the twenty first century, people telling their stories.

Pause a second. 

I look back now at the acceptable practices in relaiton to adoption of the 1950's, 60's & 70's with amazement. Society accepted a totally different set of norms that allowed children to be forcably taken from parents with the acquiescence of courts, Social Workers, families, communities, churches and media. In fact those groups and individuals perpetuated the conditions that made adoption a  reasonable, acceptable and a proportionate response to what was seen as moral weakness, sin, immorality and a corrosive element in society. Pretty grim days.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I think that part of the popularity of the long lost type program is astonishment at the judgement of society and the hope of justice in reunification. It's nice to think that would never happen now.

Back to 2050.

How will future society and adult adoptees view the government's push to recruit adopters, the money poured into advertising campaigns, the adoption fairs and websites with children's faces on? How will the restriction on adoption support and limits on resources be seen? the political influence exerted over judges and the fight back? the stigmatisation of mental health of birth parents and limited support as their children move on, the dogma of severance and the perspectives of all but a few countries as they move away from a policy of adoption.

I'm not sure how adoption will fair and if society will judge our norms as dogmatic, naive or worse. Will they see the Gove/Cameron Adoption project as a roaring success? What will they say?

Perhaps the narrative will change, the needs of children will be prioritised above the needs of adopters and birth families. Maybe judges will be allowed to rule and the decision will be supported by financial and therapeutic support. Where adopters are equipped, empowered and engaged in caring for the children they are responsibility and birth families are not framed as the enemy. Adopters, professionals  and extended families working to meet the needs of children.

Every day my views and perspectives have changed, everyday I've become less binary and increasingly murky. More and more I'm compelled to ask myself, 'am I on the right side of this story and is there a right side to this story, am I one of the good guys?'

I'm not sure how history will judge us, more to the point how my children will judge me.

Adoption is not what it was but it certainly not what I would hope it could be, parenting other people's children is damn hard.

No easy answers

In one of my day jobs I speak to teachers and help them develop their understanding of the impacts of  loss, trauma and separation on children. I’m usually invited in on the back of adoption but I quickly move past this with my first slide and broaden it to a whole range of children.

I talk about children who experience abuse, of many strains, children cared for by adults other than their parents, children in the Looked After system, children who experience the death of a parent or loved one, children who experience mental ill health or live with someone who does, children who experience the imprisonment of a parent, children whose parents separate or divorce. I could go on, and usually do, indicating that the children who experience these challenges and are adopted are only a small fraction of those impacted.

Eventually the teachers ask is there anyone who hasn’t been impacted by trauma, loss and separation left? It’s an interesting question and the reality is that probably not, but the degree, implications and subsequent support are perhaps the key issue. 

So with that in mind I go about my day. 

This week on Twitter I was included into a very long conversation thread that drifted into this issue, along with many other issues to boot.  

For many of the adults looking after the other children that I listed they had no choice, circumstances and other such meant that they care for children that have lived under the shadow of negative experiences.

Are their needs greater than ours or ours theirs? Of course not. But we have many things that they do not. A voice. The goodwill of many people that can help us. The Adoption Support Fund. A statutory right to see our needs assessed, lobby groups, conferences and research that benefits us and our children. Adopters are uniquely privileged, we are universally seen by wider society, media and politicians as saintly and deserving. If you’re an adopter it’s not uncommon to be told ‘what you’re doing is amazing’, ‘I could never do what you do’ and other gushing statements. For us this is a choice, many of us didn’t ‘really’ know what we were getting into, but we chose this path none the less. You could argue that for some it was no choice but a last resort but that confuses the issue. Doesn’t it? Probably.

I’m not suggested it’s all creamy but I know enough to know that we have more in our favour than many others. Neither am I suggesting that we should sit back and rest on our laurels, of course we should push for better.

I often think what it would be like to care for my children in different circumstances, to be the cause or to have been a bystander to my children's trauma, the system may not look on me as favourably as I struggle with guilt, shame, mental ill health, challenging circumstances, your own trauma etc. 

I do know that some would prefer money spent on adopters and not on families that struggle. I do know that some would prefer the opposite. I'd like to hope that those who hold the purse strings also hold both ends of this spectrum in tension.

How do we rank need? Are some more deserving of public funds than others? Well I guess there are multiple views on that. When thinking of my child’s life path would money have been better spent on early intervention, or resourcing foster care and foster carers or providing support to adopters or on universal services. The reality is that money is spent at each point with varying degrees of success and to fund one is to not underfund another, as far as I know that’s not how public funds are used or how the system works.

The reality is that the need is greater than the available resources, that being so we are then left in a terrible position where most services could do with more money.  Need is graded and some get access to services and some do not. As adopters we're unique but that does not necessarily mean we receive or deserve a prioritised access to service. I'd like to live in a society where children's need are prioritised regardless of who cares for them be a single mother with mental ill health and a chaotic lifestyle or a middle class family in the leafy suburbs.  Is that the case? I'm not sure I'm in a position to answer that.

What upset me, or frustrated me, in the twitter conversation was that it's a debate that can't be boiled down to 140 characters. Confusion reigned as different people's threads blurred and messages mixed.  It wasn't a uplifting exchange.

I've read and seen enough to know that though the needs of many adopted children are profound and life long but that doesn't make them unique and in the grand scheme represent a small portion of the whole need that is present. 

There are no easy answers.

Adoption Breakdown

I was brought over all funny by the Post Adoption Support Fund Survey that came through the post. I knew it was coming and I've answered enough of this type of Strengths and Difficulties forms over the years so I'm a dab hand at it all by now.

I have to take a deep breadth as I usually have an existential crisis over the nuances and philosophical differences between 'agree' and 'strongly agree'. I can get a little Fawlty Dad over the issue but I try to be a grown up.

Anyway, I was rattling through the form and passed the tricky bit and was into the final section.

On a scale of 1 to 10 

Do you find it difficult to care for you child then? 

Followed by........

Do you feel your child responds to you attempts to help them?

Finally.............

Do you feel there's a risk of your adoption breaking down?

That question just stopped me in my tracks, like a slap. All the others I had to think about and then give a considered answer, weighing up the evidence and analysing the facts.
All the others questions I was prepared to give some headspace too, not that one though.

I was really shocked, then I was surprised at being shocked. I know adoptions breakdown happens but it is a taboo and we're not meant to talk about taboos. It seemed odd to see it written down I felt a little offended that I'd even been asked.

'Adoption breaking down'

A simple phrase that encapsulates a cataclysmic and prolonged disaster in a families lives. I can't imagine the events, circumstances that lead to it. The stats say about 3% of adoptions breakdown but up to a third struggle. I'm not sure about what struggle means, we struggle but the leap from struggle to breakdown is a big one. Also, having I've had a daughter move out before 18. That was surrounded by difficult circumstances but in no way was it an adoption breakdown. I have unending empathy for those that have experienced a breakdown.

I'm not happy with the phrase it's a big blunt phrase that encapsulates a whole range of circumstance, systemic and personal failings, heartbreak and broken dreams. I'm really searching this week to make sense of what point I'm trying to make, I'm not even sure that I've got a point. I'm just dancing around this phrase and event that some families experience. The feeling that I got lingers and I'm not sure why.

Anyway, I just put a 'one', I have no idea what the future holds.

Endless summers

The trouble with looking back to my summer holidays as a child is that I think I've a very selective memory. The cliches of endless summers with days of sunshine feature heavily.
Sitting and reflecting I can also remember a summer of refusing to go out and watching endless TV everyday. I can also remember a different summer where I played out for days on end, called on friends and had adventures.
I don't remember being naughty, or irritating or a pain.
To be honest I can't remember much detail of the long summer weeks.

Each year I watch twitter and Facebook and see the summer unfold across the lives of many families, the good the bad and the interesting. I see a lot of parents relieved to lose the stress of school and I see a lot of parents struggle to hold their children safe with the lack of routine.
I feel that we hold those two positions in tension.

As parents the ebb and flow of our summers has varied.
These days we see the summer in terms of endurance, one day at a time counting weeks. At least we do for some of our children.  The lack of routine picks at the seams of our version of normal and we start to fray by this point of the holidays. There's no bottomless pit of money to provide flagpole events every day, negotiations are protracted and what suits one invariably does not suit another. Each  day brings new challenges. Then nerves of a new school or teacher starts to add that special ingredient into the dynamic.

The Good MrsC bears the brunt.

We've not reached the fever pitch of the 2014 'endless summer' that led to the legendary 'year long grounding incident' and that precipitated the seeds of our plan to move house. Still, it's not easy and by now we're ready for the return and all that brings. A different sort of challenge.

I wonder what my children make of their summers, what they'll recall? Do they see the challenge? the tensions and conflict? Will they hark back to endless summers with selective recall, I'm sure we won't.

Their Story

Lotty: So, you know how mam and dad are not your real mam and dad well that's because you've got a real mam and dad that you can't live with. 

Peanut: Ok.

I didn't get involved but spectated from a safe distance, from the front seat of the car looking through the rear view mirror with my good eye on the road. 

The conversation went on, Lotty with the sensitivity of a jet engine spelt out pretty clearly a timeline of events for Peanut. To be fair she did moderate the information with age appropriate words and tone but she was her usual frank self. 

We're out about adoption, well and truly out. If you see us walk into a restaurant then you don't have to be a social anthropologist. From the moment we decided to adopt we've laid it all bare.

But our children's story's is their story and it's for them to share.

Sat in a beer garden we got talking to a local last week. They were fishing for the story but we've learnt the art of dodging the questions. I take no offence, people are curious and love a good story. Adoptions stories are good stories.

When the big three came we said nothing to nobody about their journey to us. We told a couple of trusted family members just for our benefit.

When people asked we said, it's their story and it's their's to share. People were nervous, 'what if they told us something?'. 'Chill' we said, 'listen and talk'.  They never said much just a few incidentals and mentions.

It's their story and their's to share.

Safe as ..........

It's a year since we moved and as we slide into the summer holidays the Good MrsC and I have been pondering that decision and the year we've had.

Basically it worked.

We regained control of our environment, reducing some of the physical challenges and threats that appeared to be encroaching on us. Of course there's lots of factors around that but the primary issue is summarised in a meme I saw recently-

'Being safe is not the same as feeling safe'

The perception of safety and misguided or unhelpful reactions and strategies to manage this feeling that my children manifest was becoming harder to manage and live with. It reached a point where we realised to give us a few more years grace we needed to move. That and a few other factors helped us make that decision. 

Our old house was fantastic, and safe, but we felt that perception of being safe was eroding in the mind of one of my children.  

But, we all feel safe here in our new house.

I feel safe, if any of my children 'run' then they'll not get too far.  I didn't have to pretend to walk the dog, hide in bushes and inconspicuously follow her round the neighbourhood.

She has run. I didn't have to chase, as I knew the raaaah would have blown over before she got to the end of the track and she would return.  I could see her sobbing, telling a horse what a pig I was. She returned when it got dark and she was hungry and felt less raaaah.

Flossy feels safe in our new house, we have no passing cars, no 'strange children' playing in the street. The fact that most people get lost finding us makes us feel hidden. It's predictable, sleepy, slow and feels safe.  A few months after the move she announced 'I love our new house'

The reality for some of our children is that feeling safe is a scare commodity, negative experiences are hard wired to growing brains to communicate a constant lack of safety. Hyper vigilance is frequent and consuming it precipitates conflict, anxiety, tension and a need to control. All understandable reactions and reactions I display when I feel unsafe and threatened.

Knowing this forced the move and MrsC says it saved us. Of course there are other challenges but we aspire to keep one step ahead all the way.

I loved my old house, I make detours to not pass it as I still feel sad at the loss but ultimately it's bricks and mortar. Like all parents we do what we have to do.

Champion

Words are interesting and powerful, words matter, they get us into trouble and out of trouble. I've been pondering one word for months and years. It's the word:

Champion

Before I go any further this is all about me, not you, so if you read this and think I'm having a dig at you then you've well and truly got the wrong end of the stick. If you think it's about an organisation, and there are a couple that use the word, you're missing my point because I hold no ill will or bear any animosity at all. This is about how I feel. Me.

I've started this blog time after time month after month but struggled to put into words how I feel about potentially being called an 'Adoption Champion'. If you know me you'll know I've worked hard to duck the title on several occasions and mainly because it was just a feeling of unease that I struggled to put into words. More to the point I struggled to get to the bottom of why I felt the unease. 

I've tried to verbalise my feelings on several occasions with different people failed dismally and come away from the conversation feeling like a pedant* or a lilly livered liberal, I mean it's only a name for heaven's sake. 

I support and participate in the work that many of the 'champions' are doing, advocating for adopters and adoptees. The promotion of awareness of the reality of adoption and chipping away down the constant disneyfication of adoption in popular perceptions and media. In that regard I'm all in. It's just that word. 

I've talked to adoption 'Champions' who embrace the name and that's fine I don't want to project or transfer my unease. 

Today, it finally came to me as I sat on the train. 

Champion is an overwhelmingly positive term and to link it to social construction that at it's heart is born from catastrophic loss is the crux of my unease. I just can't reconcile the two.  

*The good MrsC will read this and say 'you're just being an colossal arse' and she might have a fair point.

Telecom

Several years a go at the dawn of camera phones the big girl got her first 'hand me down phone', giddy with joy she passed her number to all and sundry. So, slightly perplexed she came and asked me to help her to open a message that she'd been sent. You can imagine my surprise when it was a picture text from a 14 year old acquaintance of himself. I say himself it was only part of himself in a state of 'happiness'. You can imagine MrsC's surprise. Clearly, young eyes were protected from this.

After a little thought we felt that a couple of decades in a Gulag breaking rocks would perhaps smooth out a few curves in the young man's character so we rang the police. I confess that they spoke a lot of sense and guided me to having a chat to the young man as to involve them would place him on the sex offenders register for the rest of his life and though tempting was perhaps a bit too much for us. So, chat we did and I suggested that if he ever saw my daughter again, let alone give her any bother, he was to throw himself under a bus or I'd release the Good MrsC upon him and the full weight of the law. Having weighed the potential outcomes he plumped for the former and that was the issue over.

Of course no trouble was ever had with the big girl again, bless her.

So back to present day and our plans with Lotty's phone have worked a treat for the last year. After the initial flush of giddy joy and frenetic texting and calling of relatives a moderation set in. Having got what she wanted she realised that it was in fact the un coolest phone in the known world and it was resigned to the bottom of her school bag to gather dust. How sad.
The deal had been, learn to have a phone i.e. don't call the police because you didn't get sprinkles on your hot chocolate*. So, though it is uncertain as to how well the lesson has been learnt it gave us another year. Job done, we've had no bother and no texts.


She has a smart phone now, albeit a second hand one from the big girl** and is making steps into the modern world. That had always been the deal, have a 'trainer phone' for a year then a 'real' phone. I like to think of technology as neutral neither inherently good nor bad. That may be true but human nature being as it is and young people being what they are I feel a fair amount of apprehension. However, this is a bridge that we cannot go around so we are tentatively stepping across it, caution and moderation being our watchwords along with the usual and reasonable ground rules and safeguards. So we'll see how we go.

Am I worried? Eh, yes.

Will it be ok? Eh, yes, we'll make it ok, that's what parents do.



*I really must tell that story sometime. 

**I really must check the photos

Therapy

This week a book came through the post 'The Adopters Handbook on Therapy' and the DfE published the 'Post adoption support interventions: independent evidence review'. Both very helpful and giving excellent summaries of a range of therapies and their benefits.

It made me think when I go to the garage I often do an impression of the thing that is wrong with the car. I make ticking noises and give flamboyant demonstrations of the difficulties that the car's happening, it's all a bit Fawlty Dad. The nice mechanic smiles, looks impressed and nods as though he understands. Very politely he then tells me they'll have a look. He clearly thinks I'm an idiot but he is professional and I trust him. I wouldn't dare to presume that I can actually tell whats wrong with my car or even worse how to fix it, what tools to use and what part is needed.  I kind of feel this way about psychologists too.

Reading Twitter and Facebook feeds as well as talking to adoptive parents I hear all kinds of stuff from adopters when talking about therapy for their children dangerous crazy stuff to desperate cries for help. I worry when advice is give about what therapy will fix this or when recommendations are offered based on a friend who did Theraplay or whatever. I worry that the choice component of the ASF has led to amateurs like me thinking they know what therapy their child needs. Of course I know things aren't right but that doesn't qualify me to say how to fix it. I know enough that the wrong therapy is can be more harmful that no therapy.*

We've kind of been round the block in many regards but we've been fortunate to access several therapeutic interventions over the years and the main thing is that I've realised that they don't work. Of course what I mean is that they don't usually produce the result that I'm necessarily looking for. The process and outcome is much more nuanced than that and linked to all kinds of other stuff, family systems, parenting models, my own hang ups, etc..

But I've been desperate and I'd have done everything and accepted any therapy in the early days. I discovered I knew nothing about therapy. The 'fixes' were not 'quick' and quantum changes in behaviour were not on offer. Nuanced and incremental changes were on offer as was the development of my knowledge of the inner workings, self image and identity of my child. Problems eased rather than resolved and we learnt how to dodge bullets and sidestep the fiery darts that continued to be aimed at us. It's made us look at ourselves and acknowledge when we are part of the problem and helped us shift to being part of the solution.

Perhaps the most significant part is for us was someone who listened to us, believed us and confirmed and acknowledged our thoughts and concerns. A pretty basic but much under valued need and something that enabled us to keep going at tough times.

Of course others have different experiences and I'm happy to acknowledge that but I know enough that the impacts of trauma are long term and there are no magic fixes.




*For example the NICE guidelines on Children's Attachment note that:

'although use of creative and non-directive therapies is popular with this population, there is no evidence for the efficacy of any form of individual therapy done with primary aged children in terms of addressing attachment difficulties'

Buttons

Twice this week someone told me I was laid back. I assure you I'm not and if you asked anyone who has spent any significant time with me then they'd disavow you of the notion pretty quick.
I am Fawlty Dad.

I just lost it this week, totally spat my dummy out, my buttons were well and truly pushed. What amazes me is my children's abilities to find new buttons. Of course they don't always intend to push my buttons but good grief they sometimes seem to have a supernatural sense of what they are and when is the most inappropriate time to push them.

I can keep the safety guard on my big buttons, I expect them to be pressed and take appropriate actions to avoid them being being exposed to the sticky little fingers that seek them out.

So, this week I got called a 'freak', repeatedly. I thought oh stuff this for a game of Cluedo and proceeded to unravel over a 30 second eternity. I returned sarcasm with sarcasm and became all 'whatever' and 'I'm so not bothered'. I carefully laid aside my NVR and PACE and rolled with it.

Button thoroughly pressed.

Not my best moment. Of course I fixed it over an hour or so but I should have walked away, I should have kept my button well and truly guarded.

There was a time in my life when I though I had no buttons. Then children arrived and what a deeply upsetting experience it was discovering that I was literally covered from head to foot in buttons, reactions waiting to happen. Over the years I've had some of the buttons surgically removed and some have broken through repeated and persistent over use.

Unfortunately, there seems to be no end to the new buttons that grow back. There also seems to be no end to my children's willingness to press them.

My enduring button is name calling and I'm painfully aware of it and keep it well guarded. But with all the 'stuff' going on in the rest of the world I've struggled under a little cloud and that's when the buttons are vulnerable.

When I'm no longer laid back, when I am Fawlty dad.

Golden

What a snarly angry little so and so she'd been, getting in the car was a fight, demanding and pushing. Rolling her eyes and silently but openly back chatting when I asked if she'd got her stuff. She was worried that we'd be late and it spilled into the place that all emotions go, angry. The snarly angry so and so. When we turned back to collect the thing that she'd forgot it was my fault and that she'd forgotten it and my fault we had to back. Snarly angry so and so.

We went and I watched. Enjoying the sun I chatted to one of the other parents. It was nice to be with grown ups and talk about grown up stuff, politics and politicians with the sounds of half a dozen girls enjoying a summer evening. As the sun slowly fell the shadows grew and the light turned golden. None of the parents seemed to mind as the training ran over. We don't get many warm evenings at training so we were enjoying it.

On the way home we hit the sweet spot, photographers call it the golden hour. The dying sun's golden gaze streamed through the windscreen and hit her face and she smiled at me. Unusually, we were both happy with the music on the radio and we turned it up, way past reasonable.
The golden sun kept streaming and she kept smiling. We talked easily about this and that, no purpose just enjoying the 'easy' bit, no tension and no snarl. A ten minute drive but that smile and that sun drenched the memory of the snarling and more, it desolved the snarling that would inevitably come again.

As we drew into the drive I reminded her to take in her water bottle and her pack lunch box that she'd left in the car earlier that day. The smile reversed and the inevitable returned, but one smile seems to dissolve a hundred snarls.

This morning I woke early and I checked the news before I headed out to catch my 6am train. I was glad that smile still had some power left in it.