At first we were all chatting, sending funny memes and dark-tinted jokes. Then we started to count our blessings and revel in our new-found freedom. We quizzed, we zoomed, we house-partied. Then there was the dread of returning to a difficult normality, and the challenges of transitioning. And now, it is so quiet.
My partner and I discussed adopting fairly early on in our relationship and talked about how much we would like to do it. We are not religious but I guess we suffer from that middle class, privileged background angst that can drive you in a similar direction. Our adoption assessment was straightforward (our lives were labelled ‘perfect’) and we were matched quickly with our darling boy who was 1 at the time.
Here’s where I am today, without any BS: I’m a rubbish mother, a rubbish teacher, a rubbish cleaner, a rubbish washerwoman, a rubbish therapist, a rubbish cook and a rubbish shopper. My ideas are rubbish, I look rubbish, I’m a rubbish partner and a rubbish human.
Someone posted a question the other day, on how other adoptive parents were doing when it came to talking to their children about racism in the wake of the recent Black Lives Matter events. The post came on a morning when I (white adoptive mum) had kept my son aged 5 (black) off school, on and off the toilet trying to do a poo disimpaction regime resulting from all the lockdown carbs. I swept up another lump of poo, wiped his feet where he had trodden in it and thought, “We could do this topic today while he is off school, but you know, what with lockdown and now bowels and all the adoption stuff, it feels like our diary is full.”