I want my day in court

The letter has arrived and a date has been given, the 30th January. Our Adoption Celebration Hearing has been scheduled and we will go up to the big house and see the Beak and Peanut will finally be legally embraced into our family.

This is not the first time we've had an "Adoption Celebration Hearing". After years of legal fights and wrangling, failed introductions more tears than I care to remember and a collection of scars we took Flossy and Lotty to the big house and saw the Beak. It was a good day, a milestone and an opportunity to mark the end of one chapter and the start of a new. It was an important day and we remember it fondly.

However, I confess to being a bit unimpressed. "Adoption celebration hearing" sounds a bit made up, a little bit airy fairy social worky. The real business of law has been done and dusted and this felt like an invitation to the after party, skipping the main event.

I do understand the reasons for not taking children into courts and the potential for birth family to disrupt. But......

If I turn the clock back to 2000 I recall a very different day. Mrs C and I got up early, gathered the Big one, Gracie and Ginger, and made our way to court. All of us nervous, all of us excited all of us ready for a new life. We'd all travelled a rocky path to get to this moment. We arrived early to miss the crowds, unsavoury sorts the clerk explained, and we sat before the three Beaks.
This was a big deal, our family members were not allowed in the courtroom, this was a very serious business. The chief Beak asked some appropriate questions of us all, little ones too. Our hearts were in our mouths at what response they would give. Fortunately, all questions were answered appropriately.

Then the moment came, memory has blurred the works but not the feelings and as I write my heart is pounding and I'm holding back tears.

Then the order was given.

The Big One, Gracie and Ginger were no longer the children I looked after, they where my children and I was their father, Mrs C their mother. They weren't even my adopted children, they became my children

Two families had walked into the court and one new one walked out.

I can't describe the wave of relief and joy. After the years of trials and tribulations it was done.

As I say, I enjoyed Flossy and Lotty's Celebration Hearing, it was fantastic but it was like watching the replays on tv, just a reflection of an amazing moment in court.

Adopt?

Adoption has defined the majority of my adult life.

At 26 years old I made a decision with Paula as we sat on a park bench on a sunny January day in 1998. We had no idea of the consequences of that decision.

I've been through one preparation group, five adoption social workers, 5 panels (one deferred and we sat outside one waiting for a court ruling) and two visits to court. While I write we wait another court date to see Peanut's adoption finalised. I am the father of six children.

However:

I've sobbed and been brought to my knees.

I've prayed until I was hoarse, day after day, and been brought to the end of myself.

I've seen hope destroyed and been lifted up by friends.

I've despaired at my failings as a father.

I've regrets and I wish I knew then what I know now.

I've been punched, kicked and head butted.

I've been bitten (blood drawn several times, Gracie and Flossie God bless you).

I've had my nose broken (The Big One still maintains it was an accident).

I've been called a 'fook' by a five year old repeatedly (she'd forgotten the exact prenunciation).

I've been insulted, provoked, baited, accused, hated and loved.

Would I do it again?

Like most every other parent (adopted or not) I would say 'yes'.

Would I do it differently?

Like every other parent (adopted or not) I would say 'probably'. But hindsight is wonderful.

Would I recommend it?

Hmmm..............

My children continue to challenge, and some days it seems more than I can bear.

But yes, always yes.

The privilege of loving and being loved.

So, yes.

National adoption week, throw yourself in.

Adoption growth - I think we need a bigger boat

Yesterday I had a revelation, not unlike Chief Brody in the film Jaws at the realisation of he task that he'd taken on.

Clearly, I'm making no comparison between having adopted children and killing rouge sharks (That's for another day). But as we sat together to eat our tea last night I had a realisation of the task I'd taken on.
The Big One had returned from London with her boyfriend and one of her friends had come and was staying for tea. So, due to the increase in numbers we ate in the dinning room. The First Middle One took a break from her busy social life and joined us, so that was 10 for tea. Queenie stayed in her boudoir so it was 11 really.
The enormous dinning room table that we'd bought when we moved in the house suddenly seemed small. This was no special occasion, just tea on a Tuesday night, but we were massive & noisy.
Flossy was having a lasagne related rage incident, Lotty was trapped in a bubble of noisy,  shouty ecstasy as the Big One had returned. Peanut was happy, Ginger was nonchalant, the First Middle One was loud and the Big One was playing mum. Boyfriend and friend were fine, they knew what to expect, they'd been before.
I then realised that we were only going to get bigger, more partners, spouses, friends and hangers on. Then children, with 5 daughters, lots of children. We are going to need a bigger boat

Xmas dinner 2025

Kung Foo

I'd hate you to think it's all bad.

Sometimes my executive lifestyle means I return home late in the evening after a few days away. Most of the children will be asleep and as every parent knows, children are very easy to love when they're asleep. So, I creep into their bedrooms, sit on the edge of their bed and imagine we are the Waltons and I'm the ever patient, ultra wise, uber-dad. I stroke their precious little heads, say a little payer and all is well in Coates Towers.

However, the last time I enacted this lovely moment I received a very different response.

Lotty half opened her eyes and a loving smile beamed from her face as she wrapped her arms around me with a love supreme.

I rocked, I am the man. I am the Daddy. I floated out of her room with a feeling of unsurpassed wellbeing.

So, onto Flossy.

Flossy half opened her eyes a look of abject terror flashed across her face whilst she simultaneously  threw a perfectly aimed karate chop at my neck.

I am used to a certain level of child to parent violence and normally adopt a perpetual state of readiness, however I had not anticipated this reaction and was initially subjugated.

After a minor scuffle, peace was restored.

My intellectual understanding of the hyper vigilance in children has now been developed through learned experience.

I can't help wonder what she dreams of.

Happy Birthday

So the gauntlet of 3 birthdays and a wedding anniversary compressed into 5 days is over.

It is easy to forget the days when flossy had to be discretely taken into another room during the singing of happy birthday. Or that a ‘safe person’ would hold her tight while we all enjoyed the cake being presented.

A remembered fear would rage inside her as we sang. A fear not tamed by reason or explanation but searing through her little body as though her life was threatened by the words and tune.

Fight, flight or freeze. She’d fight every time. In the face overwhelming emotion fight, fight someone safe, fight mam, fight dad, fight a sister or a brother.

The little girl is a big now, the song can be sung and cake welcomed but the feelings lurk, brooding, mam and dad forget, but the fear and the fight remains.

The fight simmers for days leading up, finding arguments in the little things and the big things and anywhere.

The government offers £19.7 million to help the adopted and most say ‘fantastic, thank you’. But some say ‘really’, spread across the 4,500 children adopted this year and the three thousand last year and for each child for the last decade.

High quality effective intervention costs between £15,000 and £50,000 per year.

The bean counters rub their hands, £600,000 cost reduction for each child adopted versus one off payment for good publicity.

Of course it will help: but only for the few. Those with loud adoptive parents, with access to skilled professionals, with a geographic advantage with the luck of the draw.

The cake is all gone now and Flossie feels better, for now. She doesn’t even know why she feels better. 

We all feel a little better. 

Beginning

I could start at the beginning, but that would take too long. So, I'll start where I am today.

I am a moron, a twerp and am stupid. Flossie was feeling somewhat miffed at my attempts at managing her anger and was trying to spread the fun around.  I was surprised at how well I took it.

As Mrs C often notes:

"The issue is not the issue"

Well that's all well and good but she's putting Peanut to bed and I'm entering into a critical stage of negotiations. Through the wall of sarcasm, sniping and insults I manage to slip in a question that causes a momentary pause. "Has something happened at school today?" I ask.

Through the burning fires of unfettered hatred in her eyes I catch a small pause and realise I might have got her. "Did something happen to a friend? Did you get into trouble? Did you see someone get into trouble?". She's on the ropes, the vitriol is waning and I say "tell me what happened"

It all spewed out, Tarquin lied and told Mrs Teacher that Darcy and her had flushed Leggo down the toilet and she said, he said, blah blah blah.

Apparently
The issue was not the issue.


A slice of toast and a glass of milk later I was not a moron, twerp or stupid and she was not going to destroy all my work on my computer and I am not the worst dad in the world and she'd stopped hitting me and we were all happy.

Well she was.

I'd re read that day on the impact of toxic stress on brain architecture. The impact of the negative environment and experiences, the pull of the familiar, safe and comforting negative emotions. The way the brain doesn't develop the subtle nuanced emotions and coping strategies and in flossy's case jumps straight to anger, the default setting.
It makes perfect sense, crazy, messed up, backwards thinking, perfect sense. Unfortunately, it doesn't make it easy.

But it helps me love her.