Noise

There continues to be so much to say about so many things. I'm caught in this murky ground between national debate and lived life. Pondering the impacts of culture on contemporary perceptions of adoption, or some such twaddle while trying to find dinner money while negotiating fraught children out of the door to get to school on time to avoid the walk of shame. Some days I feel I could write and write just to try and make sense of it all. The big thoughts are refusing to be caught this week and I'm caught in the small moments of our lives. After National Adoption Week I need a break from the big thoughts away from the noise. We have a lot of noise around here.

The silence was enveloping. We sat and carried on as normal Flossy listening to some mind rot Capital FW music on headphones, Peanut was felt tipping,  is that even a verb, The GoodMrsC was pottering and I was Tweeting. 

There was a new presence in the kitchen. I confess it took me a while to notice, I looked up and saw that the GoodMrsC was coming to the same revelation of this new thing. Even the dogs seemed unsure. 

'Quiet isn't it' we said together. 

Lotty wasn't here. Lotty, the human wall of sound was away for the weekend at some activity centre or some such, being fired from a cannon no doubt. 

Since she left eery and unfamiliar silence had descended onto Coates Acres.

Lotty came into our lives in January of 2006 and it's never been quiet since. She wailed quite a lot. Her first word was dad and she's used it at full volume ever since. When she was little I was known to wear ear defenders around the house, if I didn't my internal monologue had to shout to be heard. 

Her talking is like shouting. If you're holding a conversation in the same room as her you slip into shouting so that you can be heard. We all start shouting and we're not even angry yet. 

She doesn't have to be talking, she is noise. Like a human amplifier, she's stick thin but bangs an clatters around the house like she's wearing diving boots, she doesn't shut doors she slams them like every one of them has given her a personal insult. If she's nervous she wails, kind of musically, but wailing none the less. She turns the telly up so loud so she can hear it above the sound of her own noise. 

If she's happy she shouts. When she's cross she she's very very loud. She talks in her sleep. She never shuts up.

It's exhausting and debilitating, it sets your nerves on edge and creates anxiety in your heart. A friend and his partner came to visit us, they were thinking of adopting. When the children had finally gone to bed he looked at me like a man who'd been assaulted and all he could say was 'the noise, the noise'. Yeah, welcome to my world. 

I'd like to say that we grew bored of the peace this weekend and how we missed Lotty. Not likely, it was lovely and we talked and savoured the glorious silence between our words. 

She returned and shouted her exploits at us,  I do love her. 

Milestones

Through the chest heaving sobs racking through my body I asked MrsC if the post title 'The death of childhood' was perhaps a little dramatic. ‘No’ she exclaimed, a woman bereft. 

Lotty's at her end of primary school prom. I have lots of feelings.

There was a time when we raced to the developmental milestones and rites of passage of our children, like excited puppies desperate to get to the next new thing. That’s all changed now we scream ‘nooooo’ as they draw close and arrive with soul crushing inevitability. Now they seem to mark the end of stuff rather than celebrate achievement or the start of something exciting. Poor Peanut, as proud as I was of her learning to ride a bike I also felt desperately sad as another milestone passed, I’m tempted to stop teaching her new things.

I often wonder if the feelings I have for my children are comparable to birth parents and their children. I think it’s one of those questions that those on the outside of adoption are curious about. Do adopted children feel like ‘real’ children? It's a tricky question to ask and equally trick to answer but in the quite moments of my mind. Of course,  I’m in no position to comment, others who have families of mixed origins perhaps can answer that question. Anyway, I wonder about how I feel when these milestones come.  I think some of the stuff is standard pride, enjoyment and love. I also feel a sense of privilege, to be given charge of amazing children and be a part of their journey through life. They reflect nothing of my genes or hereditary and I can take limited credit for their achievements*.

I’m drifting from my point.

Lotty is leaving primary school, all the modern guff surrounds this rite of passage but I know what’s really going on. My little girl’s days are numbered, within weeks of joining big school the little girl will be gone and the young person will awaken. Four of my children have passed through this transition and I know what’s set before me. So, once again the swelling pride is tempered by the sadness I feel. Lotty will be fine,  Lotty rocks life, I know I’m her dad, but she really rocks the hell out of it. So, she will embrace all the newness and opportunity with a sass of Olympic levels.

Lotty was a baby, just 10 weeks old when she crashed into all of our lives and totally hijacked everyones hearts. It's a long story but she is equally loved, loving and infuriating like all good children. 

Anyway, enough of all that. Once again, I find myself turning into a sentimental, overly dramatic, fool. Up yours milestones.

*I’ve come to conclude after 19 years and six children 80% nature and 20% nurture but that conversation is for a different day.

Walking the dog

I'm sitting with the my laptop on my knee, can of pop in hand and music on.

MrsC is out socialising with Sarah, Gingers out painting the town red and Gracie, who know's where she is. Peanut's asleep and Flossy took herself to bed about 20 minutes ago.

Lotty's sat reading a book and I'm watching her. She should go to bed, I should send her. Lotty's tuning into a proper little pal.

Lotty and I walked the dog this week and she told me about a girl in her class who called a black boy the worst name you can call a black boy.

'Was he ok?' I asked, 'oh yeah, it used to happen in his old school' she said as a matter of fact. Until the boy arrived last year Lotty had been the only black child in the school.

We talked some more, about this and that, about what it means and why its not nice. I explained stereotypes and prejudice.  She got it and we she talked about when she was in reception the boy who was frightened to sit next to her in case he accidentally touched her skin and it rubbed off. We talked some more and for the first time I told her of my worries that I can't help her with some of this stuff.  It was head knowledge for me not lived experience and that she may experience prejudice from all kinds of places.  Lotty wasn't too phased by all of this, Lotty is convinced that she is loved.

As we walked the sun dropped and the shadows grew long. I told her about my fears and worries when I was asked to adopt her, how I hoped to be the best I could be and would help her however I could. We talked about this and that and the price of chips.

We return to the same topics again and again as our children grow, thorny prickly issues and we peal back the layers a little further each time as understanding develops.

I think we'll be fine.