Today we celebrate 2 years since Pickle’s moving in.
*Whoops loudly, jumps up and down, shakes booty uncontrollably, checks pulse.
I’m alive, we’re all alive. We’ve made it. We’ve reached yet another gawd damn milestone in our PAL (Post-Adoption Life) together. Crack open the Rosey. Bring out the bunting. Throw those annoying stringy thingies.
Our perfect, semi-unruffled, slightly turbulent and badly disorganised home welcomed the arrival of a 3-year old burly beefcake exactly 2 years ago today. It’s been an adventure. A long arduous adventure. Has it been worth it? Abso-bloomin-lutely. Though if you’d have asked me last night, the answer would have been a firm and defiant NO!
Pickle’s behaviour yesterday was – let’s say – less than desirable. I admit to shedding a small tear as I held my head inside the oven, violently but silently slamming the door against it. Pickle was sitting on the ‘thinking step’ with all the quietness of a screaming banshee, shrieking the very worst of the worstest of worst words that he knows.
But hidden amongst his most vehemently screeched poetic gems was a teeny-weeny, negligible expression that made my eyeballs leak: “I don’t want this pretend mummy anymore”.
Pretend? Where did he get that from? How did he know? I’ve been getting away with pretending for almost 10 years now and not once, NOT ONCE have I been caught out. He’s a shrewd little so-n-so.
They’re words. Just words with little, if any, meaning attached to them……It hurt nonetheless. And, yes. I really did have eyeball-drip.
Any change, no matter how minor, in Pickle’s life can send him backwards and us straight to the bottom of Rosey’s bottle. This week’s illness has been no exception. His moods have fluctuated from calm kindness to waves of unpredictable rudeness. Next week sees the blissful arrival of the Easter holidays and a trip abroad. No doubt we will experience the same thing again, this time in the inescapable confines of an aeroplane cabin. It’s a game of constant surprises, feeling elation at the milestone mountains we’ve climbed and then confusion at what seems to have gone wrong (again).
Today has only just started. There will be a mini celebration in the form of a barbecue, with the olds and the even olders coming over for some Rosey and rambunctious rowdy raucousness.
As I type this in the sweltering sunshine, I am tied to a chair by a skipping rope. It’s not looking good, but it’s almost Rosey o’clock. I’ll keep you posted …..so long as my hands remain free.