~ I would be free from little bits of plastic.
~ I would spend a lot more on toys and clothes for me.
~ I would have two families to understand, the one I was born into and the one into which I married.
~ I would have less discussions about childhood special needs, attachment, trauma and loss.
~ I would have experienced less judgement about children and their behaviour.
~ I would be child-less. Not child-free in my case but child-less.
With adoption...
~ I continue to experience new and exciting toys and games without embarrassment.
~ I get to buy cool miniture clothes and marvel at the speed a child can grow at the same time.
~ I am aware of my connection through my son, to another family. Our ties are broader and have more depth. I ask questions about him in the light of them.
~ I am aware of the obstacles, the children who are different. Not odd, not wonky, not weird, just different. I accept my son's complexities and work with them. I feel empathy towards other parents with different children.
~ My shoulders are broader, I take criticism less personally, and I have become a tiger protector for my son. I am his strongest, loudest and most persistant advocate.
~ I have a person in my life who offers me so much joy, love and appreciation, alongside a healthy (for us) dose of defiant, obstinate behaviour.
~ I am a Mum, not super Mum, wonder Mum, uber Mum or yummy Mum - just Mummy.
In the wonderful words of Todd Parr:
"We belong together because you needed a home and we had one to share. Now we are a family"
National Adoption Week 2011
Showing posts with label adoption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adoption. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Saturday, 17 September 2011
Memories and Confessions
I have just read an article in today's Guardian entitled "When IVF fails".
I realise when I described our journey to adoption I glossed over our decision to abandon IVF/ICSI and thought I would revisit it.
On May 5th 2005, we made our way through the hospital past the maternity wing, the balloons proclaiming "It's a girl" and the new parents with their precious car-seated cargo, into the office of the registrar to receive the results of our many and varied tests. As I was sat closest to the desk and staring pleadingly at the doctor in front of me, she in turn addressed all the findings to me. In a nutshell, we were told we had a 5% chance of a natural conception. ICSI was recommended and a 2 year waiting list for one cycle was offered, in desperation I asked how much the treatment would cost privately (we could never afford it anyway) and took away a breakdown of costs. We agreed in the office to go on the list, and we agreed in principle then and there to consider donor sperm as the best chance of conception. Then for the first time during the consultation she turned to my husband and said:
"If you wish to consider ICSI you need to go downstairs and give blood now, so that we can rule out chromasonal abnormailities." We thanked her politely and left the office, walking in silence to the clinic to have a blood test. As I sat and waited on the plastic chairs outside the clinic, I wept, I wept bitterly. A passing nurse asked "What have they done to you down there?" in a jokey fashion and I didn't respond, I had no words.
The one cycle was in front of us, if we could bear the wait and the weight. The wait for a cycle and the weight of expectation - would this be our pregnancy, our baby? We cried and talked and debated, we expressed hope in our 5% chance at least it wasn't 0%. Finally we decided that we couldn't go ahead.
The experience would be too draining, too clinical. We worried for our infant marriage and our states of mind. The chance of failure were high even with ICSI and donor sperm we would still only have a 25% chance of success. I decided my need for a pregnancy was not more important than my husband's desire to be a father - we didn't want to use donor sperm. Eventually the need in me became less for a pregnancy and a baby and more about never having a family and watching it grow and blossom as a unit.
For all the pain and heartache we once endured, I have never once regreted our outcome. Thankfully God's grace was our guide and as long as I trust in him it all (in the words of a family friend) "comes alright eventually".
Now is confession time. This month this all became pertinent again. My normally clockwork cycle was no longer clockwork and along with other symptoms, I had cause to stop and think. What would Little Bear do? How would he feel? He do I feel? Of course it was all my body playing tricks on me, and of course because I never really believed it, there was no great crushing disappointment like there had been all those years ago. It's funny though as I look back on this paragraph there is a word that is absent, and that is because it is a word that despite all that has passed under the bridge, I do not, cannot and will never associate with myself. Thanks be to God that this realisation does not bring with it tears but a sense of closure.
I realise when I described our journey to adoption I glossed over our decision to abandon IVF/ICSI and thought I would revisit it.
On May 5th 2005, we made our way through the hospital past the maternity wing, the balloons proclaiming "It's a girl" and the new parents with their precious car-seated cargo, into the office of the registrar to receive the results of our many and varied tests. As I was sat closest to the desk and staring pleadingly at the doctor in front of me, she in turn addressed all the findings to me. In a nutshell, we were told we had a 5% chance of a natural conception. ICSI was recommended and a 2 year waiting list for one cycle was offered, in desperation I asked how much the treatment would cost privately (we could never afford it anyway) and took away a breakdown of costs. We agreed in the office to go on the list, and we agreed in principle then and there to consider donor sperm as the best chance of conception. Then for the first time during the consultation she turned to my husband and said:
"If you wish to consider ICSI you need to go downstairs and give blood now, so that we can rule out chromasonal abnormailities." We thanked her politely and left the office, walking in silence to the clinic to have a blood test. As I sat and waited on the plastic chairs outside the clinic, I wept, I wept bitterly. A passing nurse asked "What have they done to you down there?" in a jokey fashion and I didn't respond, I had no words.
The one cycle was in front of us, if we could bear the wait and the weight. The wait for a cycle and the weight of expectation - would this be our pregnancy, our baby? We cried and talked and debated, we expressed hope in our 5% chance at least it wasn't 0%. Finally we decided that we couldn't go ahead.
The experience would be too draining, too clinical. We worried for our infant marriage and our states of mind. The chance of failure were high even with ICSI and donor sperm we would still only have a 25% chance of success. I decided my need for a pregnancy was not more important than my husband's desire to be a father - we didn't want to use donor sperm. Eventually the need in me became less for a pregnancy and a baby and more about never having a family and watching it grow and blossom as a unit.
For all the pain and heartache we once endured, I have never once regreted our outcome. Thankfully God's grace was our guide and as long as I trust in him it all (in the words of a family friend) "comes alright eventually".
Now is confession time. This month this all became pertinent again. My normally clockwork cycle was no longer clockwork and along with other symptoms, I had cause to stop and think. What would Little Bear do? How would he feel? He do I feel? Of course it was all my body playing tricks on me, and of course because I never really believed it, there was no great crushing disappointment like there had been all those years ago. It's funny though as I look back on this paragraph there is a word that is absent, and that is because it is a word that despite all that has passed under the bridge, I do not, cannot and will never associate with myself. Thanks be to God that this realisation does not bring with it tears but a sense of closure.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Complicated Change
The school holidays have begun in earnest and for the last couple of days Little Bear has been testing the water. I would say that he is 50% emotional and defiant and 50% bloomin' lovely. Change doesn't suit Little Bear at all.
We are back to square one with the "good thinking", he is conveniently deaf and conveniently mute at times, and when all else fails he bursts into tears!
In between the drama, he is brilliant. He showcases all his newly developed talents. Intricately drawn lizards and dinosaurs, imaginative stories about made-up adventures involving his teachers, hugs and kisses and gentleness with the animals.
Heres to another 5 and a half weeks of unpredicatable brilliance with my Little Bear!
We are back to square one with the "good thinking", he is conveniently deaf and conveniently mute at times, and when all else fails he bursts into tears!
In between the drama, he is brilliant. He showcases all his newly developed talents. Intricately drawn lizards and dinosaurs, imaginative stories about made-up adventures involving his teachers, hugs and kisses and gentleness with the animals.
Heres to another 5 and a half weeks of unpredicatable brilliance with my Little Bear!
Friday, 15 July 2011
Reflecting on Reception
Last week seemed to be the time for school reports and Little Bear was no exception. A truly fabulous school report, which highlighted all the wonderful progress made this year. I am proud of his achievements in one year, proud of the staff at his school, and relieved that I feel so much more confident about the coming September than at this time last year!
Today is Day 2 of 2 taster sessions for the new Reception intake. I remember taking Little Bear in for this session (he had missed the first one thanks to chicken pox), he was nervous, I was nervous, it was a bundle of nerves. We were met by the smiling lovely face of Miss P the teaching assistant, who assessed the situation in one glance and guided Little Bear in to his first activity. Then I went home, worried for a couple of hours, and went back for lunch with LB in the school hall. He wriggled on his seat, ate very little and we had seats to spare all around us. I was relieved to take him home after lunch.
On the way out of the playground that first time, the conversation went as follows:
Me: "Did you like school"
LB: "It's better than nursery, Mummy, they are going to help me to be good."
They have certainly done just that, but more importantly they have shown him that he is worth the effort, and that there is more to him than the difficult behaviours he sometimes exhibits.
As a parent, I am aware that he is a big mixture of personality, extra needs and complicated history. He is wonderful, intelligent, perceptive, loyal, kind, difficult, obstinate, impulsive, cuddly but most importantly of all he is who he is Little Bear.
As he practised the "good thinking" he was taught, he made friends, and his self-esteem was boosted once again.
So this post is dedicated to teachers, teaching assistants, and other support staff. They are to be treasured, cherished and appreciated. In an ideal world they would offer all children no matter who they are, where they are from, and how they behave the same treatment as Little Bear. Academic learning is so important but for some children a greater need, particularly in their Reception year is the emotional support they receive which enables them to perform to the best of their ability.
Today is Day 2 of 2 taster sessions for the new Reception intake. I remember taking Little Bear in for this session (he had missed the first one thanks to chicken pox), he was nervous, I was nervous, it was a bundle of nerves. We were met by the smiling lovely face of Miss P the teaching assistant, who assessed the situation in one glance and guided Little Bear in to his first activity. Then I went home, worried for a couple of hours, and went back for lunch with LB in the school hall. He wriggled on his seat, ate very little and we had seats to spare all around us. I was relieved to take him home after lunch.
On the way out of the playground that first time, the conversation went as follows:
Me: "Did you like school"
LB: "It's better than nursery, Mummy, they are going to help me to be good."
They have certainly done just that, but more importantly they have shown him that he is worth the effort, and that there is more to him than the difficult behaviours he sometimes exhibits.
As a parent, I am aware that he is a big mixture of personality, extra needs and complicated history. He is wonderful, intelligent, perceptive, loyal, kind, difficult, obstinate, impulsive, cuddly but most importantly of all he is who he is Little Bear.
As he practised the "good thinking" he was taught, he made friends, and his self-esteem was boosted once again.
So this post is dedicated to teachers, teaching assistants, and other support staff. They are to be treasured, cherished and appreciated. In an ideal world they would offer all children no matter who they are, where they are from, and how they behave the same treatment as Little Bear. Academic learning is so important but for some children a greater need, particularly in their Reception year is the emotional support they receive which enables them to perform to the best of their ability.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Reflecting on Birthdays
Little Bear is 5 today, a time of great excitement for him and great joy at the extra attention and presents he receives and rightly so. He asked this morning if he had any more birthdays this year, and it was explained that we all have one birthday celebration - it is on the day we were born. This was accepted and he continued to admire his presents pile. This is the only birthday which Little Bear has celebrated with us, which has passed (so far) without any behaviour meltdowns, and for a child who is adopted this aspect of birthdays is not unusual, so therefore I have lots more reason personally to celebrate this year.
It did get me thinking about what a birthday celebration means, and I would like to share my own personal thoughts.
As a child a birthday was to celebrate getting a year older, I counted through the year in fractions until the day dawned and the postman arrived with my lovely cards. That was it.
As a adult a birthday still means another year older, but that isn't greeted with as much relish as those childhood birthdays. A birthday also offers me a chance to look back nostalgicly to my own birth, and root through my photographs of babyhood giving thanks for the people who helped (giving God some credit there) to give me life.
As a married woman my birthday is also my wedding anniversary and I get the chance to admire the wedding video (in private). Two doses of nostalgia for the price of one!
As a Mum, and particularly as an adoptive Mum, my child's birthday is a real source of mixed emotions. I am proud of the person my Little Bear is growing into, and of the great changes that occured in the preceeding year. I rightly celebrate his excitement, and do not shirk from explaining the meaning of the day to him, even when I was not a factor in that part of his life. Equally, whilst baking his cake this morning, I shed a tear for the woman who gave him life, and in whose womb he was formed. I thought about her, and whether she was thinking of Little Bear, and feeling sadness. I thought of the siblings he has and whether they are thinking of him, and in a brief prayer I joined my thoughts with theirs. "Tell them he is safe Lord, he is happy, he knows the love him and think of him."
Lastly in a moment of purely selfish emotion I shed a tear for me, when I went to use the bathroom and discovered that on this day, the day we celebrate our darling son emerging safely from 38 weeks in his mother's womb, I have started my monthly bleed. My womb will not ever help to bring a child to birth.
The last paragraph is in many ways irrelevant, it is a glimpse into a private pain which although long since reconciled, still has occasion to move me. It's irrelevant because I have the joy and pleasure of seeing Little Bear grow into a very special child, for whom both sets of parents should be rightly very proud. He grew under his mother's heart, and in mine.
Happy Birthday Little Bear.
It did get me thinking about what a birthday celebration means, and I would like to share my own personal thoughts.
As a child a birthday was to celebrate getting a year older, I counted through the year in fractions until the day dawned and the postman arrived with my lovely cards. That was it.
As a adult a birthday still means another year older, but that isn't greeted with as much relish as those childhood birthdays. A birthday also offers me a chance to look back nostalgicly to my own birth, and root through my photographs of babyhood giving thanks for the people who helped (giving God some credit there) to give me life.
As a married woman my birthday is also my wedding anniversary and I get the chance to admire the wedding video (in private). Two doses of nostalgia for the price of one!
As a Mum, and particularly as an adoptive Mum, my child's birthday is a real source of mixed emotions. I am proud of the person my Little Bear is growing into, and of the great changes that occured in the preceeding year. I rightly celebrate his excitement, and do not shirk from explaining the meaning of the day to him, even when I was not a factor in that part of his life. Equally, whilst baking his cake this morning, I shed a tear for the woman who gave him life, and in whose womb he was formed. I thought about her, and whether she was thinking of Little Bear, and feeling sadness. I thought of the siblings he has and whether they are thinking of him, and in a brief prayer I joined my thoughts with theirs. "Tell them he is safe Lord, he is happy, he knows the love him and think of him."
Lastly in a moment of purely selfish emotion I shed a tear for me, when I went to use the bathroom and discovered that on this day, the day we celebrate our darling son emerging safely from 38 weeks in his mother's womb, I have started my monthly bleed. My womb will not ever help to bring a child to birth.
The last paragraph is in many ways irrelevant, it is a glimpse into a private pain which although long since reconciled, still has occasion to move me. It's irrelevant because I have the joy and pleasure of seeing Little Bear grow into a very special child, for whom both sets of parents should be rightly very proud. He grew under his mother's heart, and in mine.
Happy Birthday Little Bear.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Acceptance
Yesterday was our screening visit. The first visit to prospective adopters, to establish lots of things really. It checks whether they are who they say they are, whether their home is appropriate, whether they have considered all the aspects of adopting a child and are sure that they wish to proceed, and it covers many bases.
As we are already adopters we were less daunted by the prospect of this visit than we had been the first time around and felt ready for all it might throw at us, or so we thought.
I was looking at this through rose tinted specs I feel. Imagining already what life would be like with this other child and avoiding the uncomfortable feelings it stirred when I thought about what could go wrong.
The meeting started well, and I was confidently describing Little Bear's early experiences with us and how he is now. I was dwelling not on the issues he faces but rather on the support which he is receiving and we continue to access for him. I talked about his knowledge of adoption and his birth family and that is was the understanding on his birth siblings which led him on to thinking about a sibling who might live with us.
Then we his crunch time. The social worker put down her pad and pen and said "How do you think Little Bear will cope with such a big change in circumstances, when he has had such difficulty settling in school, and is so anxious away from you?" We tried to think of responses to that which were positive and realistic but sadly there were none. The genuine answer is "He wont cope." We were then advised to wait until after September when Little Bear has experienced some changes and there is a sort of proof of his ability to accept change. Time and time again she said "You are doing a good job with LB and I am sure you would be able to parent another adopted child just as well, but in my opinion this is not the right time for LB".
She is correct.
Although with all that in mind I am not sure that there will ever be a 'right time' for LB to share us full-time with another child. He just will not cope. It all comes down to doing the best for LB. He is 100% our responsibility and the most wonderful gift to us as a family. He makes our lives richer and gives them more meaning. There is no way that either of us would do anything to jeopardise LB or our relationship as a family unit. Although it seemed right at one point through my rose tinted specs, it would not be right for any of us, least of all LB. If I am honest I can't imagine another child here with us.
Little Bear has been and continues to be a joy to parent (despite his struggles with peer relationships). He is gentle and loving, demonstrative, so obviously grateful for time spent just being with him. He is clever and very very funny and he is ours.
A few months ago Little Bear had been talking about his two families and how he has two Mummies and two Daddies. After a long pause he turned to me and said "You're my best Mummy". That is all I want to be and all I will ever need.
As we are already adopters we were less daunted by the prospect of this visit than we had been the first time around and felt ready for all it might throw at us, or so we thought.
I was looking at this through rose tinted specs I feel. Imagining already what life would be like with this other child and avoiding the uncomfortable feelings it stirred when I thought about what could go wrong.
The meeting started well, and I was confidently describing Little Bear's early experiences with us and how he is now. I was dwelling not on the issues he faces but rather on the support which he is receiving and we continue to access for him. I talked about his knowledge of adoption and his birth family and that is was the understanding on his birth siblings which led him on to thinking about a sibling who might live with us.
Then we his crunch time. The social worker put down her pad and pen and said "How do you think Little Bear will cope with such a big change in circumstances, when he has had such difficulty settling in school, and is so anxious away from you?" We tried to think of responses to that which were positive and realistic but sadly there were none. The genuine answer is "He wont cope." We were then advised to wait until after September when Little Bear has experienced some changes and there is a sort of proof of his ability to accept change. Time and time again she said "You are doing a good job with LB and I am sure you would be able to parent another adopted child just as well, but in my opinion this is not the right time for LB".
She is correct.
Although with all that in mind I am not sure that there will ever be a 'right time' for LB to share us full-time with another child. He just will not cope. It all comes down to doing the best for LB. He is 100% our responsibility and the most wonderful gift to us as a family. He makes our lives richer and gives them more meaning. There is no way that either of us would do anything to jeopardise LB or our relationship as a family unit. Although it seemed right at one point through my rose tinted specs, it would not be right for any of us, least of all LB. If I am honest I can't imagine another child here with us.
Little Bear has been and continues to be a joy to parent (despite his struggles with peer relationships). He is gentle and loving, demonstrative, so obviously grateful for time spent just being with him. He is clever and very very funny and he is ours.
A few months ago Little Bear had been talking about his two families and how he has two Mummies and two Daddies. After a long pause he turned to me and said "You're my best Mummy". That is all I want to be and all I will ever need.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
What's in a name?
I have finally convinced my son to sign his thankyou letters today, we are a bit late but it is quite stressful as this whole learning to write lark is proving tricky for my Little Bear and he will avoid it at all costs.
Anyway, whilst signing his name under duress for the seventh time, the young one turned and saith unto me:
I responded:
He nodded solemnly then turned and saith unto me:
Anyway, whilst signing his name under duress for the seventh time, the young one turned and saith unto me:
"Mummy, did my Tummy Mummy choose my name?"
I responded:
"Yes Little Bear, Tummy Mummy gave you all three of your names and Mummy and Daddy gave you our last name when you came into our family."
He nodded solemnly then turned and saith unto me:
"Can I have another sweet?"
This little interlude is just one of a few recent chats about his adoption which we have shared with Little Bear. All the conversations were short and sweet and all instigated by a question from Little Bear himself. It feels the natural and organic way to talk about his history with him.
It also lead me on to pondering the question I have used for my title, what's in a name?
When I was conceived my Dad knew I was a girl. He was so convinced he chose me name and addressed me buy it when I was still in the womb, singing a little ditty he had made up based on it. He would not be swayed and refused to discuss any other choices. When the midwife announced me arrival he answered solemnly "I know". He had no earthly idea, he just had this conviction.
When my brother arrived my parents decided on a particular choice of Christian and middle names. Dad registered him alone, and the story is that he was unsure of the spelling and so he chose two completely different names. My Dad's names. These had been in my Dad's family for generations and so forgive me if I doubt there was much genuine error in the mistake!
I had my children's names decided when I was about 14 years old. A boy would be called by my father and brother's names (despite not keeping the same surname) because my brother said he wouldn't name a child of his the same. A girl would have been called Louisa after a much loved great Aunt who lived with us for a time in childhood.
These days there are all sorts of names floating around. Traditional names, traditional names with strange spellings, relatively modern derivatives of traditional names, and these also come with strange spellings, surnames now used as Christian names, and of course because of the vibrant mix of culture and ethnicity in this country we also have names which are familiar and traditional in some countries which are becoming familiar and traditional in the United Kingdom. I myself have a first name which reflects my parent's cultural heritage despite being myself born in England.
I am glad that I didn't have the task of naming my son, the name his birth mother choose fits him beautifully. I also think it is such a responsibility, giving a person the first outward strand of their identity. I know of two adults who in their thirties have changed their first names by deed poll for their own reasons, neither had outlandish given names but are comfortable with the change.
Are you happy with your name? In this picture I look as if I am!
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