tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30316167506441788632024-03-19T10:12:17.309+00:00Suddenly MummyA single woman's foray into fostering and adoptionRebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.comBlogger352125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-72998591730288424532019-08-09T12:49:00.000+01:002019-08-09T13:21:02.563+01:00How Can the Church Respond to Child on Parent Violence and Aggression?After a long break, I have been galvanised into blogging today by an article published by the Christian organisation, Premier. The article (available to read <a href="https://www.premier.org.uk/News/UK/Christian-author-blames-lack-of-discipline-for-surge-in-child-attacks-on-parents" target="_blank">here</a>) is an uncritical report of the comments of a Christian author (who I have never heard of) on the recent news reporting of an increase in child on parent violence and abuse. Basically, the parents are to blame. Oh, and also schools, the media and society. But mostly the parents. A bit more smacking probably wouldn't hurt either.<br />
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I would imagine that many would have had strong opinions on seeing news articles about child or adolescent violence and aggression towards parents. It is, thankfully, an experience that will be far removed from the reality of most families, but in the adoption and fostering community, and in the SEND parenting community, it's a subject that is raised time and time again. For many of us, seeing it spoken about in the news was not a surprise or a shock. For some, it was a relief to see a problem so drenched in secrecy and shame being openly discussed.<br />
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There is actually a lot of research on the topic already. The Christian author in question may have done better to acquaint herself with some of it, perhaps on Helen Bonnick's excellent website, <a href="https://holesinthewall.co.uk/" target="_blank">Holes in the Wall</a>. It is more common than many would think, and not restricted to any particular type of family or child. The causes are many and varied and, surprise surprise, not restricted to poor or lazy parenting.<br />
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Neither is it only about aggressive teenagers turning on their parents in fits of rage. In a recent Adoption UK survey, 65% of parents said they had experienced violent or aggressive behaviour from their children of all ages. Parents and carers of children as young as three or four years of age have reported violence and aggression. Perhaps the recent apparent rise in the problem is less an issue of an increase in this phenomenon, and more about an increase in parents and carers who are prepared to talk about what is happening in their home.<br />
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For parents of children who, for a range of reasons, have difficulty expressing their strong emotions through words, lack impulse control, lack the ability to regulate themselves, are fuelled by anxiety and trauma, and sometimes display violent and challenging behaviour, the response of the church needs to be better than what was published in that Premier article.<br />
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If you are a leader in your church, or even just a member, what then should your response be to hearing that some families, maybe even families within your church, are experiencing child on parent violence and aggression in their home?<br />
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Here are a few ideas:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Listen without judgement. It takes a great deal of courage to open up about a subject which even now is a source of great embarrassment and shame. Parents likely already fear that they are in some way to blame, and reinforcing this only closes down the conversation, sending parents back into their shame and denying them the help they so desperately need.</li>
<li>Avoid looking for easy solutions. Many parents will already have tried all the usual things and found that it has not worked. If a child has, for instance, foetal alcohol spectrum disorder which means that they find self-regulation incredibly difficult, a sticker chart is not going to provide an instant cure. It should hardly need explaining that teaching a child not to hit by hitting them yourself is unlikely to be a useful strategy.</li>
<li>Do some research. There is plenty of information available about child on parent violence and aggression, as well as support groups on social media. If you are supporting a family in this situation, find out something about it. The Holes in the Wall website mentioned above is one place to start. You could also look into specialised parenting strategies designed to help families break the pattern, such as NVR, and offer to become a supporter of the family. There is more information on NVR <a href="https://sarahpfisher.com/what-is-non-violent-resistance/" target="_blank">here</a> - Sarah Fisher is a qualified NVR practitioner who helps hundreds of families.</li>
<li>Offer practical support. Struggling families sometimes need a break. It may not be possible or appropriate to offer to babysit the child or young person, but perhaps you could cook a meal, take the family dog for a walk, do some shopping or laundry or lighten the load for them in some other way.</li>
<li>Offer a welcome. Too many families raising children with 'challenging behaviours' find it hard to locate a welcoming church that accepts their family. Some children can be loud and boisterous, struggle with the noise and bustle of a busy church, present challenges to volunteer Sunday School teachers, have very public meltdowns, and this can make it extremely difficult for the family to join in with the life of the church. How can your church make adjustments to welcome and include struggling families? Home for Good has a series of articles on this subject <a href="https://www.homeforgood.org.uk/tags/what%20the%20church%20needs%20to%20know" target="_blank">here</a>.</li>
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It is tempting, but futile, to look for easy answers to complex problems. We are all inclined to view the experiences of others through the tinted lenses of our own life experiences, but this approach will mean that, time and time again, the church will fail those whose backgrounds, experiences and challenges are in any way outside the 'norm' as we perceive it. We can and should do better. Dare I say, I believe it is our Christian responsibility to do better.<br />
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Edit: the original Premier News article has now been updated to include some more measured comments from Al Coates, a Christian social worker, adoptive parent, and friend, who has researched and campaigned on child to parent violence and aggression. I am thankful that they listened and amended the article so quickly. Please do go and read what he has to say at the bottom of the article.</div>
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Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com152tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-55129948368286087302019-05-18T21:34:00.000+01:002019-05-18T21:34:03.655+01:00The Right QuestionsI recently attended a medical check up with my husband (I'll just pause here for a moment to relish the use of that word!).<br />
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He was updating his nurse about a symptom which he described using a layman's term that I thought was pretty descriptive, as well as accurate. Nonetheless, the nurse asked numerous questions about his symptom and, in the end, determined that the word he had used was quite wrong, and it was actually something else entirely.<br />
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This was a Good Thing because the treatment for what he actually had was quite different from the treatment for what he said he had.<br />
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I expect we'll probably carry on using the original (wrong) word between ourselves because it's less of a technical medical term and we both know what we mean. But words have meanings and, in some circumstances, they have very specific meanings, so it's worth asking the right questions to check that we all mean what we think they mean.<br />
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I was reminded of a time, years ago, when I went to the GP complaining of 'muscle weakness' among other things. She referred me on to a specialist who examined me, declared that I didn't have any muscle weakness and sent me packing. Strangely, my symptoms didn't all magically disappear. It was a long time later that it occurred to me that perhaps a more medically accurate description might have been 'muscle fatigue'. If only the specialist had asked a few questions.<br />
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Parents of kids with any kind of additional or medical need get pretty adept at spotting signs, noting symptoms and coming up with strategies but, when we meet with medical and other professionals, we need them to ask the right questions. Words have meanings. If I know what I mean, but use the wrong word, I hope that the professional in front of me has the patience and the time to ask me the right questions until we get to the must accurate description of what is happening.<br />
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I need them to ask me questions.<br />
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I do not need them to question me.<br />
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I do not need them to question whether I am exaggerating, or whether things are really as I've described, or whether this isn't just something that 'all kids do'. I don't need them to question my parenting skills, or my decision-making abilities, or my understanding of my child's needs. I do not need them to say, "Who told you that?" or "You can't believe everything you read on the internet!"<br />
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Ask me questions, please, but don't question me.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com134tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-90706406089218956052019-04-26T21:14:00.000+01:002019-04-26T21:14:02.615+01:00FoundationsAt four and a half, Birdy is quite the character. Her nursery teachers describe her as "a natural leader" and say that she "knows her own mind." As I am familiar with teacher-speak, I know that these terms are euphemistic.<br />
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A lot of our conversations at home are characterised by intense amounts of stubbornness and a lot of "No!" and "I don't want to!" More than I would like, I correct her, re-direct her, and cross swords with her. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she flounces. She's got quite the teenage vibe.<br />
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The other day, after a particularly sticky moment, I reflected that I had never had the need to correct Birdy or tell her off until she was nearly two years old. More than 18 months of love bombing. When she was hungry, I fed her. When she cried, I rocked her. When she laughed, I laughed with her. It was all good times as far as she was concerned.<br />
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How glad I am now, when I have to correct her and she hates it, that we had those early months and years to build a foundation of love, love, love. Whatever I say now, and however much she doesn't want to hear it, she can be in no doubt that the bedrock of who we are together is pure love. She recovers quickly from these disagreements and is soon all smiles and giggles that radiate her essential security in who she is and who I am to her.<br />
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And it made me glad and grateful again that, unlike so many adoptive parents, I had the wonderful chance to have those first months of Birdy's life so that we could build those foundations. Most care-experienced children are much older when they move to their permanent families. The foundation isn't there to underpin the necessary stage of correcting and re-directing that will come next.<br />
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Instead, families are straight in the deep end, trying to learn each others' characters and quirks and figure out a way to get along together, without the security of love, love, love underpinning it all. The love will come, of course, but it's hard to go back and fill in the foundations and, without them, every correction, every "No", every consequence, is a minefield of possible rejection.<br />
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Adoptive parents are doing life differently. And so are their children. This is just one of the ways.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-67738108726907095952019-01-22T21:23:00.000+00:002019-01-22T21:29:25.139+00:00Structural IntegrityBirdy spent a couple of days in hospital recently. It's not the first time this has happened and these days we tend to be better prepared, so, before I loaded everyone in the car at 5 am, I threw a few things into a bag - whatever drinks and snacks I could grab from the cupboard, the kids' tablets and chargers, all the spare change I had. I also made a large instant coffee in an insulated mug and brought it with me.<br />
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You need to do this if you're going to hospital with your child because you will need change for the car park. You will need lots of change because it costs £8 for 24 hours, the machine only takes coins, and the hospital shop will not change notes for you.<br />
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You will also need change for the vending machine in A&E as this will be the only way you can get food and drink for yourself and either of your two children. When you're a single parent, there's nobody to leave by your sick child's bedside while you go in search of a coffee, or a snack for the non-poorly child who was roused at 4.45 am and has had no breakfast.<br />
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By 9 am, Birdy was admitted on to the ward. Once your child is admitted, they will be fed hospital meals but you, as the parent staying with them, will not. The ward staff will tell you that you can make a coffee in the parents' room, and get food and drink from the hospital shop, or the cafe. Except to do these things, you have to leave your child's bedside. This is not always possible. Both the shop and the cafe are closed by 8pm, so you can't even wait until your child goes to sleep for the night and sneak off.<br />
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I know all of this, so I throw a few things in the bag before we leave. I also have a few other tricks I won't mention. We get by quite well, but the young mother whose baby was admitted onto our 4-bedded side ward at 10 pm was not so experienced.<br />
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I know this young mum was not experienced, and also that she was at risk of losing her baby, because, from behind our bed curtains, I heard two people who may have been social workers, having a conversation with her and her partner about it at her baby's bedside without even going to the trouble of using hushed voices. There was no discretion whatsoever. I will not further demean this lady by sharing here what I should never have heard, but it was the kind of sad tale I have unfortunately heard too often before.<br />
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Perhaps I could have popped my head around the curtain and said something. What I did instead, hoping to save the mum's embarrassment, was pretend to be asleep, and act as if I'd heard nothing.<br />
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The next morning, the partner was gone and the social workers were gone. I was quite taken up with Birdy who was feeling better and needed a lot of entertaining, but at some point I noticed that young mum had left her baby sleeping in the cot, and gone off the ward. After a few minutes he woke up and started crying. Shortly after that, a healthcare worker (I can't say 'nurse' because I don't understand the colour code of the uniforms so I'm not certain) came to comfort the baby.<br />
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At almost the same time, mum returned. The healthcare worker turned to her and said, "He's been crying and crying. You can't go off and leave him crying like that!"<br />
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Mum looked crushed. She spent the rest of the day sitting by his cot. We were there until Birdy was discharged at 4 pm. Nobody visited her. I didn't see her have a drink or any food. The baby slept a lot. She slept a lot too, in the chair.<br />
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As we got up to go, I asked her if she any food with her, or any money for food. She did not. She said she was hoping they could go home soon, but she was waiting for the social workers to say it was ok.<br />
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I have waited for social workers enough times to know that it can take a while. I packed up Birdy's things and we went to the shop. I got some pop and a packet of biscuits - nothing really - and walked back up to the ward. I asked one of the members of staff behind the reception desk if it was breaking any protocols for one of them to give it to the mum for me.<br />
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They looked pretty confused. They didn't smile or move to take the little bag. I left them and went to find the nurse who had looked after Birdy. I explained it to her. She also looked confused.<br />
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I really had to spell it out.<br />
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"She's on her own. She's not had anything to eat or drink all day and she can't leave her baby's bedside. I've been there and it's really hard! It's just a drink and some biscuits."<br />
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"Oh, right," said the nurse. "I see what you mean." She took it and promised to deliver it.<br />
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This is not a blog about how I got someone some biscuits. Neither is it a blog demanding that NHS hospitals should provide free meals to all and sundry. Neither am I criticising the nurse, who did a great job of looking after Birdy.<br />
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No. This is a blog about how somewhere, someone is judging whether that young mum is fit to raise her baby - and I feel fairly certain that the professionals who interacted with her in the hospital will be asked their opinion - and yet nobody seems to even notice that the mum herself is not having her most basic needs met.<br />
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And this was not due to her own failing, but to the difficulties that all parents face when accompanying their child to the hospital - difficulties which crash down even harder on those who have no reliable support network.<br />
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It makes me fume to think that someone may have written "left her baby crying in a hospital cot" on some notes in a file, but it did not occur to a single person that this obviously struggling mum might need a little extra help to get something as simple as a bag of crisps and a drink.<br />
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Our structural integrity is failing.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com95tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-77238398296380313002018-10-05T21:18:00.000+01:002018-10-05T21:20:29.311+01:00BulbsAt some point in the chaos that was my house renovation, the builder asked me what I wanted to do about lighting in the kitchen. I was adamant that I didn't want spot lights anywhere. The builder seemed shocked, as if I was suggesting illuminating the room with candles. What did I want instead? I said, "You can put a massive fluorescent strip light in for all I care, I just don't want spots!"<br />
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Anyway, there are eleven spots in my kitchen. There are three more in the adjacent play room, which is open plan. Numbed as I was by months of builder talk, I can't really remember the process by which my builder persuaded me that this was a good idea, but I do distinctly remember him objecting to my assertion that I'd be forever changing bulbs. "These new bulbs can last for ten years!" he said, confidently.<br />
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In the five years since then, I have replaced every single spotlight at least once, and quite a few of them several times. We reached the point recently where five out of six bulbs in the main cooking and food preparation area were out. It's not an area of the house where mood lighting is desirable, what with all the knives and hot things around the place.<br />
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It was only when I put the light on in the playroom and found that two of the three bulbs in there had also spontaneously given up that I finally took action, got the step ladders out, and restored light. I really, really hate the spots.<br />
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I'd forgive you for thinking, "What's the big deal? It's only changing a couple of bulbs!" And I know that's all it is. But I also know myself. These little jobs are exactly the sort of thing that I seem to be ridiculously ill-equipped to deal with. It's not just changing the bulbs. It's having the new bulbs in the house in the first place, which means buying the bulbs, remembering what sort of bulb, deciphering whether this is the correct brightness of bulb now that the old-fashioned "60-watt" label no longer seems to exist.<br />
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Then it's unearthing the step ladders from whatever obscure corner of the house I abandoned them in last time, finding the stupid little sucky rubber thing so I can actually get the old bulbs out, balancing precariously on the ladder while my three-year-old "helps" by holding on to the side of the ladder and occasionally wobbling it dangerously in a fit of forgetfulness. In short, it's a faff. And I hate faff. I marvel at people who manage these simple adulting tasks with aplomb.<br />
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So, yeah, I'm bad at bulbs. But I'm fine with public speaking. Honestly, stand me up in front of a room with a few hundred people in it and I'm good to go. I love it. I'm also totally relaxed about needles, overfull nappies, kids throwing up, rooms full of teenagers, night feeds, and a whole host of other things that I've heard other people sometimes find stressful.<br />
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Different people have different tolerances. So when I occasionally come across conversations about whether a very frank and candid description of what adoption is like for everyone involved might be off-putting to potential adopters, I scratch my head. I honestly don't believe that we need to sugar coat the truth about any part of adoption for fear of putting off potential adopters, because if you'd told me that being an adoptive parent would be like giving a presentation to an audience of 500 people, I'd have been fine with that, while others might have baulked. But if you'd told me it would be all about changing light bulbs, I'd have run a mile in the other direction, leaving all the other prospective adopters staring at my dust with puzzled expressions on their faces.<br />
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Whatever the challenge, there's somebody out there with the skills and aptitude to step up, but what everybody needs is the truth. Tell prospective adopters about FASD, about attachment, about the impact of adverse childhood experiences. Tell them about the struggle to get the right support for their children, the challenges they might face in school, the tears, the tantrums and the trauma. Tell them everything. Don't give them some fairy story about bulbs that last for ten years (I don't care what you tell me - it's a fiction, all of it!) because knowledge, understanding and preparation is everything, and you can't prepare for things you don't know anything about.<br />
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There's talk about a recruitment crisis in both foster care and adoption. Maybe. But it's not about getting more and more people to sign up to a fairy tale. It's about getting the right people to sign up to the reality, knowing that they have what it takes because they know what will be needed.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-85487367029326048532018-09-29T22:10:00.001+01:002018-09-29T22:10:52.275+01:00Story-Telling, Letter-WritingWhen you adopt a child, there's a lot said about 'life story work' which is, basically, an economical term for describing the lifelong process of helping an adopted child understand their past and their present, and why things have happened as they have.<br />
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OB has never really been interested in his life story. I feel strangely guilty about that, as if it's somehow a failure on my part to make the whole life story thing interesting and worthwhile. The prevailing view seems to be that life story is good, life story is essential. It's really frowned upon to give less than one's best to life story.<br />
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But here, life story is a non-starter. He's seen photos, he knows people's names, we've had a few brief conversations - just enough so that he has a sense of the main events - but other than that, unless I prompted it (and occasionally I do), it wouldn't come up.<br />
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He's not interested in letterbox either. He knows I write to his birth family, but he doesn't usually want to talk about it. Except for this year. This year, I mentioned that I was about to write, and asked him, as usual, if there was anything he wanted to say. He usually just says no. This year he said, "Don't write anything at all."<br />
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Awkward.<br />
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I signed a letter box agreement, not him. I agreed to write annually to update his birth family. At the same time, I don't feel as though I can just ignore his wishes. It may be me who signed the agreement, and me who writes the letters, but it's his life I'm writing about. I've always felt a tension in that, and this year we'll have to resolve that tension head on, somehow.<br />
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As it happens, the letterbox co-ordinator called me this week. I had another twinge of guilt, assuming she was chasing up this year's letters, which I always seem to leave until the last minute, and more so this year, considering OB's pronouncement. But no, she was contacting me to see if I would sign a letter box agreement with OB's siblings' adopters, and if I'd be prepared to speak to them about a more informal arrangement, or be open to the possibility of our two families meeting up.<br />
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I absolutely would. Not sure if OB will be so keen though.<br />
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He knows about his siblings, and he knew that they had been removed, and were being adopted. This evening I had a conversation, mainly with the back of his head, where I explained where things were up to, and that I was going to be in contact with his siblings' adoptive parents. I said he didn't need to be involved or decide anything right now, but there was the option of meeting them in the future if he wanted to do that.<br />
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He said, "That's never going to happen. What was the result in the Chelsea Liverpool match?"<br />
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Interestingly, during the phone call with the letterbox co-ordinator, I learned for the first time that OB's birth mum never actually signed a letterbox agreement all those years ago. So she's definitely never seen any of the letters I've written and definitely won't be replying.<br />
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The messy reality is so different from the soft-focus ideal.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-57358999142230798872018-07-28T21:06:00.000+01:002018-07-28T21:06:33.883+01:00Zero Top Tips on Dating While Adoptive ParentingI've been thinking for a while that going from 'single adoptive parent' to 'engaged adoptive parent' is an experience that probably has a blog post or two in it. Surely I could come up with a 'Top Ten Tips for Dating While Therapeutic Parenting', or a 'Six Ways to Keep Your Relationship Alive in the Face of Every Possible Inconvenience'?<br />
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But no, it seems that I can't, because in this, as in everything else that is parenting, I really can't imagine that my one experience of dating-while-parenting has given me anything like the expertise required to dole out top tips to anybody else thinking of embarking on the same path. It's a tricky thing, giving advice, so I'm not going to give any.<br />
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For a start, I broke my own rules, such as they were. Well, just the one rule really: I was absolutely certain that I would be months into any hypothetical new relationship before my children knew anything about it. Blew that out of the water. The kids came with us on our second date. Yes, really.<br />
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The thing is, the rule was redundant because the Boyf already knew my kids. He volunteers at the theatre group OB attends and knew him for nearly two years before he even clocked who I was. He'd seen Birdy running about there too. So, after a successful first date - a double with the couple who introduced us - and in the face of a dearth of babysitters for a second evening any time soon - we ended up taking the kids to the cinema to see . . . I can't remember to be honest. It was a kids' film and I spent a fair amount of it taking Birdy in and out to the toilet. My main memory of the day was my desperate hope that none of us would do anything too humiliating in the Frankie and Benny's where we went for lunch and wreck the whole thing. High pressure.<br />
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There was a gap then, because Squidge came to live with us, and that was all I could manage for a few weeks. Finally, stirred into action by the friend who introduced us, I made a huge effort . . . and invited him round for a takeaway and a film. I know. Living the high life. I think we watched 'La La Land'. To be honest, I didn't see much of it (see a theme developing here?) because Squidge chose that evening to be immensely sick four times, necessitating lots of bedding changes and laundry. As I closed the front door behind the Boyf at the end of the evening, I noticed for the first time a long streak of vomit down the leg of my trousers.<br />
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Despite it all, we miraculously managed to go on a fourth date, and then reach the point where you can't call it dating any more and it has to be re-defined as a relationship. The kids have taken it remarkably well. It helps that the Boyf has a generous helping of the 'P' part of PACE parenting (playfulness, for those of you not in the know), which is an area I am woefully lacking in. Somehow, we have established a new routine that seems to work quite well for us all.<br />
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So, no top tips then (who'd listen to advice from somebody as obviously inept at this as I am, anyway?!) but one potential pitfall that I can share. I established early on that the Boyf is remarkably receptive to talk of all things attachment, trauma and therapeutic parenting-related, which is all to the good. However, that doesn't stop me being on pins when the kids are around him. I tend to have an overwhelming desire to police their behaviour not only with me, but now also with him. This was unfortunate as it had the effect of turning me into an even more boring nag-bag than I already am. It was also redundant as the Boyf has no difficulties whatsoever establishing and stating his own boundaries (although I can't say that the kids particularly listen or always respect them just yet!).<br />
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I have discovered over time that the Boyf has different levels of tolerance than I do. Obvious, I suppose, but it took me time to understand that I can relax about certain things the kids do around him because the Boyf isn't remotely bothered by them. Then there are some things that I can ignore, but the Boyf can't. So he says something. Simple as that really. It takes actual mental effort on my part to just let the Boyf be with the kids, stop myself from commenting, and let him establish what's manageable for him and express it in his own words. I fail at this most days, but I hope it will get easier.<br />
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And now we are engaged and planning a wedding. That's a whole other post! I never imagined this turn of events at all. I wasn't unhappy single, and I wasn't particularly looking for someone. But, single adoptive parents everywhere, here I am to say that if a relationship is something you'd like, it apparently is actually possible!<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com110tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-57171134114173377472018-07-06T12:20:00.000+01:002018-07-07T21:14:39.005+01:00Home Education - A Safeguarding Issue?In the week that the consultation period on home education ended, <i>Children and Young People Now</i> has published an article detailing the response of the Association of Directors of Children's Services (ADCS) to the consultation.<br />
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In the article, <i><a href="https://www.cypnow.co.uk/cyp/news/2005513/stronger-laws-needed-to-send-home-educated-children-back-to-school-says-adcs" target="_blank">Stronger laws needed to send home-educated children back to school, says ADCS</a></i>, we see the usual arguments against home education, thinly veiled as concerns about children's safety and welfare. It reads well. It seems reasonable. But a closer look at the claims that are being made reveals a case that is built on assumptions and suffers from application of the 'safeguarding lens' that those in children's services are so accustomed to viewing everything through.<br />
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I am a former teacher and, until recently, a foster carer. I know about safeguarding. I know that schools have a vital role to play in identifying children who may be experiencing abuse and neglect. I also know that schools are not the only bodies with this responsibility. Healthcare providers, youth clubs, religious organisations, voluntary organisations and so many other bodies also have a duty to have proper safeguarding procedures in place.<br />
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Is it possible that a child who is home educated could live in an abusive and neglectful home? Yes. Is it possible that a child who attends school could live in an abusive and neglectful home? Obviously yes. Do abused and neglected children who are known to children's services, healthcare providers and education providers sometimes slip through the net? A quick glance through news stories on the subject will confirm that the answer is yes. In fact, even when a case of an abused home-educated child hits the news, we often don't have to read very far before we discover that this child was in fact already known to children's services before they were de-registered from school.<br />
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As is so often the case, this article conflates concerns around a 'suitable education' with concerns around welfare and safeguarding. Both are important, and local authorities already have clear duties with regards to both. <br />
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The article says, "<i>Currently councils can apply through the courts for a school attendance order (SAO) for the child to return to school if they believe the education on offer at home is unsuitable, in terms of educational progress, attainment, health, safety and welfare.</i>"<br />
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The Education Act 1996 gives local authorities power to intervene and issue a SAO if it appears that a child is not receiving a suitable education. No mention of health, safety or welfare. The Education Act 2002 does state that local authorities have a duty to safeguard and promote the welfare of children, but it does not give powers to monitor home educating families.<br />
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Powers to promote safety and welfare of children give local authorities the right to insist on seeing children if there are grounds for serious concern, but do not give them powers to see and question home educated children purely because they are home educated because home education, in itself, is not a safeguarding concern. In particular, local authorities do not have a duty or power to ask children their opinions on being home educated (which my LA routinely says it intends to do) any more than it gives them a duty to ask children their opinions on going to school. These two areas - safeguarding welfare, and education - are separate in law, and the duties pertaining to one area do not automatically apply to the other.<br />
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The article says, "<i>According to Ofsted's 2016/17 annual report, home-educated children are at a greater risk of harm as they can be isolated from health and care agencies, making them harder to protect.</i>"<br />
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The Ofsted report actually states, "<i>Home-educated children can be isolated, which makes them hard to protect if they are at risk at home.</i>" There are no statistics to back this claim up. Obviously home-educated children<i> can</i> be isolated, as in, it's possible to do so, but what evidence is there that this is happening? Why would a home educated child be more likely to be unknown to health or care agencies than a non-home educated child?<br />
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My children are registered at the GP and the dentist. Every time we visit a healthcare provider, they ask where the child goes to school, and note 'home educated' on the file. I know this information is shared because it was shortly after OB's (elective) visit for a routine hearing test (he was recorded on their form as home educated) that I received my first contact from the local authority to ascertain that he was receiving a suitable education. When I took one of my foster children to get weighed at the clinic, the health visitor tried to write "brother is home educated" on the baby's file until I pointed out that they weren't actually brothers.<br />
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It's not actually that easy to 'isolate' your home-educated child from all external agencies. If someone is determined and canny enough to do so, I doubt that stronger powers around SAOs for local authorities will make much difference. The assertion that home-educated children are at greater risk of harm is one that is made often but, without evidence to back this up, it remains an assertion.<br />
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The article says, "<i>'In no other area of children's services would a professional make a judgment about a child's educational progress, attainment, health, safety or welfare without seeing or meeting the child, it is unclear why children who are home educated are treated differently in law.'</i>"<br />
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Let's be clear: home educated children are not being treated differently in law as far as health, safety and welfare are concerned. Children's services assume that the health, safety and welfare of children are being appropriately catered for by their families unless they receive information giving them cause to believe otherwise. That is a judgement made without any children's services professional ever seeing the child. In every area of children's services, judgements are made about children's health, safety and welfare without ever seeing the child. If it were otherwise, every parent in the land could expect routine visits from children's services so that they could confirm their judgement that everything is fine. We wouldn't stand for that.<br />
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Home educated children are not being treated differently in terms of education or attainment either. The law places a duty on <b>parents</b> to ensure that their child receives a suitable education, either by attendance at school <b>or otherwise</b>. Local authority duties are restricted to identifying children who are not receiving a suitable education. Apparently, children's services are happy to make judgements about the education and attainment of schooled children without ever seeing or meeting them on the assumption that schools must be doing a great job. Did we ever hear of somebody from children's services asking to interview a schooled child who failed all their GCSEs in order to find out if they were receiving a suitable education?<br />
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I know personally of a considerable number of families who are home educating, not by choice, but because their children have been spectacularly failed by the school system. This is often not the fault of individual teachers or schools, but more a recognition that one-size education systems are not suitable for every child. Every single home educating family I know is home educating out of a deep desire to achieve the very best outcomes for their child, whether they chose home education or were forced into it. The ADCS says that, "<i>children's outcomes must be at the heart of every decision and discussion.</i>" We agree. That's why we're home educating.<br />
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As a home-educating parent, would I be prepared to submit to a little inconvenience so that local authorities had the powers they needed to ensure that a very small number of children weren't being neglected and abused under the guise of being home educated? Yes, I probably would. But I'd need assurances that the representatives of children's services I'd be dealing with would have a full and proper understanding of the wide variety of approaches that can constitute a 'suitable education' and that they would not routinely be over-stepping their legal powers as my LA currently attempts to do.<br />
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I have looked at the rigid approaches followed by many schools, the narrow curriculum, the damaging emphasis on exams at the expense of wellbeing, and I don't like it. It's not the way they do it in many other countries, and I don't choose it for my children. I am safeguarding my children's education, attainment, health, safety and welfare, and I'd thank the powers that be to assume that is the case, just as they do with every other family unless they have reason to believe otherwise.<br />
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UPDATED 07/07/18<br />
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A reader has sent me some research into safeguarding in home education which is simply too good not to share. She implied that I might change my view in the penultimate paragraph of this blog post if I saw the actual stats. She was correct.<br />
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There are two articles, linked below. They are worth a read. If you don't have time to read them right now, here are a few key points:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Far from being invisible or hidden, home-educated children are actually approximately twice as likely to be referred to children's services as other school-aged children</li>
<li>Despite this high rate, referred home-educated children are 3.5-5 times <b>less</b> likely to then be put on a child protection plan than school-aged children generally - home-educated children are actually at lower risk than other children</li>
<li>An NSPCC report (2014) investigated seven Serious Case Reviews where home education was thought to be a factor; in fact in every case, the child in question had already been known to the authorities and the SCRs criticised professional failings, including referrals not being followed up </li>
<li>In response to a Freedom of Information request about radicalisation of home-educated children, 146 local authorities responded, and every single one reported that they had no evidence to suggest that any home-educated child in their area had been radicalised</li>
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<a href="http://www.personalisededucationnow.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/home-education-and-the-safeguarding-myth-signed.WCW_-1.pdf" target="_blank">Home Education and the Safeguarding Myth: Analysing the Facts Behind the Rhetoric</a><br />
<a href="http://www.personalisededucationnow.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/Radicalisation-of-Home-Educated-Children-research.-MARCH-2107.-WCW.-Final.pdf" target="_blank">Radicalised Children and Home Education</a><br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-84195598095727612692018-05-18T20:26:00.001+01:002018-05-18T20:26:28.128+01:00The A-Z of Therapeutic Parenting - A Review<h3>
"The parent can see that although the child is very angry and is throwing his chair about, it is a small, light chair, there is no one else in the room and the danger is minimal."</h3>
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If yours is the sort of family where a bit of light chair throwing occasionally (or frequently!) features in your day, you've probably read a lot of books, been on a number of courses and joined your fair share of social media and real-life support groups. Adoptive and foster parenting will do that to you.<br />
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But, if you've been in the game a fair while, you might have reached the stage, like me, where if you see that blooming attachment cycle printed in a book, badly photocopied on a handout, or displayed on a Powerpoint one more time, you might just spontaneously combust, because, let's face it, once you've read one chapter on attachment, you've read them all.<br />
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For this reason, apart from a few staples that I go back to again and again, I've more or less stopped buying books on adoptive and foster parenting. I get attachment. Honestly I do. I reckon I could write the chapter myself these days. What I need in my life is a sympathetic guide, some practical advice, and some realistic strategies.<br />
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So why did I get this book at all? And why am I reviewing it on my blog, which is something I very rarely do? Well, I heard the author, Sarah Naish, speak at a conference a few months ago, and was impressed by her down-to-earth approach to discussing what she had learned from her extensive lived experience in adoptive parenting, fostering and social work. Also - and I'm being really honest here - I was attracted by the A-Z format and imagined that I could skip over all the inevitable chapters on attachment and just pick out the bits I wanted from the A-Z part!<br />
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Imagine my pleasure and surprise then when, flicking through the opening chapters, I didn't catch a single glimpse of the dreaded attachment cycle diagram. Instead I saw intriguing sub-headings like 'Blocked trust', 'Lack of cause-and-effect thinking', 'Hypervigilance' and 'Fear of invisibility'. Here is a book that goes beyond explaining attachment, and instead recognises that attachment difficulties (which are definitely important, and I wouldn't mean to suggest otherwise) are actually part of a whole catalogue of challenges that will face children impacted by trauma.<br />
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Far from skipping over the opening chapters, I read them with relish, recognising children I have cared for in several of the descriptions in chapter 1, and grateful not to get the "Oh, it's attachment" gloss that I sometimes feel is inadequate to explain the breadth of challenges adoptive and foster families are facing.<br />
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Like many adoptive parents and foster carers, I am familiar with the term 'Therapeutic Parenting' as a way to describe a particular approach to parenting children who have experienced trauma, neglect, abuse and loss. I'll admit, though, that my understanding has been limited to knowing Dan Hughes PACE model, and my practical experience has been less than stellar up to now. I'm rubbish at Playfulness, it turns out, and not too great at Empathy either. My Curiosity is too often rebuffed, and I began to fear that Acceptance really meant that I needed to accept that I was going to be treated like a doormat on a regular basis. While it looks great in theory, I just couldn't rise to the challenge of putting it into practice.<br />
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Naish's presentation of it gives me new hope. For a start, she gets in there pretty quickly with the need to establish strong, consistent and clear boundaries. Thank you for that, Sarah. Then she adds a new mnemonic - PARENTS. I won't describe it all here (buy the book!) but it gives a process to work through when incidents and situations arise. I feel like I need the support of a model that says "Try this. Then try this. Then do this." I'm looking forward to trying it out.<br />
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The A-Z section covers 60 situations or behaviours that can commonly arise - things like stealing, nonsense chatter, homework, disorganisation, rudeness and sibling rivalry. Each section describes the behaviour, gives reasons why it might be happening, and gives a range of practical strategies. I haven't read every single one of these but I did make a beeline for things that are regular features in our house, and I immediately had a few light bulb moments. Raised cortisol levels lead to craving sugar! Who knew?! Well, probably everybody except me but, now I do know, quite a few things have clicked into place.<br />
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Above all, what I value about this book is the voice of the author. She is pragmatic, down to earth and approachable. She has raised five adopted children and it's probably this lived experience that means she avoids the trap so often fallen into of giving advice which assumes parents and carers are basically robots with no needs or feelings of their own. Sometimes we shout, sometimes we lose it, sometimes we are tired or grumpy or hormonal. It's ok. Repair and move on.<br />
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The only thing I would have liked this book to have which it doesn't have is a handy list of all the topics covered in the A-Z part for ease of reference. Mind you, I've got a paper copy - the electronic version would probably solve that.<br />
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Other than that, it's great, and I'm truly glad I bought it!<br />
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DISCLAIMER: JKP, the publishers, did offer me a review copy of this book. Unfortunately for me, I had already bought my own copy! So this is my own review of my own book bought with my own money.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com194tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-81724884387128010332018-04-13T20:46:00.000+01:002018-04-13T20:46:55.489+01:00ReminiscencesThis week I received a transition plan for Squidge. In a few weeks he will leave here and go to live with his daddy and that will be the end of his time with me, and the end of my time as a foster carer.<br />
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It's over a year now since I first thought <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/pause-or-maybe-end.html" target="_blank"><b>my fostering days may be over</b>.</a> At the time I was disillusioned, tired and felt let down. A combination of factors meant that I did end up accepting one more placement and I'm glad I did. Glad because, despite the pressure of being a single, working mum to three young children plus all the extra fun involved in the duties of a foster carer, Squidge has been an absolute delight and brought us much love and joy.<br />
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Glad also because, in my seven years of fostering, I have never had a child I've cared for successfully returned to a birth parent. We are all very optimistic about the plan for Squidge's future, and I'm happy to be ending my time as a foster carer on a moment of joy.<br />
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Forgive me if, in the grip of an 'end of an era' feeling, I fall to reminiscing. I have photographs of each of the children I've fostered on the wall of our living room, and their handprints on a canvas on my mantelpiece. Most of these little ones will not remember me, and I will never see them again, but they will always have been part of our family. Some remain so.<br />
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Tomorrow will be the 7th anniversary of the day OB came out of the blue <b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/our-first-100-minutes.html" target="_blank">one April afternoon</a></b>. I was naive, inexperienced and nervous, but we found our way together. He was the first one I handed back, wanting to believe that everything would work out. Less than a month later he was here again, and he never left. As I write, he is at drama club, a football-loving, cheeky-faced seven year old.<br />
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Very soon after his return, OB was <b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/big-boy-bed.html" target="_blank">joined by NB</a></b>, all kisses and cuddles and strawberry blond curls. Together they lived as almost-brothers for 18 months before NB moved on to his new family and new life. We have been privileged to meet up with NB and his mummy several times since then. OB will still occasionally tell me that NB is his best friend.<br />
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<b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/respite.html" target="_blank">LB came next;</a></b> a tiny wee thing here for two weeks while every effort was made to find a place that could support him and his young mum together. They found that place and the two of them moved on together. I hoped for them. Years later I found that LB had eventually been adopted.<br />
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Shortly after that, on a snowy December afternoon, we struggled through weather-bound traffic to a distant hospital to collect Baby Girl. Beautiful BG was a mere three days old, with just about everything stacked against her. When she left us for a new family ten months later <b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/love-that-burns-slow-but-fierce.html" target="_blank">my heart just about broke</a></b>. Only recently we were able to visit her and marvel at the tiny tornado that she has become.<br />
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Almost exactly a year after we brought BG home, we were at another hospital collecting four-day-old Birdy. <b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2016/08/celebrating-daughter.html" target="_blank">She also never left</a></b>. I put her to bed half an hour ago and gave in to every request for "kisses and huddles".<br />
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While Birdy was still tiny, we brought home a <b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/the-seven-stages-of-being-dumped-with.html" target="_blank">sad, frightened wee boy</a></b> who didn't even stay long enough to get a pseudonym. I will never know what happened to him.<br />
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And <b><a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2015/11/twinkle-my-teacher.html" target="_blank">then came Twinkle</a></b>. Nobody who met Twinkle could ever forget this funny, smart, challenging little whirlwind. She stretched us to our very limits over six months and yet we did begin to see some progress as she adjusted to her new world. Twinkle very nearly returned to her first family but, as with many of these children's tales, there are many twists before the end, and eventually she, too, was adopted.<br />
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Then there was the baby that never came. We visited him daily in hospital for over a week. I rocked him and fed him and loved him, but in the end he went elsewhere and he will probably never know the identity of the woman who gave him his first bath.<br />
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Finally Squidge who, like all the others, has a story that he will find very hard to understand as he gets older. At least he will have those around him who knew him from his earliest days to help him make sense of it all.<br />
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And there it is. It's not a long list compared to many other carers, but each one of these children has made a unique impression on me which I suspect will never fade. We have lived on a knife edge between hope and heartache for seven years now and I don't regret a single day of it.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-5406333879793675212018-03-27T20:50:00.000+01:002018-03-27T20:50:42.986+01:00Thoughts on Single Adoptive ParentingI've been a bit quiet on the blog lately. My usual one-a-week rate has lapsed to more like one-a-month. It's the least I've written for years.<br />
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There's a very good reason for it. As a family, we've embarked on a new experience: having a man about the place.<br />
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Yes folks, after years of singleness, followed by years of single parenting, I've embarked on another great adventure. I'm not going to get into the details here (maybe another time!) but, after weeks, yes literally weeks, of agonising over whether it was a good idea or not, I eventually said "Yes" to the possibilities and braved the deep waters of a first date, and then a few more dates and then . . . well, as I said, let's not go into details.<br />
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It's been an interesting but lovely journey adjusting our tight-knit routines to accommodate a new relationship, and it's all going remarkably well so far, but it has got me thinking again about what it really means to be a single adoptive parent.<br />
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A lot of the time, it is still just the four of us, with me juggling all the balls. But sometimes now, I have an extra pair of hands, and it's been a revelation.<br />
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It's a revelation when I've forgotten something vital in the weekly shop that I have someone else who can call in at the store late at night to pick it up.<br />
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It's a revelation to know how it feels to look forward to somebody else coming to the house sometimes at the end of a long day to reset the mood and change things up a bit.<br />
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It's a revelation to have an extra pair of hands at the park for toddler wrangling and general fun management.<br />
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It's a revelation to sit down sometimes with the kids after our evening meal and just be with them while somebody else clears away the post-food carnage.<br />
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It's a revelation just to be able to talk, to chew over the day, to think out loud about decisions, plans of action and ideas with another real live human person.<br />
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Every so often I'll see someone on social media or somewhere mention that their other half works such long hours, or is away so often or whatever, that "it's like being a single parent." I've always had the sneaking suspicion that nothing compares to being a single adoptive parent. Now I know it for sure.<br />
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In single adoptive parenting, nobody is ever coming to help. Nobody is ever going to pick up the slack if you let things slide. Nobody else is going to make any decisions, or take any responsibility or even see what happened. There isn't an ex-partner that my kids go to stay with for the day or even the occasional weekend. I have lovely family and friends but at the end of the day, the buck always, always stops with me and me alone.<br />
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I'm not complaining about that (the disclaimer is necessary). I did choose single parenting, although I won't say I knew what I was getting into because I defy any first time parent to really have any idea what they are getting into before it happens. But I did choose it, that's true.<br />
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And yet, this past few weeks, they have been a revelation. Hats off to single adoptive parents everywhere. We really are made of stern stuff.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-81077614033386850922018-02-07T01:00:00.001+00:002018-02-07T01:00:44.297+00:00We Can't Let Them Get Away With ItWhenever there's a discussion about 'inclusion' or 'reasonable adjustments' in education, a cry of "It's not fair!" will surely follow, like an echo of the playground refrains of our childhoods. <div>
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"We can't let them get away with it!" </div>
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If we make exceptions for one child, the argument goes, then the other children will think the rules don't matter. It will be a free-for-all. Anarchy will surely ensue. </div>
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Every single time I hear or read those sentiments, I think of Daniel Barrett*. I went to primary and secondary school with Daniel Barrett, and he became a notorious kid. </div>
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Truth be told, I was a little bit scared of Daniel Barrett. I remember one day in the lunch queue when he ran amok with an elastic band, flicking it on our faces, leaving red and white welts raised on our cheeks. I remember the sting of the rubber on my face, as well as the sting of shame that I, like all the other seven year olds, was afraid to raise my hand and alert the distant lunchtime supervisor.</div>
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Later, in our final year of primary school, there was an altercation between Daniel Barrett and the head teacher. Our huge classroom was a screened off area of the main hall, right next to the head's office. We heard the shouting in the office before it spilled out into the hall, just a flimsy screen away from our desks. Then we heard the running feet as Daniel Barrett bolted, the head teacher's shouted reprimands uselessly fading away.</div>
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You might think we shouldn't have had to put up with all of that. You might be right. But we did all put up with it for one simple reason: Daniel Barrett's mum had died.</div>
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We were just little kids. We didn't know about psychology or trauma or grief or any of it. But we understood deep in our souls the unfathomable enormity of being left without a mum. We weren't exactly a supportive community for him; we shunned him in the playground, half fascinated and half afraid. Yet whenever something notorious happened, we all understood in our childish way that it was all rooted in his terrible loss, and so we forgave, forgot and moved on. The rules were different for Daniel Barrett and we all just accepted that.</div>
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In the larger community of secondary school, Daniel Barrett became just someone I occasionally saw around the place. We didn't have any classes together, so my experience of his notoriety was limited to gossip and shared tween drama.</div>
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Then, in our third year, tragedy struck our school. A girl in our year suddenly collapsed on the playing fields and died later that day. We were all shell-shocked. The PE teacher took early retirement at the end of the year and we all assumed it was because of that awful day.</div>
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Immediately after her death, Daniel Barrett disappeared from school for some time. The dead student had been his girlfriend. We talked about it in corridors, during lessons, at lunchtime. He had become used to spending hours at his girlfriend's house. Her mum had become like a second mum to him. We understood the enormity of it, the layers of damage upon damage.</div>
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He did return to school. He was troubled, we could all see. He was also trouble. Eventually he punched the deputy head in the face and knocked him to the ground. This was the end of the road for him. He was expelled and I never saw him again.</div>
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We discussed all of this among ourselves. We all agreed that exclusion was the only option really. Mr Gibson didn't come to work that day to be physically assaulted. We knew that shouldn't happen. Yet we also all agreed that it was a terrible shame; that Daniel Barrett, notorious though he was, had fought through pain that none of us had known.</div>
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We need to give kids some credit when we're discussing how schools should handle those whose behaviour has been launched on a dangerous trajectory by neglect, trauma, grief, loss or adulthood come too early. Did Daniel Barrett disrupt our education? Not really, in the long run. Did we sometimes fear him? Yes, honestly we did. Did we understand why the rules were different for him than for the rest of us? Absolutely we did. We understood and we accepted it. </div>
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When faced with people whose experiences are very different from our own, whose actions and behaviour seem confusing and even concerning, we can choose to withdraw and protect ourselves at all costs, or we can be cautiously curious. In the generally safe environment of a school, with plenty of adult support, I believe children can learn enormous life lessons from even the most difficult and challenging members of their communities. </div>
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From Daniel Barrett, I learned that an elastic band snapped against the face can really sting. I also learned that justice must always, always be tempered with mercy; a lesson that many who lead our schools would do well to attend to.</div>
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* not his real name, obviously!</div>
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Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-51650545780828489462018-01-04T23:40:00.001+00:002018-01-04T23:40:52.663+00:00In defence of a pause before the Intros Storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Is it just me, or are adoptions speeding up? I know there's always been the rhetoric about children languishing in foster care, waiting for a loving family (thanks for that!), and some very laggy aspects seem to have been tightened up, probably to everyone's benefit, but recently I've noticed that a lot of prospective adopters are beginning intros within a few days of matching panel.<br />
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It seems precipitous to me.<br />
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I'm an adopter too, so, although I fostered my children and had them living with me, I do know how incredibly slow and drawn out the process can be. I can only imagine that it must seem a million times worse when your future child is still a face in a photograph and an impersonal wad of paperwork.<br />
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Once the family finder and the panel and the agency decision maker have all agreed that this adoptive placement is a good match, all that's left is to devise a plan for intros and then get on with it. Why not get on with it then?<br />
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Well, I feel I have to put forward a defence for a pause before the storm. When NB was adopted, all those years ago, we had weeks to wait between the match being approved and NB actually meeting his new mummy. Later, when BG moved on, the matching decision was signed off on Friday and intros began on Monday.<br />
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I know which I prefer as the foster carer. Long before NB's mummy got her decision from matching panel, we had met. We had talked about NB, shared pictures and stories and email addresses. Our correspondence grew and warmed over several weeks as we waited for the process to exhaust itself. Yet all this time, I was not allowed to mention anything about her to NB. Why? In case, for some unimaginable reason, the match wasn't approved and it all came to nothing.<br />
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I kept a bag of introduction materials that NB's mummy had prepared in a high cupboard. There was a DVD, a recording of her reading his favourite story, a photo album, and a picture of mummy. I waited and waited until I heard that it was a "Yes". And then I got the bag down and, little by little, over several weeks, I introduced the treasures inside to a wondering NB.<br />
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He had only said his final goodbye to his first mummy a few weeks earlier. Now he learned that he was to get a new mummy. It took time for this developmentally delayed three year old to process the information. Slowly, slowly, we sampled the photo album, spotting the cute bunny soft toy peeping out in each picture. I made photocopies of the photo of his new mummy and let him look at them or leave them, or eat them, depending on his mood.<br />
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Eventually he took a photo of his new mummy up to bed with him. I laminated one and stuck it to his bedroom wall. We watched the DVD together. And then we watched it countless more times. He started pointing at it and saying 'Mummy'.<br />
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When the first day of intros arrived, and she walked into our house, he looked at her and said, "Mummy!" straight away. It was a spine tingling moment.<br />
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With BG, I received the carefully-prepared bag of intros materials in the same way. I put it in the high cupboard. I waited for the nod from matching panel, and then I had two days to show it all to her before her new parents walked through the door. A week later and she was gone. It's not enough time. It's just not enough.<br />
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The adults in the adoption process have months, maybe even years, to get used to what will be happening. The children are not afforded that luxury. We can argue back and forth about the possible detrimental effects of 'delay' in the process on the children, but I will always maintain that the process of helping a child to understand who their new parents will be is one that cannot be rushed. Not for the sake of the foster carers, the social workers or the adoptive parents.<br />
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At that crucial moment, a child needs time. The adults may be impatient, or have schedules or whatever, but a child understands none of that. A process that truly has the child at the centre will allow a child time and space to process what is about to happen to them, as far as they can.<br />
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So let's dampen down our adult impatience, our need to tie off the ends, our desperation to reach the climax of the process. Once these children are adopted, it is for life. Let's give them some time to let that sink in.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-91451895153308671622017-12-10T20:58:00.000+00:002017-12-10T20:58:53.127+00:00Give me a child until he is seven...Very few adopters have the privilege of raising a child for their whole first seven years. None of us had any influence over the months of development before their birth. Some children will move to their adoptive families after this first seven years is already over.<br />
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OB has recently turned seven, and Loyola's (or was it Aristotle's?) saying has been ringing in my ears: give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man.<br />
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Whoever it was that said this first must have instinctively understood something that attachment research, developments in neuroscience and our own experiences of raising children affected by trauma are making increasingly clear - that a child's earliest experiences are foundational to the rest of their development and to their lives.<br />
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So if I look at OB now, do I see the man? In some ways, I hope I do. I see a child who is generous and kind, who loves his sister and his foster brother, cares for them when they cry, looks for ways to entertain them and make them laugh. I see a child who loves his friends and his family, who is inquisitive and creative and who has an insanely good memory. I see many qualities that I hope to see in the man he will become.<br />
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I also see a few things I hope disappear a long time before he can be called a man!<br />
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And sometimes, yes, I do see a legacy of the parts of his life that didn't go so well, that I had no control over. Will they form part of the man? I suspect they will at least to some extent. Recent research into Adverse Childhood Experiences shows a devastating link between childhood trauma and a range of adult physical and mental health conditions.<br />
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And yet . . . and yet I have hope, and I have faith. Although there are struggles, my lovely boy's true nature is sweet and kind, generous and loyal. His brain is still developing, learning and adapting to the world he now lives in. Something else that neuroscience shows us is that this process will continue long after his 7th birthday.<br />
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Give me a child until he is seven, and I will show you . . . a seven year old child. Let's wait and see before we pronounce judgement on the man.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-91318300650959078142017-11-17T20:12:00.000+00:002017-11-17T20:12:53.876+00:00Children In NeedIt's Children in Need day! I will no doubt watch tonight, cry, make a donation, like thousands, maybe millions of others around the country. But my thoughts will, at least in part, be somewhere else.<br />
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Whenever I watch Children in Need, what strikes me about the short films is that the children that are featured in them are most often in need because of an illness, a disability, a bereavement or because they are young carers. These children are, undoubtedly, in need, and I have no problem with their stories being featured.<br />
<br />
However, the phrase 'child in need' also means something a bit different to me. Several 'children in need' have passed through the doors of my home since I have been fostering. A couple of them have stayed here forever. They were in need because of abuse and neglect, compounded by poverty, alcohol and drug abuse.<br />
<br />
I have volunteered for an organisation that received money from Children in Need to work with children on the edge, in poverty, with parents in prison, or absent, or struggling with addictions, so I'm not having a dig at the organisation here - I know they acknowledge that kind of need too even if they don't talk about it so much on TV.<br />
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I guess what I want to say is that the children in need are not all like those featured in the heart-rending films, bravely coping with tragedy or illness. They are not just on the telly. They are not only around when it's a special occasion. They are amongst us, in our towns and communities, in our schools and nurseries.<br />
<br />
Last week Carrie Grant wrote a blog post about her adopted son's experience of school that spread like wildfire across the special needs and adoption communities on social media. You can read the full post <a href="http://www.carrieanddavidgrant.co.uk/blog.aspx?id=2635" target="_blank"><b>here</b></a>, but the gist of it was that her 8-year-old child, who had experienced neglect and abuse, and several moves through the care system before being adopted, was finding settling at school unmanageable. In response, parents of other children at the school had started a petition to get him expelled, and started up a Whats App group to discuss him.<br />
<br />
That's not the children. It's the adult parents of the children. And he's an 8-year-old boy.<br />
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I'm sure many of these parents will join me in shedding a tear or two while watching Children in Need tonight. I'm sure many of them will have been horrified and shocked when stories of children being harmed and even killed by those who were meant to nurture, love and protect them are featured on the news. I assume those things because I give them the benefit of the doubt, choosing to believe that they are actually compassionate people who just don't understand the reality of what precedes fostering and adoption.<br />
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The truth is that many children who have been through our care system have experienced the sort of horrifying, unspeakable abuse that made us turn our heads away from the TV when they mentioned Baby P or Victoria Climbie. The difference is that the fostered and adopted children still live. And it takes a staggering lack of understanding to truly believe that such children will walk off into their new futures unencumbered by the baggage of a past that we can barely even bring ourselves to speak about.<br />
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For some, the story is not so dramatic; it's what I've heard spoken of as 'only neglect'. 'Only' a desperate gnawing daily fear that the food will not come, the comfort will not come, the pain will not cease, the night will never end. 'Only' living without connection, without relationship, never knowing whether your cry will bring a kind face or an angry one. Or no-one.<br />
<br />
And then there are the moves and the losses and the grief. How would we react if we heard that a child had lost all their possessions in, say, a house fire? Or worse, had lost all their possessions and all of their family? How soon would we expect them to 'get over it'? Most children who have been through the care system have lost everything, and everyone, over and over. Even the youngest infants grieve these losses but, without the capacity to express their grief, or understand what is happening and why, the only option is to internalise it deep in their subconscious. A gnawing grief with no outlet that never goes away.<br />
<br />
So please do go ahead and give some money to Children in Need tonight, with the tears fresh on your cheeks. I will. But then please do more. Please reach out to that 'naughty' child, that 'feral' child, that 'damaged' child in your street, your community, your child's school, with at least a fraction of the compassion that you felt for the children featured on TV. And teach your children to do the same. Their need is no less, even if it is not anywhere near as photogenic.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-79988334056956075172017-11-14T21:33:00.000+00:002017-11-14T21:33:06.362+00:00Just a Little RevolutionHow many adopters does it take to change the world?<br />
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A couple of years ago now, adoptive parent and all-round superhero, Gareth Marr, wrote an article for The Adoption Social in which he called for an extension of the role of the Virtual School to cover adopted children as well as looked after children. Sadly, Gareth did not live to see that particular vision become a reality in the Children and Social Work Act 2017.<br />
<br />
Gareth campaigned and talked and explained and persuaded and wrote letters and emails, patiently, persuasively and tirelessly. His was one of the pioneer voices in raising the profile of adopted children in education. He made waves. Noticeable waves.<br />
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There have been others too, dotted around the country. Pockets of individuals and small groups, of parents, carers, educators, therapists and psychologists, paddling and splashing at the water's edge. Creating waves.<br />
<br />
There has been some progress already in recognising the reality that adopted children have specific challenges and support needs, and that meeting these must be prioritised if they are to settle in school, to learn and to thrive. The introduction of pupil premium plus provides some financial support, although there is much to be done in terms of making sure that is spent wisely and effectively. And now we have the extension of the role of virtual schools and designated teachers to include adopted and permanently placed children.<br />
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Progress is sometimes frustratingly slow. Political tides ebb and flow, and with them our agenda. Yet at the Adoption UK conference last weekend, I got a sense that the growing number of swells and surges are beginning to converge into an irresistible force. A tsunami of voices, growing in number, gaining confidence, pushing forward.<br />
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Crucial for me was the voice of Stuart Guest, a primary school head teacher and adoptive parent. Parents and carers can talk about the issues until our voices are hoarse, but we are always open to the accusation that our ideas are fanciful and would never work in the 'real world' of education. It's hard to argue with a head teacher of a diverse, 400-pupil, inner city primary school who has wholly embraced attachment and trauma-sensitive practices in his school and bears witness to the positive results. It's not pie in the sky - it's happening and it's working.<br />
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We heard also from Daniel Shanly, another adoptive parent who, on being told that there was no school that would be able to manage her adopted child, went ahead and opened her own school. That school has just expanded, moving to larger new premises to accommodate nearly 100 children.<br />
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Most powerful were the voices of those who are so often unheard in all of this: adopted children and young people. They told us what would make their school lives better, and their ideas were heartbreakingly simple - to be listened to, to have their experiences validated, to have people around them who understand their situation as adopted children, to be given a little consideration.<br />
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I have heard the frustration of adoptive parents for whom the education of their children has been a struggle from start to finish; parents who are splashing and splashing deeper and deeper into the water, only to be rebuffed; parents and their children who are close to going under. Some already swept away.<br />
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Change is hard and slow. What may seem obvious to those living through it takes aeons of patient explanation to those with no experience. I spoke to parents at the conference who were thrilled with the possibilities of change. Within a couple of days they were sharing on social media how school struggles have pulled them under once again.<br />
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It's a long game, and many who have worked so hard to achieve changes will never be able to reap the benefits for their own children. It won't be a speedy revolution.<br />
<br />
It's a long game, but I think the tide is turning.<br />
<br />
<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-75504978730461181972017-11-13T20:38:00.000+00:002017-11-14T12:16:40.168+00:00Guest Post: Meeting our Adopted Children's Siblings<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b>This guest post comes from an adoptive parent who needs to remain anonymous. If you follow a few adoption blogs, you may already have seen this elsewhere - the author wishes to share it as widely as possible in the hope that other adoptive parents can benefit from their experience. I am more than happy to support their wish.</b></i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need to get this out of my system, but I am doing it
anonymously, as there are so many risks involved with sharing this, but so much
information that may help others in the community, I have asked some bloggers
to host it for me, so apologies if it leaves you feeling it comes from nowhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have been a family brought together by adoption for over
10 years. There are a few of us in the family, however, it always struck me
that given we read our children’s CPRs and all the other information we receive,
if we are lucky enough to receive it all, there are extended family who
naturally become our family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My children’s siblings are always a part of my life, they
are family too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the weekend we were lucky enough, after three years of
trying, to meet the now adult siblings of our children. A surprise message out
of the blue 3 years ago instigated this meeting. It has taken us all this
length of time to be able to feel able to do it. Our children were not
involved. You may think that cruel, but right now they are not ready for it, and
they may never be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We met in a train station coffee shop – we felt that it
needed to be somewhere that we could all feel as comfortable as possible in –
as we all knew that the anxiety for us all would be immense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hugged sister – I was not sure how it would go, but she
hugged me back. I got emotional but kept it together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We bought coffees and we began to chat. There were no
awkward moments…. It flowed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Our first lesson:</b>
We knew all about them…. They knew nothing about us – NOTHING. They lived for
the first few years not knowing what had happened to their siblings. No one had
told them they had been placed for adoption. Youngest was removed from a
holiday he was on – and that was the last she saw of him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Our second lesson:</b>
Appreciation that they had been adopted. Despite the first few years of their
not knowing, they have learnt enough about our children to know that they have
been well looked after, and cared for, attempting to repair the damage that
they have all experienced. They acknowledged that the trauma will have been
more intense for our children as they had differing placements and the worst
experience of our care system you can imagine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Our third lesson:</b>
If only we knew then what we knew now… Yes, contact is a scary thing…. And it
would have needed careful planning, facilitating and reviewing… but had I known
that these siblings sat not knowing, not knowing where they were, who they were
with, were we monsters, were we cruel, did we love them – that could have been easily
remedied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Their first lesson: </b>Their
siblings have been loved and cared for… to see the relief on their faces was
worth every single minute of over ten years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Their second lesson:</b>
Their siblings have very similar issues with attachment, trust, anger to them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Their third lesson: </b>Never
assume adoption is always a bad thing. Family and friends had been rather
critical of adoption….. as you would expect, and that was the siblings
impression as a result. They see the difference it has made.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did cry… I felt so patronising and insulting to these two
brave souls in front of me, who had been through just as much in their
childhood as my children – and I was the one crying. To be told that they are
grateful that their siblings have such fantastic parents blew me away. I
sniffed, sister held my hand, and I gave myself a good talking to – this was
not about me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We spent three hours together, and we have so much in
common. We will meet them again, and that was a mutual decision by us all. We
feel they are more a part of our family now than ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their decision to share what their message will be when they
do all eventually meet was upsetting, and I leave you with some of it:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you are expecting to meet our parents and for them to be
the parents you hope for, then don’t – you will be very very disappointed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you for reading.</div>
Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-7824550655142181052017-11-05T22:27:00.000+00:002017-11-05T22:27:45.597+00:00All ChangeI'm not a good manager of change. I've known this about myself for some years now.<br />
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I am more than happy to eat the same meals over and over again and watch the same TV programmes again and again until I know the words. When I decide to decorate or move furniture around, I always regret it for quite a while until I get used to it. Most of the ornaments in my house are in the place I plonked them on the day I unpacked the boxes.<br />
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I have lived in the same town for years, apart from a two-year blip when, quite out of character, I went off to live in Romania. I did the same job for ages. I've attended the same church for nearly 30 years now.<br />
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Welcoming a new foster child into our home is obviously a massive change, and I have learned that, for a while, all my brain power will have to be focused on managing the change. There will be at least a two to three week hiatus on normal operations until I can find our new rhythm.<br />
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Managing change consumes large parts of my brain function that would otherwise be put to useful gain elsewhere. In particular the 'filtering out random noise' part of my brain seems entirely to shut down. This is unfortunate when you live with a person who can quite easily sing one line from a song in a tuneless, robotic manner for upwards of 20 minutes without pause.<br />
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The 'speaking normally like a person' part goes off on a holiday too. I find myself incapable of calling anybody in the house by the correct name. OB is always (always!!!!) on hand to correct me. We have a lot of conversations similar to this:<br />
<br />
Me: We need to stop and get some petrol for the car.<br />
OB: Do you mean diesel?<br />
Me: Yes.<br />
OB: Because this car doesn't use petrol.<br />
Me: I know.<br />
OB: You really must remember to put diesel and not petrol.<br />
Me: I just used the wrong word. I know it uses diesel.<br />
OB: But you said petrol. It's not petrol, it's diesel.<br />
Me: *BOOM*<br />
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Birdy, on the other hand, is apparently an excellent manager of change. About five days ago, we couldn't find her dummies when it came to bedtime. Frustrated by her total lack of willingness to help me look for them, I eventually declared that she would have to go to bed without them. She said ok. She hasn't asked for them since. I subsequently found them both and hid them!<br />
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Our new fosterling (we're calling him Squidge - he has squidgy feet and cheeks) is experiencing change the like of which I can hardly imagine. I wonder which parts of his brain are currently off their usual function and wholly committed to managing the massive tsunami of change that's just crashed over his life?Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-63908803517386401682017-10-22T20:45:00.002+01:002017-10-22T20:53:33.672+01:00National Adoption Week: Final ThoughtsI hadn't intended to blog today. My NAW17 posts were planned for a 'working week' only! But today has been such an amalgam of all things adoption that I couldn't leave it.<br />
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<br />
Elton John sang enthusiastically about 'The Circle of Life' as Rafiki held up baby Simba in The Lion King. It's a memorable image. In adoption, the circle of life can look rather like a drunk spider drew it with a pen in each hand (foot?).<br />
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The swirly, multi-weave doodle of life, maybe.<br />
<br />
Today we were invited to the Christening of the little sister of adorable Baby Girl who I fostered several years ago now. It was our second visit to that particular Catholic church; we had been to BG's Christening there almost exactly two years ago.<br />
<br />
I sat and watched the kids running around the dance floor after the ceremony. They were kicking balloons, squealing and laughing and high on sweets and freedom. Baby Girl was amongst them, although most definitely not a baby. Her fine, barely-there hair is now long and thick and her face and form are now definitely that of a little girl, not a baby or even a toddler.<br />
<br />
She came over to us, and her daddy showed some her some photos of her as a baby with me and OB. I flicked through my phone. I still had photos too. She stared at them with her enormous eyes, pointing shyly at me when her dad asked her who was in the photo.<br />
<br />
I don't think I have ever felt more like a person with a foot in two worlds as I did today, watching those two sisters, so similar to each other, and so settled with their mummy and daddy. The memory of picking BG up from the hospital, of taking her from the arms of her first mummy, came flooding in, remarkably detailed and visceral. Only a few people in the world hold a memory of that crucial, heart-breaking, part of BG's life story. I am awed and privileged to be among them.<br />
<br />
To say that BG had a less than optimal start to life would be a colossal understatement. Her future looked extremely insecure and, of course, we still don't fully know what it will hold. But it is no exaggeration to say that, after all we went through in her early months, when I watched her running round today, playing, laughing, eating; when she came over to me and actually talked to me; when she asked me to help her open something . . . it felt like a miracle.<br />
<br />
Less than two hours after arriving home, we were in the car again, on the way to pick up another little one whose circle of life is already complicated beyond belief.<br />
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So this evening, I have three children asleep in my home. Three more families now somehow forever linked to mine, even if only in memories. One of them will one day find a new family and that wobbly doodle of life will take another sideways turn.<br />
<br />
Let the spider keep drawing. I've seen it from all sides now and I know it can be inconceivably messy. And yet somehow, there's something incredibly compelling about the doodle.Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-36177098206214556462017-10-20T23:05:00.000+01:002017-10-20T23:05:13.736+01:00National Adoption Week: FridayI wanted to end the week on a bang, bringing some insightful, incisive comment to my last blog of our National Adoption Week.<br />
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Truth is, I'm too tired.<br />
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Parenting is tiring. Single parenting is tiring. Adoptive parenting is tiring. It's a triple whammy of tiring. Daily visits to our imminent new arrival have complicated the latter part of the week, and my support network has once again proved outstanding in their kindness and flexibility on our behalf.<br />
<br />
Today, OB helped me to tidy and clean the playroom. He watched me clean for quite a while, unwilling to get involved, but when I went upstairs to clear out the nursery bedroom, he secretly set to work. I came back down to find all the toys away, the sofa cleared of debris, and even the scattered shoes neatly lined up against a cupboard.<br />
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He was proud of himself; proud because he was helping to get ready for the baby.<br />
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And maybe this is as near to a meaningful message as I'll get. Our national adoption week has been a mix of cuddles and CAMHS, normality and therapy, rushing and waiting, closeness and conflict . . . just like any other week. There are stunning highs and crushing lows, and sometimes both on the same day. If I ever feel tempted to get lost in the lows, I can look at OB and remember that my boy once voluntarily tidied a room for a baby he loved, even though he hardly knew him.<br />
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<br />Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-21813656301952935652017-10-20T00:52:00.000+01:002017-10-21T17:00:42.906+01:00National Adoption Week: Thursday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-HXY1VZWAxFG1iR6ZFnpdETWjmPxzmDSbiQdbNlPkUNlJFJ9FSaPwUTfKsnA_oZcd9uBDVN2RB0XFgdhGX4WMQgkSEfmyVBHBfKBqusJCx8Ji8Ktqp-iPZJhOv0wDfGC1XnH8TnEukaB/s1600/NAW2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="1600" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-HXY1VZWAxFG1iR6ZFnpdETWjmPxzmDSbiQdbNlPkUNlJFJ9FSaPwUTfKsnA_oZcd9uBDVN2RB0XFgdhGX4WMQgkSEfmyVBHBfKBqusJCx8Ji8Ktqp-iPZJhOv0wDfGC1XnH8TnEukaB/s640/NAW2017.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We all overslept again today. This is getting to be a habit. As we arrived at Birdy's nursery, she was shoving the last of a shortbread biscuit in her crumb-covered face. Top parenting. Not. She had some milk too. That doesn't really make it better, I suppose.<br />
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OB and I managed another morning at the table, mostly; working, mostly. That sentence only works because I completely count building Lego and K'Nex creations as working if you're six years old. Colouring, and creating vast armies out of propped up dominoes are also included.<br />
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He has been begging for lunch at the local pile-it-high for ages and, with the arrival of a little one looming, I decided today was our best chance. They serve a dessert there that is basically a week's worth of ice cream, sweeties and chocolate crammed into one glass sundae cup, and is the main reason why I don't take them too often.<br />
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Thankfully, both my children are pretty well behaved in restaurants. That is, if you count Birdy standing up on her chair while I'm ordering at the bar and shouting, "My want corn cob! My want sausishes! My want juice an' milk an' strawby ice cream!" as pretty well behaved. We made it through the meal without major incident anyway.<br />
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From there it was straight to our second Sensory Integration Therapy session of the week. I am increasingly concerned for our very pregnant therapist's safety, but she is unfailingly exuberant, playful and wholly involved. OB helped her design an obstacle course around the room and then threw himself around it three times.<br />
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We are only a few weeks into this therapy. During the first session we discovered that OB couldn't do a sit up at all. Today he did loads, bent backwards over a therapy ball, grabbing bean bags off the floor behind him. He also managed to catch a bean bag while standing on a wobble board. It's beyond amazing to see the results of this intervention appear before your eyes.<br />
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Afterwards, though, he was on the ceiling. The therapist always ends the session with a 'calm down' time, which OB hates and actively resists, despite her attempts to vary it every session. Today, although he sort of participated with the calm down, it clearly didn't work. At home we had an hour of that weird, giddy, craziness that always ends in tears or shouting or both. Today, both.<br />
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Their day was wrapped up with a hastily arranged evening playdate with a wonderfully accommodating friend while I popped over to the new LO's house for another introductory visit. When they talk to single foster carers and adopters about having a good support network, they're not joking!<br />
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It is approaching 1am and I finished my day's work about half an hour ago. That's flexible hours for you. I wonder if I can count on them to oversleep just a tiny bit tomorrow too?<br />
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Catch up on the start of our week starting with <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-monday.html" target="_blank">Monday</a>.<br />
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Or read on . . . <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-friday.html" target="_blank">Friday</a>Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-91047226523874850992017-10-18T21:37:00.000+01:002017-10-21T16:59:36.869+01:00National Adoption Week: Wednesday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today has been a bump back to reality after last night's shenanigans at the National Adoption Week awards. We all overslept after our late nights so it was a bit of a rush getting Birdy to nursery on time, and OB was admittedly late for his home ed group. None of that was helped by the fact that I'm the only person in the household who has the faintest concept of the passage of time, or what it might mean to 'rush' or even just move a tiny bit faster.<br />
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My morning was about work. My afternoon was about work too. While Birdy napped, exhausted from hedgehog-related fun at nursery, OB sat with me at the table, and we were both surprisingly productive considering how tired we both were.<br />
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It was around 3.30pm when the phone calls started. The local authority was looking for a foster home for a small child. Was I available?<br />
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Interesting question. I explained my limitations. There were a lot more phone calls. Managers were spoken to. Arrangements were made. Assurances were given. By 5.15pm we were all in the car on our way to our first introductions meeting.<br />
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This might sound like a rush, but actually it's the first time in seven years I've had the option to have introduction meetings with a child that has come to live here. We have a few days grace to prepare ourselves and our home, get some shopping in, make plans for our new routine.<br />
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OB is delighted. He has been asking for a new baby for months now. He showed how delighted he was by doing a little dance. He was excited right until the moment we stepped through the door of this child's home, when he suddenly became my silent shadow. Birdy, as usual, was the life and soul of the party, engaging with the little one immediately, offering toys and biscuits and drinks, playing and laughing and singing a little song.<br />
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At bedtime, Birdy was clingy though. I didn't put her to bed last night, and she wanted to make sure she got her full mummy measure tonight to make up for it. OB needed me too. Sometimes I wish there were two of me. I suspect I'm soon going to fantasise about having three of me.<br />
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But there is only one of me. And it always seems to work out somehow. As soon as I hit 'publish' on this post, I'll be back to working, because 'flexible hours' basically means 'most of my evenings'. Tonight, though, I'm sweetening the deal with the generous helping of lamb pasanda that's just been handed to me by the delivery driver.<br />
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Internet take away ordering - brightening my evenings since 2013.<br />
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Missed the start of the week?<br />
<br />
Here is <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-monday.html" target="_blank">Monday</a> and <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-tuesday.html" target="_blank">Tuesday</a><br />
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Or read on...<br />
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<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-thursday.html" target="_blank">Thursday</a><br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-friday.html" target="_blank">Friday</a>Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-40248939647083430532017-10-18T21:06:00.000+01:002017-10-21T16:57:30.522+01:00National Adoption Week: TuesdayI know. It's Wednesday. I'm a bit late posting about Tuesday because I went to London for the National Adoption Week Awards last night as I'd been nominated for Adoption Blog of the Year and didn't get home until well after midnight.<br />
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Spoiler alert: I didn't win! [Insert suitably humble comment here!]<br />
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So perhaps I was overstating it a bit when I said on Monday that National Adoption Week is basically 'just another week' for adoptive families. I admit, I don't swan off down to London Town every week as a rule, but actually our Tuesday started in a very different way.<br />
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We had our first appointment at the local CAMHS. It was a bit of a juggling act to get to the appointment, involving making arrangements for somebody else to take Birdy to nursery as the times clashed, but we made it in time and even, miraculously, found a parking space.<br />
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I was nervous about this appointment. I had no idea what to expect, so had asked around on the marvellous Facebook support group I'm a member of. People had mixed experiences, as I expected, but I took on board the top tip of writing notes to give to the doctor. Discussing OB in front of OB never goes well.<br />
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Of course, I had checked out the doctor beforehand, but was a bit puzzled. She has an unusual name, but the only references I could find were to what seemed to be a top doctor based in London. It couldn't be the same person, surely? What would a doctor of that pedigree be doing in a backwater like this?<br />
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It was the very same doctor. And she was as good as her resume suggested. She praised my notes and said they were extremely useful (thank you Facebook buddies!), validated everything I said, validated the reality of OB's early experiences which can easily be dismissed by the uninformed because "he was so young", and had me crying at the point where she stated that we had both been through so much and she was impressed that we were doing so well despite everything.<br />
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I don't like to discuss the nitty gritty of our lives on here. I don't like to wash OB's dirty linen in public, but it was good that the doctor heard me, and a couple of times during the session, actually saw what I was talking about. There will be a case planning meeting, there will be a package offered, there may be something offered for me in terms of a support group or similar.<br />
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It was as good a result as I could have hoped for.<br />
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And then I drove OB to his home ed group, went home and worked, picked up Birdy from nursery, handed over to my marvellous, wonderful babysitter (I am so thankful for her!) and set off for a whirling round trip to London where there was sparkling wine and canapes made of foods I didn't immediately recognise, and notables and influentials, and speeches and plaudits, and networking and a surprise handshake with a government minister.<br />
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It's nothing like real life, but I made the most of it anyway.<br />
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Missed Monday? <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-monday.html" target="_blank">Here it is</a>.<br />
<br />
Or read on ...<br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-wednesday.html" target="_blank">Wednesday</a><br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-thursday.html" target="_blank">Thursday</a><br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-friday.html" target="_blank">Friday</a>Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-32851915957407459142017-10-16T21:52:00.000+01:002017-10-21T16:54:57.286+01:00National Adoption Week: MondayThere will be a lot of talk during National Adoption Week; a lot of opinions and perspectives and events. As I wrote <a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/talk.html" target="_blank">recently</a>, talk can be a good thing, and yet for most people living adoption day to day, this week will be just another week.<br />
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So here is ours.<br />
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<h2>
Monday</h2>
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I woke on my own in my bed for the first time in about three weeks. This was refreshing! The morning ran smoothly - Birdy off to nursery, OB with me to the gym and then off to his home ed group. So far so good.<br />
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The afternoon activity was taking OB to his Sensory Integration Therapy. This was a stress point as the last session didn't go too well and we had to abandon it after 15 minutes, resulting in me having an hour-long phone conversation with the therapist that evening.<br />
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Thankfully, there was none of that during today's session. He was totally co-operative, climbing through the lycra tunnel about ten times, balancing on the spiky stepping stones, bouncing on the trampoline (legs together, no flying feet!) and grabbing objects out of the therapist's hand. She is a marvel, coaxing, cajoling and jollying OB into all manner of activities, and making space for Birdy too, who has to come along with us. <br />
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The therapist and OB played a little trick on me during theraputty time. We were all squeezing our theraputty, looking for buried treasure (buttons, beads, loombands) and I was so sure I had found all mine. I'd got the putty almost paper thin - not that I'm competitive or anything! - and yet I still kept finding pesky objects almost unbelievably hidden in there.<br />
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It turned out that the two of them were sneaking treasure into my theraputty every time I looked away. I was none the wiser and didn't even notice their giggles. OB was so pleased with himself when the truth came out! Honestly, I sometimes wonder whether the most valuable part of the therapies is that OB and I get to spend a pleasant hour together with a referee.<br />
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The weather was clearing up as we came home and OB wanted to go to the park, but it was getting a bit late. He took that very well. I made his favourite - sausages - for tea, and offered sweetcorn or mushy peas. Apparently he hates mushy peas, so I did the sweetcorn.<br />
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The sausages were rejected because they were different sausages. This was true, and an unfortunate substitution in our last online order - normal pork sausages instead of thin pork sausages. The sweetcorn was also rejected because it wasn't on the cob. Personally I can't stand sweetcorn in any of its forms, so I can't comment on that. I got him some toast and fruit and a sneaky mince pie. It sounds like a reward for rejecting his tea, not to mention a rod for my own back. Maybe it's both of those things, but when OB is determined there's no point arguing - bigger battles to fight - and he's too skinny to be going without meals, especially as a recent heavy cold meant he hardly ate for three days. I decided a long time ago that mealtimes were not going to be a battleground, and I don't mind making concessions to keep the peace.<br />
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OB has recently re-discovered his extensive array of board games, so we spent most of the hour or so between tea time and bed time getting those out and playing them, as far as is possible with a two-year-old on the rampage. OB was in good form and remarkably patient with Birdy, especially as earlier she had hit him with one of her toys. He even helped me tidy up. I genuinely think some of this was intended by him to make up for the array of 'yuk' noises I had objected to at tea time. It worked.<br />
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Apart from a last minute crisis when we couldn't find Birdy's dummies (one for her mouth, one for each hand - judge me if you like, I'm pretty relaxed about it!), bed time went incredibly smoothly and I haven't heard a sound from either of them since.<br />
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Days like these are gold.<br />
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Read on . . . .<br />
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<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-tuesday.html" target="_blank">Tuesday</a><br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-wednesday.html" target="_blank">Wednesday</a><br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-thursday.html" target="_blank">Thursday</a><br />
<a href="http://suddenlymummy.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/national-adoption-week-friday.html" target="_blank">Friday</a>Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3031616750644178863.post-80528214377780705862017-10-07T21:45:00.000+01:002017-10-07T21:45:48.284+01:00Ten Things I Love About You...This is just to say, because I think it does need saying, that despite all mine and OB's challenges and our interesting moments (and hours and days), and despite all the things the therapists say, and despite the path being rockier than I imagined, and the destination uncertain . . . despite it all, regardless of it all, if I had the choice again, I'd do the same. No regrets.<div>
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1. Your Feet</h3>
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I've always loved your feet, since you were a tiny wee thing. Even now you are older and they are considerably bigger and more slender, they are still impossibly crinkly underneath and cute beyond cute.</div>
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2. Your Game Face</h3>
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Eyebrows furrowed, total concentration; that's your game face. I see it when you're painstakingly piecing together those pesky phonemes to create words, when you're winning on the final lap in Beach Buggy Racers, and, most of all, when you're playing football, fighting to control your wayward limbs and keep the ball glued to your boots.</div>
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3. Your Courage</h3>
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For other people watching your swimming lessons over the years, courage might not have been the first word that came to mind, but I know the courage it has taken you to keep going, week after week, despite sometimes infinitesimal progress. Last week, when you raised your hand for the opportunity to dive down to get the brick, I nearly burst with pride.</div>
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4. Your Jokes</h3>
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Despite all your efforts, your jokes are terrible. I love them anyway.</div>
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5. Your Approach to Being a Brother</h3>
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The two of you are not immune to scrapping, arguing and, sometimes, full on fighting, but Birdy couldn't have asked for a better brother than you. From the moment she arrived you have loved her, nurtured her, protected her and comforted her. I hope your relationship will be a gift to each other as you grow up together.</div>
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6. Your Cuddles</h3>
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Thankfully, there are plenty of these and I love every single one of them.</div>
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<h3>
7. Your Generosity</h3>
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It's hard for any little boy to give things away, and even harder for one who has had so much taken from him. You have a generous heart, OB. It often wins out, despite your struggles, and it's a delight to see.</div>
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<h3>
8. Your Panache</h3>
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Whether it's choosing clothes for the day, or choosing colours for your latest creation, you have your own, very individual ideas about what looks and feels right. I may wince at your red pants and orange t-shirt combo, but I love it nonetheless.</div>
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<h3>
9. Your Excitement</h3>
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You stand at the front door in the cold waiting for your friends to come, jump up and down and do a happy dance at the mention of good news. Your excitement is infectious, funny, and endearing, expressing itself in your whole body.</div>
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<h3>
10. Your Smile</h3>
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From the wide open-mouthed smile of your toddlerhood to today's shy head tilt with just a glimpse of 'big boy teeth', your smile is, to resort to cliche, the sunshine in my day.</div>
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Rebecca Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03323122949121536943noreply@blogger.com0