The big bad SW from last week called up.
Apparently our health and safety check wasn't done properly. I mentioned that she wanted locks on all the windows. Well, she wants a lot more than that.
She insinuated that our beloved SW didn't do the PAR form properly. She wants to re-submit it after we've had a health and safety check by two SWs on Monday. She has cancelled our 12th September matching date. She doesn't know when we'll get to meet LO (and doesn't actually seem to care), but the paperwork will take three weeks to file.
We begged her to be reasonable. The PAR mistakes were theirs, not ours, so why should we and LO be penalised? We promised to get all the things she wants done this weekend but please, please, please don't cancel the matching panel as we already know October is all booked up. But she does it by the book, and won't shift.
This power-crazy lady is messing with my mind. We've cancelled work left, right and centre, we've arranged our lives all ready for our big, big day: the day we meet LO, which was going to be 14th September, 2 weeks today.
She said to R; 'I can't understand what all the rush is with this one, why your SW has been in such a hurry to push it through.' It made us wonder what she meant; that we'd got too cosy with our SW, and they think she's doing a sort of matey job on our case?
Maybe our SW was pushing it through because it makes sense to bring LO home to his family as soon as possible? Maybe she just cared about us and about LO?
I feel strangely afraid of this woman and her power.
Friday 31 August 2012
Thursday 30 August 2012
Finding inspiration
We have started the countdown! Although the actual date of meeting LO keeps changing, in roughly two weeks tomorrow we will meet him... This fills me with the most delicious anticipation I have ever experienced, each morning waking like a child at Christmas. And, just like a child at Christmas (how long were the days then?!), every day seems 100x longer than it used to. Our lives are about to change. Completely and forever. And we just can't wait.
I have been making the most of the opportunity to read, well aware that this kind of time will be a bit thin on the ground when he comes home. This week I have been reading Alfie Kohn's inspirational book 'Unconditional Parenting' and re-reading an old favourite, Liedloff's 'Continuum Concept', about attachment parenting. I read a lot of books on parenting for my work, but it's exciting to re-read these books now with an idea of how I might actually put them into practice.
I also write a column on our off-grid life for a local paper and recently wrote about my addiction to quotes. A good quote acts as a catalyst to change, to introspection, to inspiration. Now I am - finally - the owner of a posh phone, I have downloaded an app (still can't quite believe techno-phobe me is writing that!) with daily inspirational quotes. Today I received this: 'The greatest prayer is patience.' That's from the big guy, Buddha, who obviously knew what he was talking about (perhaps he even adopted?!).
And another quote I love, and turn to again and again in the preparation to parenthood comes from a beautiful and thought-provoking little book called 'The Prophet' by Kahlil Gibran:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
I have been making the most of the opportunity to read, well aware that this kind of time will be a bit thin on the ground when he comes home. This week I have been reading Alfie Kohn's inspirational book 'Unconditional Parenting' and re-reading an old favourite, Liedloff's 'Continuum Concept', about attachment parenting. I read a lot of books on parenting for my work, but it's exciting to re-read these books now with an idea of how I might actually put them into practice.
I also write a column on our off-grid life for a local paper and recently wrote about my addiction to quotes. A good quote acts as a catalyst to change, to introspection, to inspiration. Now I am - finally - the owner of a posh phone, I have downloaded an app (still can't quite believe techno-phobe me is writing that!) with daily inspirational quotes. Today I received this: 'The greatest prayer is patience.' That's from the big guy, Buddha, who obviously knew what he was talking about (perhaps he even adopted?!).
And another quote I love, and turn to again and again in the preparation to parenthood comes from a beautiful and thought-provoking little book called 'The Prophet' by Kahlil Gibran:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
Wednesday 29 August 2012
A shared grief
I mentioned in a previous post that our SW was going through a big personal crisis. Yesterday we found out that she has taken time off because she can't cope with all that's going on, and we have a new social worker taking us to matching panel. This SW is OLD SCHOOL. When she came over yesterday, it made me realise how ridiculously lucky we'd been with our SW; how much we'd laughed together and how we'd even, when she broke down last week, had a group hug and cried together. With this new SW I remembered that SWs aren't paid to be human, they're paid to be PROFESSIONAL. I ballsed it up straight away by not cleaning the house (we quickly realised with our SW that this wasn't a big thing) and then revealing that we were worried about our SW and to send her our love. Ears pricked on the new SW - 'worried about her, why? What did she say?' Help! Cue much guilt for landing our beloved SW in it.
She then went round the house and started pointing out where we'd have to get locks on the windows and build gates and things. I was pretty close to telling her to f*** off, that we'd been through that part of the process and had passed. But I didn't. I held my breath and said 'if we lived on a busy street, I wouldn't leave the door wide open so that my child could walk into the street. Instead, we live on a cliff and I'll employ the same level of conscientious parenting I would if I lived on a busy road.' She told me it was very unlikely we'd meet LO on 14th September and it would likely be the following week. Crushing, but I'd been expecting it, so it didn't feel as bad as anticipated.
She also gave me all of LO's birth mum's psychological assessment notes. Now, anyone who's read these knows that you have to take it slowly. Make a pot of tea. Break it into manageable chunks. Take breaks. Have a cry. I knew they'd make tough reading, so I was careful with myself and tried to do it in a nurturing kind of way. What I wasn't anticipating was the enormous and overwhelming level of compassion that swept through me. Little things she said, ways in which she behaved with LO. Never missing a contact session and trying, desparately, to assert her maternal love and authority whilst being constantly watched and assessed in a cold office building. She loves her son. She isn't perfect and has made awful mistakes in her life. But it just struck me how incredibly, breath-takingly LUCKY R and I are. That we had parents who, though they made mistakes as all parents do, loved us and provided us with stability. LO's birth mum never had that. She had violence and abuse and hatred. She was never taught how to love. And from the moment she tried to make a normal life for herself, she was watched. Everything she said and did for the last twenty odd years is recorded and picked over. I suddenly felt her loss so acutely, especially when I read the psychologist's final assessment that she wasn't fit to parent: our gain. But - so very, very acutely - her loss.
In the middle of trying to process some of this information, my mum called. My mum has MS and is struggling with day to day things. She was tearful and anxious. We talked for some time. After the phone call, I felt exhausted; exhausted because my mum is going through so much and needs so much love and support. And I had a massive cry. Many years ago, my friend Chas said that she had a big cleansing cry every week, just to shift stuff and even if she didn't really feel like crying. Recently that advice has been pretty useful. Yesterday, I cried for my mum, trying to do simple things and failing, finding photos of herself pre-illness and missing those days. I cried for LO's mum, for all those times she wasn't loved and for the self-hatred and the hatred of others that followed. I cried for LO's dad, for the confusion and heartache and loss. I cried for our SW, who has lost something so special to her. I cried for LO, for his loss of a mum who loves him but doesn't know how to look after him. And, I'll admit, I cried for me and for R, for all that we have been through.
Sometimes, it feels like you lift the lid on the pain of humanity and look in, just for a moment, and it is huge, vast, overwhelming. We can just take a little bit at a time or our hearts would burst. So we mingle our tears with the tears of everyone - our shared pool of grief (was LO's mum crying last night for her son?)- and move on. Because to linger there would be dangerous, and we have to take what we've learnt back out in to the world and try and make a more positive future.
She then went round the house and started pointing out where we'd have to get locks on the windows and build gates and things. I was pretty close to telling her to f*** off, that we'd been through that part of the process and had passed. But I didn't. I held my breath and said 'if we lived on a busy street, I wouldn't leave the door wide open so that my child could walk into the street. Instead, we live on a cliff and I'll employ the same level of conscientious parenting I would if I lived on a busy road.' She told me it was very unlikely we'd meet LO on 14th September and it would likely be the following week. Crushing, but I'd been expecting it, so it didn't feel as bad as anticipated.
She also gave me all of LO's birth mum's psychological assessment notes. Now, anyone who's read these knows that you have to take it slowly. Make a pot of tea. Break it into manageable chunks. Take breaks. Have a cry. I knew they'd make tough reading, so I was careful with myself and tried to do it in a nurturing kind of way. What I wasn't anticipating was the enormous and overwhelming level of compassion that swept through me. Little things she said, ways in which she behaved with LO. Never missing a contact session and trying, desparately, to assert her maternal love and authority whilst being constantly watched and assessed in a cold office building. She loves her son. She isn't perfect and has made awful mistakes in her life. But it just struck me how incredibly, breath-takingly LUCKY R and I are. That we had parents who, though they made mistakes as all parents do, loved us and provided us with stability. LO's birth mum never had that. She had violence and abuse and hatred. She was never taught how to love. And from the moment she tried to make a normal life for herself, she was watched. Everything she said and did for the last twenty odd years is recorded and picked over. I suddenly felt her loss so acutely, especially when I read the psychologist's final assessment that she wasn't fit to parent: our gain. But - so very, very acutely - her loss.
In the middle of trying to process some of this information, my mum called. My mum has MS and is struggling with day to day things. She was tearful and anxious. We talked for some time. After the phone call, I felt exhausted; exhausted because my mum is going through so much and needs so much love and support. And I had a massive cry. Many years ago, my friend Chas said that she had a big cleansing cry every week, just to shift stuff and even if she didn't really feel like crying. Recently that advice has been pretty useful. Yesterday, I cried for my mum, trying to do simple things and failing, finding photos of herself pre-illness and missing those days. I cried for LO's mum, for all those times she wasn't loved and for the self-hatred and the hatred of others that followed. I cried for LO's dad, for the confusion and heartache and loss. I cried for our SW, who has lost something so special to her. I cried for LO, for his loss of a mum who loves him but doesn't know how to look after him. And, I'll admit, I cried for me and for R, for all that we have been through.
Sometimes, it feels like you lift the lid on the pain of humanity and look in, just for a moment, and it is huge, vast, overwhelming. We can just take a little bit at a time or our hearts would burst. So we mingle our tears with the tears of everyone - our shared pool of grief (was LO's mum crying last night for her son?)- and move on. Because to linger there would be dangerous, and we have to take what we've learnt back out in to the world and try and make a more positive future.
Healing Aloneness
On Saturday morning, when the sun made a very welcome appearance, my sister, brother-in-law, R and I were lounging on cushions drinking chai in a gorgeous outdoor cafe. Nearby, my nieces played with friends they'd made and got down to the serious business of trading some of the eclectic wares they'd been making over the summer. The cafe also sold crystals and they were all along the edges, giving the place an ethereal kind of feel. They had shelves of books you could peruse at your leisure. I picked a few, some old favourites I knew would help me shift into that different time and space, and a box of Crystal cards. These beautiflly illustrated cards showed the different crystals and their properties and are used for divination. So, lazily, I spread them out upside down before me and ran my hand over them as I thought of a question to ask....'what support does my son need?'
And the answer?
Anhydrite - Healing Aloneness
When we fear abandonment, Anhydrite reminds us that we are not alone, are connected and embraced in the heart of the divine. (Oh... Wow... Incredible moment.)
For me, and motherhood, I got pink tourmaline - connecting to the heart and nurturing. For R, for fatherhood, he drew lapis lazuli - coming back to centre.
Now to make a little family altar with our sacred crystals.
Friday 24 August 2012
An 8 month pregnant wish...
Sometimes I wish I was pregnant. Not because I want anyone other than LO - I don't, he is the most precious person to us already. Not because I envy my pregnant friends the wonders and magic of pregnancy - I made my peace with that a long time ago. But because right now I'd be eight months pregnant and I think people would treat me differently.
I know that there can be some shocking oversights in day-to-day life; people not giving up their seat to a pregnant woman, for instance. But on the whole I know that pregnant women are treated with a kind of reverence. They are allowed outbursts of emotion. They are expected to be tired and overwhelmed at times. They are asked tenderly how they are feeling, sometimes by complete strangers. Others get caught up in the magnificent energy they exude and smile at them, say 'not long to go now!' (I witnessed this whilst away with my friend a few months ago, everyone we met whilst walking the dog smiled and spoke to her about her big bump.) They leave work amidst a flurry of cards and presents. They have blessingways or baby showers during which friends and family toast the good news and offer advice and gifts.
I know this attention might be unwanted at times, and I'm sure there are moments when every pregnant woman wishes she wasn't carrying around a big sign saying 'I'm about to have a baby! Talk to me about it!'. But there's something about being an adoptive mum that makes you feel a bit...well, invisible. You don't want to tell lots of people in case it falls through at the last minute. You're expected to carry on as normal until you meet your future child. Outbursts of emotion and general exhaustion are seen perhaps as moodiness, irritability, and at worst, irrational. In some cases, people are embarrassed by adoption - the elephant in the room being why you've chosen that route - and they avoid talking about it altogether. Others are furiously opinionated about adoption today, about the prospects for children whose early life is blighted by difficulty. Finally, there are those who ask impossibly impertinent questions about the birth family, without seeming to think how it might feel to answer those questions. The birth family is an endless curiosity box, pored over by people intent on sharing their opinions (I have refused to answer questions on this subject, other than the bare neccessities). I have been told many times, by people who have never been through it, how incredibly difficult, time-consuming and invasive the adoption process is - rarely have I been asked what it is really like (not that bad, actually, until the last chapter).
Sometimes, I would like someone to smile at me, say 'congratulations! Not long to go now! You look amazing! Radiant! Sit down and have a cup of tea, let me help you with your bags...here, have a tissue, it's perfectly normal to have a cry.'
Now, wouldn't that be magic?
I know that there can be some shocking oversights in day-to-day life; people not giving up their seat to a pregnant woman, for instance. But on the whole I know that pregnant women are treated with a kind of reverence. They are allowed outbursts of emotion. They are expected to be tired and overwhelmed at times. They are asked tenderly how they are feeling, sometimes by complete strangers. Others get caught up in the magnificent energy they exude and smile at them, say 'not long to go now!' (I witnessed this whilst away with my friend a few months ago, everyone we met whilst walking the dog smiled and spoke to her about her big bump.) They leave work amidst a flurry of cards and presents. They have blessingways or baby showers during which friends and family toast the good news and offer advice and gifts.
I know this attention might be unwanted at times, and I'm sure there are moments when every pregnant woman wishes she wasn't carrying around a big sign saying 'I'm about to have a baby! Talk to me about it!'. But there's something about being an adoptive mum that makes you feel a bit...well, invisible. You don't want to tell lots of people in case it falls through at the last minute. You're expected to carry on as normal until you meet your future child. Outbursts of emotion and general exhaustion are seen perhaps as moodiness, irritability, and at worst, irrational. In some cases, people are embarrassed by adoption - the elephant in the room being why you've chosen that route - and they avoid talking about it altogether. Others are furiously opinionated about adoption today, about the prospects for children whose early life is blighted by difficulty. Finally, there are those who ask impossibly impertinent questions about the birth family, without seeming to think how it might feel to answer those questions. The birth family is an endless curiosity box, pored over by people intent on sharing their opinions (I have refused to answer questions on this subject, other than the bare neccessities). I have been told many times, by people who have never been through it, how incredibly difficult, time-consuming and invasive the adoption process is - rarely have I been asked what it is really like (not that bad, actually, until the last chapter).
Sometimes, I would like someone to smile at me, say 'congratulations! Not long to go now! You look amazing! Radiant! Sit down and have a cup of tea, let me help you with your bags...here, have a tissue, it's perfectly normal to have a cry.'
Now, wouldn't that be magic?
Thursday 23 August 2012
Nervous
Today has been many things, but relaxing isn't one of them. Outside the sun is shining, the sea is blissfully still and azure blue, the crickets are buzzing and dragonflies flit lazily about the garden. But I woke with a sense of foreboding. Today is LO's last contact with his birth mum; am I already so connected with him that I felt his emotions surrounding that? I don't know what time they met, but at about 10am my anxiety reached a peak and I felt jittery and ended up snapping at R. Part of our general nervousness is because another birth family member has reappeared and turned up to the last two contact meetings. Though our LA have been vague about it, I know that adoption service's main aim is to minimise disruption to a child's 'normal' life as much as possible, which is why adoption or kinship care within the family or friendship circle is, in their eyes, the best option. R and I don't have a leg to stand on until matching panel on 12th September and we were acutely aware of that today.
Added to that, our SW is going through an intense personal crisis and she cancelled the meeting we had this afternoon. R received a call telling him this, and asking if we were free to meet with a different SW on Tuesday. Alarm bells started ringing...why do we need to have a meeting? What is it they can't tell us on the phone? It was a senior SW too, so we both went into our private worlds of panic (R was out and relaying messages to me at home). I was suddenly overwhelmed by a certainty that it wasn't going to happen - a dread filled me completely. Sanding down the chest of drawers and changing table, I thought 'we're going to have to put these away in the shed and try and forget this whole chapter in a few days'. I had been planning to paint LO's name on to the changing table but I stopped myself.
Then, the phone call to say that the meeting was just to go through some paperwork for the matching panel. What a relief! Not the news we dreaded at all. So, how come I'm still as jumpy as a March hare? R just called to ask me what I wanted him to pick up in town and I nearly kicked over my chair in my haste to get to the phone. Please let this nervousness be just that, nervousness, and not my crazy intuition on overdrive. Let this be the time my intuition has gone utterly askew, and all will be well.
Added to that, our SW is going through an intense personal crisis and she cancelled the meeting we had this afternoon. R received a call telling him this, and asking if we were free to meet with a different SW on Tuesday. Alarm bells started ringing...why do we need to have a meeting? What is it they can't tell us on the phone? It was a senior SW too, so we both went into our private worlds of panic (R was out and relaying messages to me at home). I was suddenly overwhelmed by a certainty that it wasn't going to happen - a dread filled me completely. Sanding down the chest of drawers and changing table, I thought 'we're going to have to put these away in the shed and try and forget this whole chapter in a few days'. I had been planning to paint LO's name on to the changing table but I stopped myself.
Then, the phone call to say that the meeting was just to go through some paperwork for the matching panel. What a relief! Not the news we dreaded at all. So, how come I'm still as jumpy as a March hare? R just called to ask me what I wanted him to pick up in town and I nearly kicked over my chair in my haste to get to the phone. Please let this nervousness be just that, nervousness, and not my crazy intuition on overdrive. Let this be the time my intuition has gone utterly askew, and all will be well.
Monday 20 August 2012
Eavesdropping
Once a week, I go back to the university I used to study at (many!) years ago. I started studying there again a few years back, doing an adult ed course, and now I meet up with fellow learners there, sit in the cafes or read in the library. I like the feeling of being there, caught up in the hub of learning and activity, and the library has an incredible range of reference books. I realise it sounds a bit like I cling to my youth, and I have to admit it's always fun to listen to the conversations of the students I once was. They see me as a bit of an old lady now so I can eavesdrop quite merrily! Last Tuesday I overheard a conversation between four students that followed this stream: selling your body for medical science - sperm donors - fertility treatment - adoption in the UK and US - attachment - oxytocin (feel-good hormone) - breastfeeding. It was the most interesting conversation and I was amazed that they were having it - it pretty much covered a whole series of topics I know a lot about now.
What was so striking was that it reminded me how passionate we are when we are young - we feel we know everything because we have read some books and done some research and we can't wait to get out in the world and tell everyone! I thought I knew everything there was to know about natural birth having interviewed 10 women for my dissertation, and was a passionate advocate for that and breastfeeding. It went on to inform my work and gradually I learnt through the experience of supporting women about birth and new parenthood, but it was really those passionate, heartfelt and heated debates I had with people at university that struck me as I listened to these students. How endearing it is to hear the fresh, innocent opinions of people who haven't yet learnt through life experience (and I also remember how irritating older know-it-alls were when they smiled in a just-you-wait kind of way so I hope to god I never do that to anyone!!).
It also reminded me that you just don't know how your life is going to turn out. When I researched natural birth, I just assumed it would be part of my life story, but my life has taken a different turn. I wondered if any of the students would look back on that conversation ruefully when they're older, and their life has taken a different turn. One of the students was going to a lecture on the neurobiology of attachment and I wanted to go over and ask her about it because it sounded so interesting - and relevant to me!!! - but I chickened out because I didn't want them to think that the old lady sipping her coffee and pretending to read notes had in fact been listening to their (quite loud!) conversation all along...
(Rather incredibly - and brilliantly - after this eavesdropping session I was ID-ed when trying to buy a bottle of wine - hey, not so old-looking after all!)
In other news... I have become a knitting nut and spend almost every evening making something, usually for LO. Here is the latest addition to the pile of knitting:
What was so striking was that it reminded me how passionate we are when we are young - we feel we know everything because we have read some books and done some research and we can't wait to get out in the world and tell everyone! I thought I knew everything there was to know about natural birth having interviewed 10 women for my dissertation, and was a passionate advocate for that and breastfeeding. It went on to inform my work and gradually I learnt through the experience of supporting women about birth and new parenthood, but it was really those passionate, heartfelt and heated debates I had with people at university that struck me as I listened to these students. How endearing it is to hear the fresh, innocent opinions of people who haven't yet learnt through life experience (and I also remember how irritating older know-it-alls were when they smiled in a just-you-wait kind of way so I hope to god I never do that to anyone!!).
It also reminded me that you just don't know how your life is going to turn out. When I researched natural birth, I just assumed it would be part of my life story, but my life has taken a different turn. I wondered if any of the students would look back on that conversation ruefully when they're older, and their life has taken a different turn. One of the students was going to a lecture on the neurobiology of attachment and I wanted to go over and ask her about it because it sounded so interesting - and relevant to me!!! - but I chickened out because I didn't want them to think that the old lady sipping her coffee and pretending to read notes had in fact been listening to their (quite loud!) conversation all along...
(Rather incredibly - and brilliantly - after this eavesdropping session I was ID-ed when trying to buy a bottle of wine - hey, not so old-looking after all!)
In other news... I have become a knitting nut and spend almost every evening making something, usually for LO. Here is the latest addition to the pile of knitting:
Monday 13 August 2012
Over hill and dale...
Last week I felt frustrated and low. This week, largely thanks to me reaching out and telling a few folks how I was feeling, I feel more positive and calm. In terms of the process, R and I still cannot make a sense of it. When our SW tried to challenge it, she was told to get back in her place and that LO's social workers and the managers knew what they were doing and 'wanted to make this match work and needed to have time to do that'. (So do we, foolish people! And, surely, the best way to do that is for our son to get to know his parents as soon as possible, ending destructive contact sessions and beginning our lifelong bonding process???? But no, we must wait another few months whilst they 'look at the paperwork'.) But I came to a realisation that I can either rail against the system, feel angry and powerless and sad at all the precious weeks and months we're missing out on, or I can relax and settle back and know that soon we will be a family.
A friend who has also been through the adoption process sent me a poem. It made me cry, a good healing and
ultimately joyful cry, and reconnected me with the vital truth: that we
are mothers long before we are able to hold our child physically and
that energetically LO is already our son.
The poem reminded me of that so eloquently and tenderly. We look
at photos of him constantly and laugh aloud at some of his comic little
expressions...there is so much joy in the midst of all the bureaucracy,
so much laughter, connection, love - overflowing
love, and light. Our seaside home is the perfect place to experience all these
things - we wake to the sea, the tides,
the clouds, the birds laughing and playing on
the wind, the eternal cleansing and changing of nature, truly the most
healing and restorative way to be in the world. Sea swims wash away the
aggravation, windswept walks blow away the 'mind-fussing', clean, fresh
invigorating sea air fills us with optimism
and warm sun fills us with light. What a wonderful place for LO to
arrive into... We are truly blessed! There is a lifetime of 'moments'
ahead of us as a family, some wondrous, some challenging, but we have
surely had the very best start simply because of
this place, this dream-like place.
So I've been on lots of walks this week, through sleepy villages, along the seafront, alongside rivers, through the newly-harvested fields, getting deliciously lost in a forest as the sun went down. We're planning a little wild camping on the edge of the same forest in a few weeks time. R got me some new walking shoes from a charity shop and I tested them out yesterday on a long hike with friends - brilliant! My feet were getting a little blistered in my old running shoes but these are more comfortable and roomier, and mean I will get as much walking in as I can before LO comes. Wild flowers in abundance, sheep and cows grazing, skylarks on the wing, the smell of woodland and warm grass... my sister bought us a fantastic baby carrier - basically a large rucksack with waist support but very ergonomic and beautifully made - so we can take LO out on our walks. I spent a large portion of my baby and toddler-hood on my dad's back exploring the countryside so am excited to share the same delights with LO.
So I've been on lots of walks this week, through sleepy villages, along the seafront, alongside rivers, through the newly-harvested fields, getting deliciously lost in a forest as the sun went down. We're planning a little wild camping on the edge of the same forest in a few weeks time. R got me some new walking shoes from a charity shop and I tested them out yesterday on a long hike with friends - brilliant! My feet were getting a little blistered in my old running shoes but these are more comfortable and roomier, and mean I will get as much walking in as I can before LO comes. Wild flowers in abundance, sheep and cows grazing, skylarks on the wing, the smell of woodland and warm grass... my sister bought us a fantastic baby carrier - basically a large rucksack with waist support but very ergonomic and beautifully made - so we can take LO out on our walks. I spent a large portion of my baby and toddler-hood on my dad's back exploring the countryside so am excited to share the same delights with LO.
And my best friend had her baby ten days early. I went to visit them with a feeling of love practically exploding my heart all the way on the train! He is breath-takingly perfect, delicate and wise-looking. He has his
dad's nose, his mum's elfin
facial structure and ears, and thick straight black hair - so much of
it! I felt in awe, that wonderful feeling of sheer surprise, as if I had slipped through a portal into Alice's Wonderland, to a place more radiant, colourful, alive, incredible and magical than the humdrum day-to-day. It stayed with me all evening, after I'd left the sleepy new family and was travelling back on the train, buzzing lightly in my chest. Soon, it will be me and R, holding our little one, gazing at him with a feeling of awe and wonder.
Monday 6 August 2012
Through the ringer...out the other side
I haven't posted for so long because I've mostly been getting on with life post panel, and since our social worker went on holiday the whole process has ground to a halt. Twice I have woken in the night after a dream about Little One and had to shake R awake to ask him if the whole thing is a dream. Twice, and both times proper night sweats. I used to dream regularly about being pregnant and, as the dream progressed, things would get sinister: the baby would shrink or disappear or my belly would stop growing and I'd look down and discover there was no bump there at all. Then I would wake and realise it was all a dream. No bump. No baby. So these adoption nightmares are nothing new, it's just the context that has changed. In one dream I was talking to people about Little One and everyone was looking at me like I was bonkers; "who's Little One?' they were asking, and I slowly realised that the whole thing had never happened...until I woke up. And that's the wonderful delightful blissful difference about these dreams - I wake up and the adoption is REAL, Little One is REAL, not with us yet, but still REAL.
Nonetheless, the following day has been tainted by that edgy feeling that something is about to go wrong, just that smudge of anxiety a bad dream always leaves behind. Our SW is back from holiday today. Soon, things will start happening again.
I spoke to LO's foster carer last week. I heard what he'd been up to, that he was cutting another tooth and pushing himself up to crawl, rolling over...all these things R and I want to witness. This is surely the most frustrating part: we've been approved, LO is freed for adoption, and now we have to wait for a matching panel date (not until September). That irritates me more than I can say. Plus LO is still having direct contact with birth mum and at the last meeting another family member turned up unannounced (I only heard this through the foster carer who said she probably wasn't supposed to tell me) and spent time with LO without anyone working out whether this would be in his best interests.
Since this has turned into a bit of a rant, I'll write a little about the panel, which was when my feelings in general about the process started to change. I can see the point - just - of having a panel, but some of the questions they asked us were ludicrous, including a breath-takingly stupid question about how a child would feel about us not planning to get any more pets at present (we have FOUR, including a dog, surely plenty?!). There was also a repeated question about how we planned to get a buggy up our road - it's a little steep at the beginning and can be uneven. I said we were both fit and healthy and could manage it (I've done it many times with friends' kids), but that didn't seem to be enough. We were also asked about education, finances (of course!) and other things that were all included on our 50 page PAR form which they had in front of them - for some of the questions on the PAR I'd written several pages. So we had to fight the urge to say; "Look at the paper in front of you! It's all there!!!". I think, to be honest, it was the way in which the questions were asked that upset me in the end, as if we had to defend our right to parent. Sitting in a room with 12 people firing questions at you in a guilty-until-proved-innocent way is disconcerting to say the least. But I think we did well, we smiled and laughed and acted relaxed, and took the questions in our stride.
It was afterwards that it hit me, and for a few days I felt really low and exhausted. I felt a bit like we'd been prodded and poked and hung out to dry, and there were quite a few teary outbursts when I thought about it. We got our approval, which was the main thing, and eventually I came to the conclusion that I had to put the whole episode behind me. Meeting with LO's foster carer helped, though even that was under the scrutiny of the social workers - everything, everything, under the watchful eye of the social workers (although we do have a lovely SW and LO's is really sweet too, sometimes it would be nice to be autonomous!).
Anyway, rant over! We received our first 'adoption' present from a friend yesterday - a beautiful silver frame perfect for a picture of LO. I also finished knitting him a stripey penguin - photo to follow. I realised that one thing that gets lost in the whole bureaucracy of adoption is a sense of self, so R and I have spent the last few weeks regaining our true selves: hanging out, going on long walks, hosting workshops here, spending time with friends, laughing and generally being OURSELVES rather than people on a PAR form!
Before too long we will be parents and that is what this whole thing is about...
Nonetheless, the following day has been tainted by that edgy feeling that something is about to go wrong, just that smudge of anxiety a bad dream always leaves behind. Our SW is back from holiday today. Soon, things will start happening again.
I spoke to LO's foster carer last week. I heard what he'd been up to, that he was cutting another tooth and pushing himself up to crawl, rolling over...all these things R and I want to witness. This is surely the most frustrating part: we've been approved, LO is freed for adoption, and now we have to wait for a matching panel date (not until September). That irritates me more than I can say. Plus LO is still having direct contact with birth mum and at the last meeting another family member turned up unannounced (I only heard this through the foster carer who said she probably wasn't supposed to tell me) and spent time with LO without anyone working out whether this would be in his best interests.
Since this has turned into a bit of a rant, I'll write a little about the panel, which was when my feelings in general about the process started to change. I can see the point - just - of having a panel, but some of the questions they asked us were ludicrous, including a breath-takingly stupid question about how a child would feel about us not planning to get any more pets at present (we have FOUR, including a dog, surely plenty?!). There was also a repeated question about how we planned to get a buggy up our road - it's a little steep at the beginning and can be uneven. I said we were both fit and healthy and could manage it (I've done it many times with friends' kids), but that didn't seem to be enough. We were also asked about education, finances (of course!) and other things that were all included on our 50 page PAR form which they had in front of them - for some of the questions on the PAR I'd written several pages. So we had to fight the urge to say; "Look at the paper in front of you! It's all there!!!". I think, to be honest, it was the way in which the questions were asked that upset me in the end, as if we had to defend our right to parent. Sitting in a room with 12 people firing questions at you in a guilty-until-proved-innocent way is disconcerting to say the least. But I think we did well, we smiled and laughed and acted relaxed, and took the questions in our stride.
It was afterwards that it hit me, and for a few days I felt really low and exhausted. I felt a bit like we'd been prodded and poked and hung out to dry, and there were quite a few teary outbursts when I thought about it. We got our approval, which was the main thing, and eventually I came to the conclusion that I had to put the whole episode behind me. Meeting with LO's foster carer helped, though even that was under the scrutiny of the social workers - everything, everything, under the watchful eye of the social workers (although we do have a lovely SW and LO's is really sweet too, sometimes it would be nice to be autonomous!).
Anyway, rant over! We received our first 'adoption' present from a friend yesterday - a beautiful silver frame perfect for a picture of LO. I also finished knitting him a stripey penguin - photo to follow. I realised that one thing that gets lost in the whole bureaucracy of adoption is a sense of self, so R and I have spent the last few weeks regaining our true selves: hanging out, going on long walks, hosting workshops here, spending time with friends, laughing and generally being OURSELVES rather than people on a PAR form!
Before too long we will be parents and that is what this whole thing is about...
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