I've a flair for self righteous indignation. With that in mind I took a grip of myself and thought through the facts. In reality adoptees are a tiny minority of the school population and it's ridiculous to expect teachers to have a nuanced and detailed understanding of the adoption process let alone the issues that they often grapple with in relation to identity. I was using these kind of thoughts to dampen the crusade that I'd put myself on. After all, I am blogger of the year, I am an adoption 'champion'*, I am a member of the of the DfE Expert Advisory Group on Adoption Support. On and on my thoughts rambled.
It had all started this week when Peanut had brandished a piece of homework from the bottom of her bag. With a wry smile I looked at the 'all about me' booklet with questions about birth weight, first word and first steps. Classic error I thought, this is 'Blogging gold'!
To be honest I'm not even slightly cross and Peanut could care less. She lives in a family where five of six children have such gaps, so actually knowing this stuff seems totally irrelevant to her. Never the less I feel duty bound, in line with my standing, to show the teacher the error of her ways for future adoptees. Like I said self righteous indignation.
I dig deep and seek out my social work intervention skill, I'll be sensitive and not embarrass the poor teacher, as I said why should she know this stuff. I approach the teacher in the morning as I drop Peanut off.
'Oh hi, just a quick word' I say using my best social worker voice as Peanut runs into class.
'She's been asked to do this homework, and well you do know that she's adopted and we don't have any of the information that.......................' I trail off, derailed by the expression on the teachers face.
It's a look of pity, not for Peanut, but for me a man who has dug a trap for someone then fallen into it as he admired it.
'Oh Mr Coates, we gave her that to do in September, it was all sorted out, last September'
I realise what this means. This means that I've not found this for three terms. THREE TERMS! It's sat in her bag for threeeeeeeee terms for heavens sake!
The normal physics of time and space do not apply to the bottom of children's school bags and I'm sure I've looked a hundred times but I've just shown myself to be an incompetent arse.
Time stands still.
I consider the options to get out of this:
Fake faint, push through and keep lecturing her or mutter something intelligible and run away.
Fawlty Dad strikes back and I opt for the latter. I get to the car and gently place my head on the steering wheel.
I told MrsC, she's still laughing.
*I'm no Champion it's what @GayAdoptionDad calls me to wind me up
