Bacardi Breezer, Anyone?

Recently, we met up with an old friend and his family who adopted a gorgeous little squidgling of their own at the back end of last year. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to any other adoptive parents face-to-face and it was great to compare stories. We chatted about our experiences of going through the adoption process, and I started thinking back to how I felt at the very outset of this incredible journey….

Social workers are programmed (robotically, some say *winks at my social worker friends) to ask all kinds of invasive and delving questions. They poke and prod you, narrow their eyes as they scan you from head-to-toe. Through the adoption novice’s eyes, they may initially seem to bear an uncanny resemblance to a cross between the Childcatcher and Miss Trunchbull; wafting their Biros in front of you like long, thin sugary lollipops before slamming you into The Chokey, throwing their heads back with a muahahahaaaaa as they try to catch you out with their probing questions.

These were our preconceived thoughts.

However, the process – though intrusive – was by no means as scary as that. Or at least it wasn’t for us!

Our social worker was, in fact, a dream. She was polite and understanding, and I found the ‘show-off’ choc-chip shortbread biscuits worked a treat at eking out her inner softness.  Obviously, she wanted to know the ins and outs of a duck’s derrière when it came to our personal and professional lives.

The home study groped with long, gangly fingers into our extended family history, education, religious beliefs, parenting experience, and overall lifestyle, as well as ferreting out any past misdemeanours. Not that I had anything to hide of course *shines halo. Quite rightly so, we were thoroughly scrutinized.

Frozen to the settee by the icy, penetrating glare of the social worker’s expectant eyes, we fumbled around trying to find the right things to say or should I say the right things we thought she wanted to hear, whilst at the same time trying to give the least altruistic-sounding response possible.

SW: “So, if the adopted child with whom you were matched was called Beaujolais, Pinot or Bacardi Breezer, how would you feel? Would you want to change his/her name?

Me: *purses lips, snorts deep intake of air. “Of course not.  It is a fundamental part of the child’s identity and having been stripped of everything else that s/he has known, we feel it would be very remiss of us to then snatch away the remaining link to his/her heritage”. *glances at OH with a was-that-ok-was-that-the-right-answer kind of look.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually believe this wholeheartedly, but I also have to be honest and say… I really don’t like Pickle’s birth name. He has 2 beautiful, solid middle names and I did toy with the what-if-I-just-swapped- them-around idea in my head.

But at 3 years old, with his own very steely and established identity, and having been taken from two prior homes, we felt that we couldn’t suddenly tear him away from his foster placement and after 10 days say “Whey hey! Here we are. This is us. Complete strangers. Large quantities of bonkerness running through our veins of sanity. And oh, by the why, you’re no longer going to be known as Smirnoff!

Some families are advised to change an adopted child’s birth name for clear and understandable reasons relating to his/her background. For us, having been given – let’s be honest – Hobson’s choice, it did ultimately make sense not to take away that piece of Pickle’s jigsaw. (Still don’t like it though *stamps feet, sulks)

Would love to hear your thoughts and feelings on those initial meetings.

Jolly Routine

We have a family villa in Spain that Pickle has now been to 3 times. Each time his behaviour has, without doubt, improved.

The first time we boarded a plane as a foursome was just 4 months after he moved in with us. It was against the advice of social workers and how right they were. It was too soon to subject him to such a drastic change in routine, albeit a short-term one. It didn’t matter how much we explained that we would be returning home and that we would all stay together forever. The words ‘home’ and ‘forever’ meant nothing to him. How could they?

The days of that first holiday were at best filled with full-blown, shoe-lobbing tantrums. Door-kicking became the favourite sport along with long-distance, over-the-table spitting. The only blessing was that the inhabitants of the local Spanish village were quite obviously baffled by his intricate use of the English language. The empathetic smiles seem to translate universally, however. I found the aviator shades invaluable for avoiding eye contact, hiding embarrassment and masking the unavoidable watery eyeballs.

We’ve moved on leaps and bounds since then. Of course, his constant need for security is ever prevalent.

Once again, our jolly holiday in Spain – although jollier – was not as jolly as it could have been. Pickle was thrown backwards again with this latest change in his routine His inappropriate bravado and insolence bounced on the surface blanketing his fears and apprehension.

To those who loosely know Pickle, he is the bubbly, less-than-reticent cutie pie with eyelashes like palm fronds. His unconcealed affection, though ridiculously charming and lovable, is uncharacteristic of what you would expect from the average child/almost-stranger relationship. But to a child to whom strangers have always been introduced as ‘friends’ or ‘trusted adults’ (social workers, family finders, contact centre workers), his open friendliness could be considered somewhat understandable. Those who know him more intimately are aware that his terrified interior is in fact just playing out a rather brash, swaggering external role. It’s perplexing, testing and extremely wearisome.

Ashamedly, patience isn’t always the first thing to jump to the fore when his impertinent manners surface. I get frustrated, I over-analyse, I want to scream. In all honesty, I often do. Then I go away and kick myself for my lack of understanding and inability to see the feelings behind the behaviours. I berate myself for my reactions and my undeniable over-reactions.

Then I sigh, and start again.

We’re home. Routine is in full force and today Pickle’s first words were “Mummy, do you like being back home? I do.”

Then I sighed, and smiled.

 

The World According to Gherkin

Gherkin was desperate to have a sibling. A brother to be exact. Though, when questioned by the social worker on whether he would prefer a sister or a brother, he glanced awkwardly over at me and surreptitiously mirrored the movements of my mouth, “I  r e a l l y  d o n ’ t  m i n d”. I smiled proudly, chest puffed out at my son’s mature diplomacy. Then he turned to her and added, “so long as he can play football”. Damn my foiled brainwashing tactics!

I knew he was excited at the prospect of becoming a big brother because he had announced it at ‘news time’ at school, before it was even supposed to be news!

However, the reality for Gherkin was understandably very different to the bosom-buddy ideal he had committed to his imagination. Pickle was aggressive by nature, both physically and verbally. He hadn’t learned how to play gently. He had no concept of quiet time. Belligerent behaviour had been actively encouraged in his past. It was all he knew. He spent his time tumbling around in a hamster wheel of chaotic speed and erratic aggression. And Gherkin was bearing the brunt of it.

Gherkin’s morning greeting was a habitual and unprovoked punch or knee in the stomach. My looped voice repeatedly chanting ‘flat, kind hands, please’ seemed to be having little effect. And added to the daily physical ambush that Gherkin was being subjected to, were our own adult-sized – and in hindsight unrealistic and exceptionally unfair – expectations of him.

We had learnt to follow the Supernanny Code of ‘ignoring the bad and praising the good’. We had learnt not to rise to Pickle’s antagonistic charms. Yet, somewhere along the way, we seemed to lose sight of the fact that we had another child in our midst. A child who was unable to think like us and react like us. Us. The so-called grown-ups.  How ridiculous this now sounds as I write it down. How could we have placed that level of demand on a then 8-year old boy? But we did. Even though there were plenty of times when we personally struggled to cope, we still found ourselves getting frustrated with Gherkin’s responses; not understanding why he simply couldn’t disregard Pickle’s hostile manners.

Looking back he has coped with it amazingly well, though not without kickbacks. He has and still is experiencing something that none of his friends has, and he is muddling through admirably. He has had nobody to share his experiences with, nobody of his own age to talk to throughout his ordeal. And yes, it has been an ordeal. What he has been through these past 2 years has been no doing of his own. It was more or less forced upon him.

He has presented some anxieties. Particularly towards me. He has also had friendship issues to deal with at school, possibly due to the fact that our once gentle pacifist has had to toughen up over the past couple of years. He’s become more aggressive himself, more argumentative, more assertive. He has had to puff his own chest out to be seen in the shadow of Pickle’s huge loveable character. But without envy or jealousy, he adores Pickle and Pickle adores him. They continue – as they will throughout the many years to come – to squabble and beat seven sorts out of each other, as all siblings do.

He’s done himself proud, he’s done Pickle proud, and he’s done us proud.