That's stupid

It seems odd where conversations come from and how they end up in unusual places.  I can't quite recall at what point this one started as we were driving home from some outing with Flossy, Lotty and Peanut.

Flossy and Lotty were somewhat perplexed/indignant at the legal technicality's of the adoption process. The kind of perplexed/indignant that adolescents do with such flair and verve it seems a shame that it's wasted on them. Fortunately, there ire wasn't aimed at me.

Peanut was listening but was also admiring the 'precious' stones that she'd acquired in a car park, I'd negotiated her down from two 'precious' half bricks and a couple of lumps of 'precious' railway ballast. We don't need any more 'precious' things hidden in her room.

Flossy and Lotty set about me.

So, you're saying that our mam* is not our mam when she clearly is my mam. 

Me: Only legally,  of course she is biologically your mam. 

But you're saying she's not our mam.

Me: No, I'm saying she is your mam but when the adoption order was made the birth certificate was changed and me and your mam were put on as your parents. 

But you're not our mam and dad.

Me: Well I am but I'm not...... 

Ok, what about Kasey** is she our sister?

Me: Well.......... yes of course she's your sister but from a legal position................(I trail off realising that I don't know)............Legally, you don't have the same mother.

But she is our mother and Kasey is our sister

Me: Yes, but not legally............. 

So, you're saying that she's not our mother?

This goes on for a while and blissfully is ended when we arrive home. After a brief negotiation Peanut agrees that the 'precious' stone can live with the other 'precious' stones on the drive.

Flossy and Lotty slink into the house and with a parting shot aimed with the brilliance of teenage girls they declared:

That's stupid


I agreed.
Increasingly, I'm at a loss as to how to hold all the needs of all the people in tension. Sometimes none of this makes sense.






* Birth mam
**Older biological sister

Expectations

I'd get sacked within minutes in a meme factory due to me constantly and insistently lowering my standards, aiming lower and setting low aspirations.  I can see the face on my imaginary line manager as I offer them a picture of a cute child with a tagline 'one day you might be average'.

What I've learnt is that high expectations is the enemy of a happy family life in Coates Towers.

I'd hoped that MrsC, the wee three and me could go out for a meal this weekend. We rarely do so, for a whole host of reasons it's always tricky. I'd set my heart on it, partly motivated by one of my children, who shall remain nameless, informing us that we never do anything as a whole family. I really thought we could be like one of those families that we see on the telly with the happy smiley faces and warm loving, mutually respecting, Volvo with Labrador kind of family that laughs as they 'do things together'.

I'd really hoped that we could just have a nice time, more than that in my head it was a marker I'd placed in my mind that we'd survived another tricky year, against the odds we'd done it and we were going to celebrate that together.

So, after appropriate signposting, psychological preparation and phased communication with the massive then identifying a suitable venue the day arrived and the 'I wish we could do things together' Child declares she's not coming.

'Why?' I ask putting on my best Dr Dan on valium tone.

'Just don't fancy it'

So, that's me unravelled right there! and she's rocking the just try and make me come nonchalance/sass.

Needless to say there was an open and honest exchange of opinions followed by a great unravelling with me front and centre to the whole lot of it. So the day went with my tetchy/hacked off/disappointed attitude colouring everything said and done. Everything was a bother and personal.

Expectations, what a killer.

Pre children I had ideals of this and that, high hopes and aspirations for precious moments, shared hobbies and the like. Now they all seem like a recipe for my own unhappiness. I've not lowered my expectations rather to try and take them out of the equation and roll with whatever happens good, bad or, most usually, a little bit of both.

Voices

Last week I put out a tweet inviting adoptees onto the Podcast, I was surprised by the response, lots of adopters retweeted it. That made me think.

I'd put the tweet out after no. 2 daughter told told me a story, I thought it was interesting and in a moment of calm I asked if she'd let me record her telling the incident for the podcast. She was up for that so we did. I've always been nervous of using my children as currency for what I do but she knows that and we talked it through.

Other than the fake trial we had in 2003 over a contested misdemeanour I'd never formally interviewed my children. Clearly, it's not normal to do so. As I sat with my daughter and recorded a mini interview something strange happened. A window into her world was opened in a way like never before. She talked freely about her some of her inner thoughts. It was only a brief chat and she told her story and I turned the recorder off. But once it was off we kept talking. It was an open and easy conversation, it was a window into a world, to my shame, I'd not been party to.

Of course we can wonder how well any parent knows their child, adoption adds complexity to the complicated in spades. What filters do our children negotiate and introduce to make sense of their world and stories and to help others make sense of their world and stories? Lots to ponder and sift.

So, I thought I'd send out the tweet an offer to adoptees to share their thoughts and their stories if they wanted.

A few adoptees contacted me curious about my request and thoughtful about sharing. Its a big step and I see that.

I'm mindful that as an adopter, like all adopters, I have always had choice. To adopt or not. To take those children or not. To tell my story or not. We are the only participants in this process that have ever had a choice*.

Adoptees had no choice they had no voice.

What would my children have really chosen, what did they really think, what do they really think now. Experience, loyalty, history, duty, sensitivity, love and a myriad of other influences impact on adoptees stories. They don't have to tell their stories or share their thoughts but if they want to then I want to listen if they want me to. Stories, thoughts and opinions regardless of how palatable they may or may not be I want to listen. They may speak of different cultures, practice and times but there's value in it all.

I was surprised by the times my request was retweeted but encouraged that I wasn't alone that many others want to hear the voices of those that had no voice.








*In the UK relinquished babies make up less than 1% of adoptions.

Father's Day

This is not a post about Father's Day, it's not really a post about fathers, more about me. If you ever thought this blog was about anyone else then re read the blog name.

I had this funny moment a few weeks ago, I looked at my hands as I washed the paint off them from the jobs I'd been doing and I saw my dad's hands. I'd reached an age where my hands look like how I remember his. Like memories do, they flooded in, countless memories of my dad.

I can recall watching my dad. I'd watch him potter on for hours waiting for a go on the tools that he was using around the house. I remember him cutting his finger as he fitted a pane of glass and wondering if I would ever be as brave as him to not cry if I cut my finger.

I remember my only trip to the pictures with him to see a James Bond film.

I remember train journeys with him.

I remember him teaching me to ride a bike on a summers night in the late 70s, all the kids in the street came to watch as I was so bad at it, I remember crying.

I remembered the rough and the smooth.

I remember twisting the arms of the nurses to be let into hospital at 11pm the night I was convinced he was going to die. I 'knew' that this was his last night alive and I needed to make things right, he said he was proud of me it was the best moment of my of my life. He lived on a few more days and we made some more memories.

I remembered this and I remember that as I looked at my hands.  I didn't have to recall them all individually it was like a block of emotion and history dropped into my consciousness with a thud as I looked at these familiar paint specked hands. Good and bad memories, love endures, a dad's unspoken love for a son and a son's wonky love for a dad.

It then got me thinking how my children would remember me. I felt sad that they'd never look in a mirror and see shadows of me in their appearance. That's a problem I can't fix and a place I'm not sure that I want to go to. The 27 year old me wasn't bothered the 45 year old me is not so indifferent.

I wondered how my children will feel when they're 45 when they think of me, their adoptive dad. That's a slippery slope to Unhappy Town. Parenting children who've walked the adoption road makes you a different kind of dad, yes I'm their dad but I'm also not their dad. A peculiar place, see I told you this was a slippery slope. My identity is often woven into the identity of earlier dads. I recall the fear of a six year old when she found out that her new daddy drank beer as well.  My children's views of the world are unique and specific to their lived lives. Children's perceptions can be so wrong and right, it's hard to know what they'll think.

My dad died the day of my first adoption assessment home visit. That seems odd now, he wasn't so sure about our plan to adopt, he said some unkind things. He would have loved his grandchildren I think it would have been easier than being a dad for him. Today is father's day, just another day when men think about their dads.

Clichés & Hope

Some days it feels like I’m living a collection of clichés that are straight from the section at the back of the Big Book of Adoption. The section called 'At the end of a great day we have a bad night'.

Oh boy, what a bad night. I mean how many blog posts, book chapters, support group discussions, social work hours have been consumed with that topic.

'We had such a lovely day at the beach and it came as such a shock when they bit the wing mirror off the car when we got home and ate the cat'

I'm almost embarrassed to say how surprised I was that after a lovely day out with laughing, smiling, conversation and fun we ended in a full on ding dong with all that means. Not nice, but not a unique experience in any way. Once again, my head drops and I'm cast into the shadows.

You'd have thought that by now I'd be wary, guarded and wise to such shenanigans. It seems like so much of my life is a well worn path, with patterns that return and return, the stories that I read in blog posts and twitter threads all ring true and resonate. Perhaps that's why the fellowship we get from twitter is such a tonic. A cohort that gets it, truly gets it, and understands the metaphoric and very real slap that some of our daily experiences represent to our bodies and soul.

I chatted to a very wise friend and as we considered the future. All we could have hope for was the days ahead. I believe that I can do the days ahead.
Sometime my hope stretches to months and years ahead, sometimes it constricts to minutes and hours ahead. Funny thing hope, like mist, hard to grasp but certainly there.

I'm not sure how I ended on hope, so a little blog from clichés to hope.

Crystal Ball

Welcome to adoption, please collect your crystal ball at the signing in table.

Blimey, I've written about it before but the issue never seems to be the issue.  So, the Raaa comes and we're all back in the spiky word shouty place and the issue is clearly not the issue. She's not saying or we're not listening. Who knows.

So, we regroup and ponder the possibilities. We're just back from holiday? She's just back at school, Parents evening and a whole raft of likely issues that could or could not be the precipitating factors.

We consult the tea leaves, polish the crystal ball, get out the divining rods, consult the runes and read the Tarot Cards. We say a little prayer and ask for some wisdom.

Of course we could just ask, but that route is somewhat tricky, self awareness and reflection are not strengths or attributes that we have in abundance. Questions are often interpreted as accusation and insults, petrol on the fire.

In all fairness the skills of introspection and reflection can be apparent at times of tranquility and peace, though that's not when you need them most. Questioning is pointless when the Raaa is with us and is usually as helpful as slaming your own head in a car door, which is not very helpful.

Then it leaves, the tension dissipates over a busy distracting day and we return to our usual but uneasy peace. What was all that about? We'd talked about some stuff and perhaps that was one of the issues we talked about perhaps not. Perhaps something else. We'll not find out.

So much of the lives of our adopted children is shrouded in the unknown. From the early days of their  lives and their journey through care to their inner working as they struggle to make sense of reactions, emotions and thoughts as they grow and develop. We, their parents, are left to polish our crystal balls and do our best.

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.

Fawlty Dad Lives

In my head I'm one of those hip parents that let embrace alternative paradigms about children. I try to talk to them like they're human beings and put big thoughts into their heads, and teach them stuff that floats round my mind, useful and useless stuff. Of course, that's only when we're not trying to avoid some sort of supernannyesque apocalypse.

There have been a few successes, Graham, being the most notable.

You see Graham's Number is an unimaginably large number . It's very, very, very big and strangely ends in a 7, Google it. I taught my children about big numbers and how they don't really exist etc etc. Part of it is the hope that the teacher will ask them for a big number one day and they'll say Graham, the teacher will look quizzically and they can say 'google it'. What a wag I am.

Anyway, this is how the conversations go round here.

Me: I love you

Peanut: I love you too

Me: I love you three

Peanut: I love you Graham

I feel warm and fluffy and we cuddle.......isn't that sweet.

Today I bought a new tool and Peanut was asking me what it was,  so in the interests of education and being no respecter of gender stereotypes I told her.

Every 5 year old girl should know the name of basic tools, she looked at me and I instantly realised that again I'd made a cataclysmic parenting mistake.

Carefully and thoughtfully she mouthed the words into a question, 'A bastard file daddy?'

As my blood ran cold I could feel Fawlty dad rise again.

Life Story

We returned to the story.

Another layer of the story needs to be revealed, same information, same story just a little more depth a little more context and a little more grit.

Like this post, I've been here before, same phrases, same analogy, same story, just deeper. We took a deep breath and talked, actually I took the deep breadth. For her it was nothing new just a progression. Bigger words, a more nuanced conversation leaving behind the simple euphemisms.
Her questions were new and they revealed a new understanding, the little girl fading and the teenager coming into focus.


We always said no revelations, no surprises, no shocks. I've had a lot of conversations, with a lot of children, we've never shied away from the truth but opened the door to it before it broke in.

A few years back when the eldest read her file she sobbed, not because of any revelation it was just seeing her story in black and white on paper, tangible, true. I dread to think what would have happened that day if we'd hid the truth.

Today went well, as well as these things can.

The next day I sat with Peanut and we laughed about the funny names she had for us the day she moved in, and we start the process again.

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.

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

A Long Hard Week

Remotely reading accounts of children's violence against parents unfold over Twitter makes for a hard week. It's not just now and then but a theme every week, be that 4 year olds or 14 year olds, either way it's hard to read.  

 

Lots of us walk that CPV* path and are still on it, it's a hard path that is exacerbated by the professional responses that have been thought up in a common sense empathy vacuum. 

To feel abandoned or accused by the very people that should help you is a double blow, worse than no help at all,  much worse. As Helen Bonnick said in our podcast one professional can make all the difference, finding that professional can be the trick, but we found ours, many don't.

This week I've seen voices get stronger,  dots starting to be joined. Emails bouncing round my inbox with ideas and suggestions, plans and schemes on twitter with experts in different fields drawn into the debate. I've had conversations with friends planning to make a difference. 

If the Post Adoption professionals are not prepared to navigate the legal, ethical and emotive seas that safe holding, risk assessment and restraint inhabit then perhaps we ought to raise our sails and set off without them.  

Social worker's bread and butter is managing and quantifying risk but for a host of reasons this issue is not one that many will embrace or are allowed to embrace. Safe holding has perhaps been linked to attachment holding which has had tragic consequences. So the pendulum has swung and social care has stepped away and we're met with blank stares when asked what to do, or we're made to feel like monsters for even suggesting that we take control. But there are other voices and professionals with different views. 

Let's keep talking

Forgive the brevity it's been a long hard week.

*Child on Parent violence

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.

This version of 'normal'

I'm clearly jaded, my version of normal is so bent out of shape that it's neither use nor ornament. Round here it's been an interesting few weeks in a very mainstream normal sort of way.

Ginger is leaving for university.

Of course this is all set against the usual 'niche' version of normal we inhabit. Basically, I'm never going to take Flossy to a football match again, 48 hours on and we're still sorting that all out. I say sorting I mean I'm being called names and stoically not responding if that's what you call sorting out.
Anyway, I digress.

With the boy leaving it feels kind of weird to be caught up in something so normal yet hard. What is rather nice though is that I speak to other parents and I'm understood and empathised with. They wince then tell their stories, sadness and worries. No need for tricky explanations or awkward conversations about the long term impacts of this or that.  They just get it and they totally get why MrsC feels like she's on an emotional precipice as her little boy flies the nest.

Of course it's not that simple but circumstances were kinder to him than some others and he falls into the wider 'normal' not our niche version of that. Ginger is the poster boy for the pros of early intervention.

MrsC has been making food parcels and buying pans while I moan about how realistic it is buying an ironing board for an 18 year old man*.

We're beset by all kinds of emotions, sadness, pride, nervousness and a whirlpool of stuff. It's pressing the big girls buttons as her little brother moves out, hmmm, there's probably something in that.
I can confess that it feels great to join the rest of the mainstream parenting world and participate in a right of passage enjoyed by thousands of young people and endured buy their parents. Like all parents we are reflecting on where the last 16 years have gone and look at the man before us as he steps out into the world filled with pride.

I like this version of 'normal'.

*Actually, he does iron his own shirts.

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.

Adoption on the telly

I went the the pictures to see The BFG on Sunday with Lotty. Clearly I must be the only person in the land who doesn't know the story. Though I enjoyed it I confess to feeling a little wearied by the usual plucky orphan stereotype. A fully resolved adulty/child orphan that finds beautiful adult/saintly type adoptive parents narrative. I'm just so over that,  is so far removed from my knowledge and understanding that it borders on insulting.

Of course it's classic children's fiction so I put all those feelings in my box marked boring old fart and suspend belief. I mean I cry like a baby at Annie, both versions, so I'm pretty good at putting my feelings aside.

So, this week with a sense of duty I watched The Coopers Versus The Rest.

Hmmmm, it's not my cup of tea, I like my comedy dark and scathing, not unlike my life, and this was way too happy ever after for me. I couldn't help but think that the heartwarming scene with the children smiling in the back of the car at the end of the programme if transferred to my life would have more likely been a full blown fist fight.

But, and I've thought about this and it's an important but, there appears to be an authentic voice in its midst of all the niceness. It was all a bit resolved and as far as can be from my version of children who've experienced loss and trauma as you can get but I did get it. After I watched it I read the blurb and it had been written by an adoptee so I felt more a little better about the experience.

I can sniff out an authentic voices in blogs, Twitter feeds, articles and books. I don't have to agree or like what I read* but I do like it to be authentic and I can tolerate or respect as such. Even if the person has no connection to the subject matter they can have an authentic voice. When it's not authentic, like the fast food advert last year, then I steer clear and leave well alone.

This blog is a bit of a ramble but each day I seem to see more and more literature, training, articles, news about adoption. With talking heads, professional opinions, views and perspectives and I realise I'm always looking for authentic voices not exploitation, money making opportunities or just utter tosh.







*I'm reading a hateful book about international adoption it's full of  corruption, delusion and religion and it's authentic but I don't like it.

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.

Fraught

We had a visitor from a friend who is fostering a baby boy

Lotty: Dad, can we adopt a baby

Me: No

Lotty: Mam, can we adopt a baby

MrsC : No

Lotty: Why?

Together: We don't want any more children.

Lotty: We could adopt this baby like you adopted me (points to a friends foster baby).

The conversation went on and as it developed it transformed from lighthearted banter into something more serious. It became a a conversation about Lotty's life and her story. Words that meant one thing a year ago mean something different now, as she grows from little girl to big girl her understanding of her narrative develops. Like the onion the layers peal back and we get closer to the heart of stuff.

Words like 'safe' mean something more when you understand more about danger, words like 'danger' mean something more when you see them set within her developing understanding of the world she inhabits.

It got a bit fraught.................

I don't feel insecure, embarrassed or threatened. Just sad that I have to have such crappy conversations about stuff that 10 year old girls should care less about.                                            


So of course she felt a bit fraught and it got a bit fraught..........................and why the hell shouldn't it.

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.

Grown ups

After the DfE last week that smashing fellow Scott 'Mr Adoption UK' and I fell out of the building and spying a fine hostelry we partook of a beverage. We mused on the challenges that we faced as parents of young adopted adults. It was good talk.

I don't often speak of my older children, they're all adults now and doing ok, well you know. Like all parents we've had to undergo a transition from being responsible for all aspect of their lives to handing over the reigns of responsibility to our children. It can be a challenge for all concerned.

I'm not so naive as to believe that it was all going to be ok when my older children reached adulthood but I think I perhaps didn't think some stuff through. Maybe it was a kind of short term thinking, striving for the next goal, consolidating then looking to the next. But the goal of adulthood seemed different, once reached there were no more goals or perhaps no more goals that I was intrinsically involved in or invited to participate in.

My adult children are by no means 'vulnerable' but they have their foibles, but in many senses they have to own them as the world out there no longer wants me or MrsC advocating for them, that time has past. Employers are not interested in hearing our explanations, likewise medical professionals or bank officials. To be honest I struggle as well, when I was 18 my parents left me to live my life and if I'd asked for help I'd have got it, but I didn't and they would not have intervened.

For my children I don't want to intervene but sometimes I have, but it cuts against my grain and I think that is the most surprising feeling that I've had. I want to let my children step into adulthood and make their own way, their own mistakes and their own lives. Like I did. However, I'm not sure that I will be afforded that luxury for some of my children.

I've friends that are a decade or so ahead of us on the adoption road, their children are in their mid thirties and I observe that for some of them the issues still remain though the outworking and contexts have altered as they moved into middle aged. It's not what I expected thought not entirely unexpected.

All parents don't stop worrying and adoptive parents don't have a monopoly on worrying about their children. But, as the parents of children who live in the long term negative impacts of early life experiences we continue to carry our children in ways that are not expected or 'normal' within society.