Zippy and the Anchor (me) head home.

Seven years this month ago I left work, it's a long story so I'll not bore you with the details in essence we were unraveling, failing and at the time it was doubtful that we were going to be able to keep going. Our LA had contracted Post Adoption Support with an agency that had gone bust and we'd just been through a two year legal battle that we kept losing only to win at the 11th hour.

We were broken.

So,  left work as financial insecurity seemed to be the obvious route to fixing the issue. Then I did the next best thing got on my bike.

I set off one November lunchtime and headed south, each day I stayed with friends old and new adopters and family. Eventually, 10 days later,  I arrived at Parliament having travelled nearly 600 miles as I'd zig zagged across the country on my way. Why did I go, well that's the big question, I think it was desperation. Having seen the outrageous treatment of my daughters by the 'system' I felt I needed to do something and to make a pilgrimage to the seat of all power seemed to be the obvious thing to do. So that's what I did, a kind of pilgrimage, wth the full backing, endorsement and promotion of Mrs C I headed off and prayed for justice. At the time it as a truly miserable experience, I arrived at Parliament Green in the fading light with saddle sores, wet and cold on a dark Sunday afternoon, said a prayer (God, I'm sick and my kids are traumatised, please do something), shook my fist at the sky and the houses of parliament and then got the train home.
It just seemed like the thing to do so I did it.

Of course there's more to it than that, the people I met and the things I thought, but that's the bear bones. The problem is that over the last seven years the nagging thought that I should cycle home festered inside.

So, like a man with no grasp of common sense or regard for weather, distance or practical realities thats what I'm doing.

Big Ben to Northumberlandia (the naked lady is only a mile from my house)

This time I'm taking a trusty companion the immutable Zippy.
414 miles, 4 days, two bikes.

Unresolved narrative

It's been a hard week for a load of different and mainly external reasons. Of course it goes without saying that I can't say what, when, who, how or why. Of course I can confirm that they're all related directly to the early lives my children and their route to my door. I'm not down or depressed. I just am.

I was speaking to a friend about something or other and he noted that some folks he knew struggled with what I wrote sometimes as there was, as he said it, 'an unresolved narrative'.

Well if it makes you feel any better so do I.

I write what happens, what I see and what I think. Of course I filter and edit it but it's an account of our lives from my perspective. Other perspectives are available of course but I feel that I'm fairly representative of a large number of parents who care for children who have experienced trauma, loss, separation and have travelled through the care system.

I write to make me feel better, to get the dirty water off my chest. I'd love to write about all the warm hugs and beautiful moments that blossom out of difficult experiences. Perhaps I do but in different less obvious ways, I think I find hope.

Today as Mrs C and I returned from our recent sessions with one of the massive's therapist I confessed that I didn't know how all of this is going to turn out for us as a family. Not the immediate but the long term. Not depressed just pragmatic, what does the future hold? I never thought that we'd retire to the seaside, see the grandkids once a week for a slice of Battenberg cake and a Wurthers Original, crikey no.  But I'm not sure how in the medium to long term some of my children's adult lives are going to play out. Our journey so far indicates that for some it will be ok but for some it's not so clear,  so our narrative is unresolved, but can anyone's be resolved?

This week my heart skipped as I walked through the shops, Lotty's 10 year old hand took hold of mine and we walked and talked. Her hand felt small but it was just so natural with an easy familiarity that was precious. Big deal, you say but I'm her dad and I'm the proudest dad in the world because she loves me. I also know that in 5 years this time holding hands will not happen.

Sometimes I hold onto that second in time when my hand is held because in that moment my narrative actually feels pretty much resolved.

Roll the dice

As I try to open a rather awkward container with an inappropriately knife, usually implausibly sharp and outlandishly pointy and more suited to hacking bamboo down, I think:

'This is a stupid act, this will end badly'

So, no surprise when I nearly have my thumb off, blood gushing and the sounds of family members screaming while others pass out. And I think to myself:

'Yup, that's exactly what I thought would happen'

I weigh the short term benefit, in that I can't be bothered to pick up the scissors, against the risk of pain. Sometimes I win and the awkward container is subdued by my flamboyant lack of regard for personal safety. Sometimes I lose and we re enact a scene from a Crimean War field hospital.

The Xbox

I weigh the benefits of an hours peace and calm against the potential for the prowling, pacing and simmering dysregulation that may befall the rest of the day.

For a few weeks lately things have been ok in relation to Flossy's Xbox time.
We've put the usual safeguards in place.
We give the allotted amount of time leading up to meals to have a positive reason to come off.
We give clear expectations around appropriate behaviour after coming off.
We cross our fingers.
We give 10 minute warnings, then 5 then 1minute.
It was working, not perfect but was easily offset against the hours peace we managed to get when Flossy played on the Xbox.

The hour, or so's, peace is sometimes a self care moment, or more often an opportunity to get on with some jobs, housework, make dinner etc.

But then that all changed, the usual control measures were no longer effective, dysregulation, name calling, insults, fights ensued. What happened? Then we realised the broken headset was fixed. The relative safety was encroached by school friends through the microphone. Overstimulating social interaction invaded the relatively controlled environment of our home.
The hour of necessary respite with her playing on the Xbox is followed by four hours of raaaagh.

So we pull back, consequences, boundaries re tightened, headsets and Xbox withdrawn. The hour of peace is alluring, convenient and needed but it comes at a cost.

Everyday it seems we weigh benefit against risk and cost. We roll the dice and somedays we win somedays we lose.

Roll the dice

As I try to open a rather awkward container with an inappropriately knife, usually implausibly sharp and outlandishly pointy and more suited to hacking bamboo down, I think:

'This is a stupid act, this will end badly'

So, no surprise when I nearly have my thumb off, blood gushing and the sounds of family members screaming while others pass out. And I think to myself:

'Yup, that's exactly what I thought would happen'

I weigh the short term benefit, in that I can't be bothered to pick up the scissors, against the risk of pain. Sometimes I win and the awkward container is subdued by my flamboyant lack of regard for personal safety. Sometimes I lose and we re enact a scene from a Crimean War field hospital.

The Xbox

I weigh the benefits of an hours peace and calm against the potential for the prowling, pacing and simmering dysregulation that may befall the rest of the day.

For a few weeks lately things have been ok in relation to Flossy's Xbox time.
We've put the usual safeguards in place.
We give the allotted amount of time leading up to meals to have a positive reason to come off.
We give clear expectations around appropriate behaviour after coming off.
We cross our fingers.
We give 10 minute warnings, then 5 then 1minute.
It was working, not perfect but was easily offset against the hours peace we managed to get when Flossy played on the Xbox.

The hour, or so's, peace is sometimes a self care moment, or more often an opportunity to get on with some jobs, housework, make dinner etc.

But then that all changed, the usual control measures were no longer effective, dysregulation, name calling, insults, fights ensued. What happened? Then we realised the broken headset was fixed. The relative safety was encroached by school friends through the microphone. Overstimulating social interaction invaded the relatively controlled environment of our home.
The hour of necessary respite with her playing on the Xbox is followed by four hours of raaaagh.

So we pull back, consequences, boundaries re tightened, headsets and Xbox withdrawn. The hour of peace is alluring, convenient and needed but it comes at a cost.

Everyday it seems we weigh benefit against risk and cost. We roll the dice and somedays we win somedays we lose.

Emergency Child Dysregulation Alarm at Coates Towers

A well prepared and organised alarm procedure in case of child/adult dysregulation.

 

Challenging Behaviour Top Trumps

I like conferences and training. Though the conference and trainy bit can be hit and miss, ranging from excellent to dire, it's meeting other people on a similar path that feels the most rewarding. Chewing the fat, crying on shoulders and sharing tips and tricks.

Of course, you meet at least one person who you can't help wonder how they managed to get approved as adopters and one person on the edge of firebombing their local adoption office.

One of my favourite bits is when we all play 'Challenging behaviour top trumps' in the breaks. There's always someone who starts with a relatively modest,

'Oh, we have challenging bedtimes, sometimes I have to get really firm'. 

Sensing an easy victory another will come in.

'Well, I must tell you that Tarquin spontaneously combusts at the mere thought of bedtime'

Not to be outdone a bystander will add.

'Combusts? Once when we tried to get Petula to bed she held a three day rooftop protest that had to be quelled by the local branch of the territorial army'

And so it goes on, the anecdotes slowly getting more extreme, we laugh and our mouths are agog at the scale and scope of the challenging behaviour. Of course someone wins, my friends true story of having cement poured down their toilet usually wins.
But all the losers walk away feeling much better and thinking 'Crickey, I thought I had it bad, little Franella seems quite tame by comparison'. In fact it was quite productive for the losers and they can pick up tips, tricks and the number of the local TA.

Of course there are other break time activities including my personal favourite, 'Stupid and Insulting things my Social Worker Said Snap'.

The best bit being that we're in environment where we can use shorthand, not have to start at the beginning and can share our fears, joys and journey with people who get it. The 'games' are a therapeutic and  important part for all the above reasons. Of course, everywhere parents meet, playgrounds and playgroups, similar games are played. It's a parent thing.

So, in light of this I wish all of you at the Adoption UK conference a smashing day and next year they should formalise the games and give out awards.

Adoption Sunday

#adoptionsunday

I wholeheartedly believe that the Church has within it's DNA the mandate to care for children and young people in the looked after system as well as those on the fringes those going into the system and leaving. Not exclusively of course but within the context of all the other 'stuff' we should be up to, we've even got a bible verse for it. However, and it's a big however, I'm also aware that we have totally screwed this up. I choose my words carefully, but I look back and within living memory I see that the church's actions reflect a complicated history, yes meeting a need but also perpetuating that need through moral policing. As late as 1970 the church was complicit in sending British 'orphans' to the far side of the world. Other actions have taken place and having watched Philomena recently I am  shamed at what was done in God's name, children removed from parents in the name of I don't know what. That legacy remains very much alive.

The biblical adoption narrative and stories in the bible feel, to me at least, as almost irrelevant to contemporary adoption. The systems and legal routes that we have built are not relevant to that narrative. Of course we are called to love and accept children but there was no Social Worker for Moses or Jesus adoption stories. When I see the adverts in my twitter feed for Adoption Sunday I get nervous. Nervous as for every child that 'needs' adoption there is a family that probably want their child back. I'm under no illusion that unspeakable acts are committed and some parents cannot and don't want to care for their children. But the context of adoption is shifting before our very eyes and that picture is ever more complex with less support for families, injustice and wrong decisions remain a possibility. The church's mandate is to protect and support the vulnerable  regardless of where they find themselves and with at least 30% of mothers with children in care system living with mental ill health it's time that the church made amends to the families that lost their children.

What am I proposing? Do we need to repent? Is that enough? I don't know, I'm just making this up as I go.

But on this Adoption Sunday my mind is with my children's 'other' family members, grandparents that never saw grandchildren again, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters that lost their children. Morally and ethically complex, murky situations, they challenge my notions of forgiveness, redemption and who is right or wrong. I can't help but consider how they may feel on Adoption Sunday.
 

For the first time since records began we have more adopters approved than children waiting to adopt (that's another blog). So where do we look this adoption Sunday? Of course we pray for the children, but what else do we pray?