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Equally Best

A short while ago I was listening to talk radio and the discussion was about an estranged birth father's fight to overrule an adoption order as he had not been contacted and made aware of the adoption. I was amazed at just how many people phoned in saying variations of 'blood is blood, they are his children of course he should get them back'.

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The First Meeting

She was so young. She sat opposite us with wide eyes that sometimes stared at us, sometimes straight through us, sometimes looked down at the floor as though abashed, but something told me this might have been a ruse. We had been told there was a possibility that, as young as she seemed, she was quite capable of manipulating our emotions, but as I took more of her in, the scraped back hair, the rosy cheeks, the demeanour of a child, I could not bring myself to believe that.

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My Adoption Astonishments one year on...

I was never a really maternal type. I relished my freedom and independence, waiting until my 40th birthday to even think about the idea of putting down any permanent roots. My mother always likes to tell me that I absolutely loved being a child and was in no rush to grow up.

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Chitter Chatter

So, she runs about in a frenzy of joy when I get home from work, careering into the sofa and bouncing off it into the love seat and back again, like a deranged pinball hitting the buffers. Which is nice.

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Potty Blues

I thought I was prepared. I had had the Gina Ford potty training bible by my bed and religiously read and re-read. I even got Barley to look at the pages in the hope some of her words of wisdom would infiltrate Barleys subconscious.

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I’m a Dad. Actually a “Dadda”, which I prefer and  wish to hold on to because a large part of me doesn’t want the progression from “Dadda” to “Daddy” to “Dad” to “the Old Man” to “see him – that mumbling, shuffly old geezer in the corner”. And Dadda-Dancing somehow conjures more sweet rather than cringe-making images than Dad-Dancing. At least to me; self-delusion is an excellent quality to possess.

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Perfect Parents

All the adoptive parents I have ever met have been resourceful people. They have actively chosen and pursued parenthood through raising someone else’s children. An act that demands lifelong courage, perseverance and empathy.

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