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The Day I Met My Children

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What if they don’t like me?

We’re sat in the parked car, fidgeting, having arrived ridiculously early for this Important Day. It’s 915 a.m. and we have a vast expanse of forty-five minutes to kill. So. Much. Time. Today we get to meet our children for the first time. And I’m bricking it.

My stomach can’t decide if the sharks or the butterflies are winning. I can’t sit here fidgeting for that long, but what else can we do? Why not go for a drive? I suggest What if we get lost? And my brain decides to catastrophise — what if we drive off the edge of the known universe into a not-on-the-map black hole from which even a GPS signal and Google Maps cannot rescue us?

What if we’re late?

We drive just a few streets away. We sit. And fidget. And check our phones. And post on social media. And wait. Out of sight. We get out of the car and go for one of the most bland, pointless walks ever. Well, not entirely pointless, because there are now ten fewer minutes to burn.

Today we will meet our children

Our children. They don’t feel like our children at all. They aren’t really our children, except they are, but then they’re wards of the adoption agency, so they’re not, but we’ll be looking after them, so they are, and it’s all quite confusing.

I can’t stop thinking about the moment we’ll see them for the first time.

  • What if all my dreams and hopes come crashing down around me and I think, ‘I can’t do this?’
  • What if they’re crying and whining and awful?
  • What if they ignore us?
  • What if they don’t like us?
  • What if they run and scream and hide and refuse to come out?
  • What if they hate us?
  • Worse still, what if they like him and not me?

I have no idea what to expect

It’s now 10 a.m. (turns out you can kill time — just worry incessantly) and we drive up to the house. Their foster carer Ken opens the door and welcomes us in with a twinkling smile.

‘Take a seat in the lounge. I think they’ve something planned,’ he says.

That sounds promising or ominous or something (the sharks and butterflies cannot agree). My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry. I perch nervously on the edge of the sofa, waiting for I don’t know what; I’m a child waiting outside the headmaster’s door.

The lounge door opens and in tumbles a huge bunch of flowers — a pink riot of colour and petals and leaves that’s moving all of its own accord. Then I spy her. Beneath this colossal display, wobbling in her efforts to hold it, is a tiny girl with cascades of curls. The flowers drown her, yet she bravely carries them straight to me. She shyly hands them over and in her sing-song voice says four incredible words that I will never forget:

‘Flowers for my mummy’

She looks at me, and I break out a smile before my hand flies to my mouth in shock and surprise. A lifetime of tears well up in my eyes, and despite my promise that I would not cry, tears pour silently down my cheeks. It’s far from the first impression I wanted to make.

Happy tears

  • A tear for all the times that I went to bed despondent.
  • A tear for all the times that my period came and I lost faith I’d ever be a mummy.
  • A tear for all the times I wondered why I couldn’t grow a child.
  • A tear for a child who never made it past the few cells.
  • And a tear of utter relief that a child has finally said that word to me.

The word I have wanted to hear and thought I might never hear. The word I do not own despite all the preparation.

Mummy

The most amazing word in the whole dictionary. I thought it would take weeks or months for them to utter it, and it was the fourth word she said. Even better, she used ‘my’ before it, binding me to her in a relationship. I feel complete in a whole new way. I stutter a broken ‘thank you’, but she’s already gone.

She and her brother follow Ken back to the kitchen, where he’s making tea.

Andy sits on the floor, and when they return, these two tiny children are crawling all over him, hugging him and talking to him, tugging at his shirt, smearing dirty fingerprints over his glasses, asking questions but not waiting for the answers, bringing him books to read and toys to play with. I sit back, dabbing my tears and drinking everything in. They take to Andy like pandas to bamboo, and I feel that his idea of sitting on the floor was far better than my bursting into tears.

I dry my face and take a deep breath: we have fifty-seven minutes left to start getting to know these miniature people who are our little boy and little girl.

Our children.

I still can’t believe it

This is an extract from the book “and then there were four” available via Amazon in ebook (Kindle) and paperback versions. It’s an unputdownable, unforgettable rollercoaster through infertility, adoption and parenting.

What happened the day you met you children?  Share your experiences below.

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Chapter One: Spies Like Us

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WE ARE ON A STAKEOUT

Ways in which this is like a stakeout:

1) We are two grown adults sitting in the front of this car, staring into space.
2) We are going out of our minds with the monotony of it.

Cop shows know what the viewer wants — pace, action, adventure. Not soul-sucking tedium. Which is why you only see a stakeout seconds before something interesting happens. Yet we have 23 more minutes of this; not exactly addictive viewing. We check our phones, sigh and wriggle. Many times.

Ways in which this is not like a stakeout:

1) There is no fast food in the car — not a burger, doughnut, coffee or soda in sight. To be honest, my stomach is wound so tight I couldn’t eat a single thing without barfing.
2) We can’t actually see the house we are ‘staking out.’ You might think it’s a rookie error, but it is a crucial part of the plan.
3) In the back of the car are two child seats. You don’t get that much in cop shows.

Reviewing these facts, it would be safe to say that this is nothing like a stakeout. Although it is rather cloak-and-dagger; we’re hiding out of sight until the designated time. Perhaps it’s more like a cold war spy exchange, although we have forgotten to pack a spy to give them in return. Who am I kidding? We are two adults waiting 23 minutes for something momentous to happen.

Handover is at 10am on the dot

And we have arrived somewhat early. (I say ‘somewhat’, my husband prefers ‘ridiculously’ and, as my fingers yearn to drum impatiently on the dashboard, ‘ridiculously’ seems to fit the bill). I like to be early, whereas my husband is more of an on-time (his words) or cutting it superfine if not late (my words) kind of guy. But Today is not a day to cut it fine.
The silence between us is intense. Not in the flammable way that you get between two people spoiling for a fight, when the air crackles with tension that a match would ignite. No, it’s intense because of the emotions that seep out of our rigid bodies. Powerful, extreme emotions that arise from the overwhelming importance of Today.

A day we will never forget

I feel so many conflicting things that I don’t know where to start, or what to say, or even if I dare say anything at all in case I break the magic spell we are under. I am giddy, excited, nervous, scared and more. Mostly I think I should be ready, after all the preparation we have done and courses we have attended. But I am not.
I am not ready.

I can’t silence a mantra that fills me with dread . . .
‘What have we done?’ (For of course, in blame, we stand together.)

After what seems like forever our social worker arrives.  And such is our tedium that the arrival of another car is something worth remarking upon. This simple change in our environment releases us for a few minutes from the endless checking of our phones, which we justify to ourselves in case 10am suddenly sneaks up and surprises us.

She parks near us, but not too close and walks over. I wind down my window and she leans in. The not-stakeout just got marginally more interesting again. She goes over The Plan again: The Plan we have heard and agreed to several times during multiple meetings already. I feel like the stupid kids being told how to line up for assembly for the umpteenth time.

No, we won’t go in.
Yes, we will act normal.
Yes, we will stick to The Plan, we intone in robotic response.

Because there is no way we are blowing this, not when we have come so far, invested so much already. It’s just another (insert adjective) hoop to jump through. Yet we both know that nothing about this day is normal. We normally go in. We normally say hello. We normally have a cuppa. I normally don’t feel this strange, this freaked out. Today my stomach churns with queasiness, my knees wobble, my plastered-on smile is strained and fake. So we nod our heads and promise to act normal even though The Plan is as far from normal as it could possibly be. And we return to limbo and wait some more.

As 10 o’clock approaches, my already intense emotions shift into overdrive. I wrestle them down, leaving a suitably stiff upper lip and all that emotionally restrained balderdash because my alternative is to be a blubbering wreck. I need something to distract me. So I thumb onto Facebook ‘just four minutes to go, eep.’ I post and run. I dare not wait for responses or read the messages of support, for my façade will crumble at the slightest nudge.

The clock finally changes from 09:59 to 10:00

For twenty-some minutes we’ve been stuck in time that won’t move forward. But now it has. Hundreds of seconds have crawled by and we are finally at the finishing line. This is all so strange I am having an out-of-body experience.

A shiver of blessed relief courses through my body as we coast our car down the hill and onto the drive. We get out of the car and the doors clunk closed in synchronisation. We try to act normal.

The front door swings open

There are no words today (weird), just strained smiles. We focus on the children and gently take them into our arms, on the doorstep (weird). Neither in nor out of their house, it’s a spy-like handover in neutral territory. I catch the adults’ eyes, and shy away. I focus on my little girl (for calling her my daughter makes me feel like a fraud) and carry her to our car without a backwards glance. We strap them in, chatting about the fun we are going to have at the play gym today. They seem happy, excited.
I can breathe again.

The deed is done

I want to drive out of here as fast as possible. To leave behind the tension and the anguish and the strangeness of this experience.
‘Ready?’ asks my husband as he revs the engine. Everyone’s strapped in and yes is on the top of my teeth and it stops at my molars. Suddenly I jolt alert. My spidey senses are tingling: something is wrong. What can it be? What have we forgotten?
‘STOP!’ I yell, as my brain solves the conundrum.
‘Where are Nibbles and Bubbles?’ I ask.

The engine fades…

We search frantically under car seats and then I get out, dash to the back of the car and rifle through the bags of their overnight kit in the boot. I swear silently and profusely as the realisation hits: they are not here, and if they are not here, they have to be in the house. Back in the house. The Plan didn’t plan for this.

Nibbles and Bubbles are cuddly toys: a rabbit and a dog.

But saying they are just toys is like saying today is just Thursday

They are the first things we ever gave to our children, fluffy vehicles of hope and love and expectation and joy, and they are saturated with an emotional element that elevates them to the status of Gods. My husband and I spent hours searching for the perfect toys; two different but equally loveable softness-incarnate. I slept with them next to my skin for a week, so our children would recognise our scent when they finally met us. Our daughter has not let go of Nibbles and loves her obsessively: we can’t leave without them.

My husband offers to go and I shrug him off in my frustration, a choice I would later regret. I storm quickly back to the house, deviating dangerously from The Plan and silently fuming that today of all days, we get this wrong. I stride in the front door and come face to face with things I was never meant to see.

‘Where are Nibbles and Bubbles?’ I demand abruptly, as I enter the front room. Ken turns away, wipes his face with his hand and starts to look for the toys, but I have already seen too much.

There is devastation here

As quick as my lighthouse glance was, it was too slow not to see Mary, crumpled against the wall, sobbing relentlessly, her knees buckled with the weight of this separation. Her grief, just beneath the surface these past few weeks, broke the moment that door closed.

We are not rescuing these children – they were rescued nearly a year ago.

We are ripping them from a family that loves them deeply. A family who held them when they knew not how to be held and went rigid with fear. A family who nurtured them through sleepless nights, panic, pain and tantrums. A family who cherished them as they blossomed and taught them how to love and be loved.

Mary made us promise that one day she would see the children again. We didn’t know if we could, but she made us agree, even if we were lying, she said, because she couldn’t bear to think that this was the end. So we made the pact anyway, believing it was null and void before it even left our mouths, in a vain attempt to lighten her grief and assuage our guilt.

I finally find both toys and dash out, unable and unwilling to say or do anything to help. For we are the cause of their grief. Our gain is their loss. In every way this is a happy day for us, it is a sad day for them.

I pout childishly

Annoyed that my special day has been tainted.
I slam their door behind me and I run back to the car, away from scenes I would rather forget. I hold the toys aloft, triumphantly, feeling anything but. Then my little girl sees her bunny and delight spreads across her face like a sunrise on a glorious morning — an expression of sheer joy. She grabs her bunny and hugs him to suffocation.
I’ve saved the day. Yay for me.

I don’t feel like celebrating. My husband drives off and asks if I am okay, although I suspect he knows the answer already. I stare out of the window and mumble ‘not really’. I am filled with a sorrow that I did not invite to this party. My perfect day has soured. I want to forget the image of grief that haunts me, but it is etched forever in my mind.

I shake my head and focus on the future, turning to marvel at the sheer cuteness of our new additions. Tiny perfect humans. One mass of curls with a bunny on her lap and one mischievous boy sit behind me. A girl who reminds us constantly of who we have become:

‘You’re my mummy, you’re my mummy, you’re my mummy’

Today we take these children home.
Tonight they will sleep (or not) in the beds that have been waiting for their arrival for months, in our house. Their family of two joins our family of two and we become four. It feels like we have reached the end at last.  The end of our long journey to become parents.

and then there were four

THE END

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