Category Archives: Post Adoption

This is what happened once the children were living with us full time – the finding our feet as a family years (which are still on-going).

What I Wish I’d Known BEFORE I Adopted

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Dear Prospective Adopter

I remember being where you are now – the heady excitement of what is to come, the giddy nerves of the all-important Panel, the heart-melting magic of Matching. It is one fabulous adventure.

When I took my children home I was over the moon and under prepared.  If only I had known then what I know now, those first few weeks would have been easier and more joyful – which is the aim of this blog.

May it help you through the first unsettling months when it’s weird and your life feels unreal and you’re not yourself and keep wondering why won’t they just eat their tea/ sleep/ stop screaming/ love me?

1. GREAT SLEEP IS YOUR TOP TRUMP

The children are important.

But they need a parent who is confident, capable and can access all their brain.  And that only happens if you’ve had enough sleep. A half-asleep, over-caffeinated parent with the emotional stability of dynamite is destined to create a day where you end up blubbing “that could’ve gone better” as you scrape pizza off the ceiling and tears off your chin.

Grab sleep greedily and without apology whenever and wherever you can.

  • Your child is napping?  Nap.
  • Your child is in bed – go to bed early.  7.30pm early if you need to (I did).
  • Your child is watching TV?  Snooze on the sofa.
  • You keep waking up in the night?  Use earplugs if you need to.
  • You can’t get back to sleep once woken?  Put your partner on night-duty.

Get as much sleep as you need to wake happy and raring to go.

Sleep is more important than ironing, hoovering, tidying, watching your favourite TV shows, mowing the lawn, answering emails, cleaning the bath, painting your nails, shaving or going on Facebook to let people know you are still alive.

The best mum or dad you can be is a well slept one.

2.  YOU ARE NOT ALONE

God bless Twitter.

I was a bit “meh” about twitter until I discovered the adoption and fostering twitterati (thanks to @First4Adoption).  If you are struggling with any aspect of parenting, adoption, Panel, Matching, Introductions, food fussiness, sleep or potty training, there is someone who will help on twitter.

Open an account – with some vague name like “adopter73.” No-one will ever know who you are (and your social worker can relax). Then load twitter onto your phone, follow a few people (I’m @emmalgsutton, check out who I follow and follow the ones whose posts you like) and join in.

Just recently a brand new adopter, on day 2 of her forever family asked if it was normal for her children to “feels like little strangers”.

The Twitterati replied that it was normal for them to feel like strangers and that love takes time. Maybe that helped her sleep at night, maybe it just took a worry away, maybe she could then step back and think “that is totally normal, we are going to be fine”.

  • If you want to know what to feed a fussy child – ask twitter
  • If you are having a bad day – tell twitter, we’ll sympathise and send hugs
  • If you want to know if continued contact with foster carers can work – ask twitter
  • If you feel like something is out of kilter  – tell twitter and we’ll share our experiences

Sound off, ask for support when you are feeling low, share your concerns, your worries, your hopes, your dreams and build a community of people who know what you are going through.

I only wish I had found them four years ago when I started my forever family, they would have made my life so much easier.

With Twitter, you don’t have to do this on your own.

3. LOVE IS NOT LIKE MAKING A CUPPA

Loving your child isn’t as quick as making a cup of tea. Your family appears “ready-made” when the children come home for good, yet love takes longer to blossom.

As giddy as I was about dating my husband (way back then), it took months for us to truly fall in love, and it will take time for you to love your child/ren. There’s no timetable. There’s no rush.

My daughter loved my husband and rejected me for a while. Despite my confident assertion at Panel that we would ‘deal with any one-parent attachment issues as they arose’, it still had me crying in the morning when she shouted at me to get out of her bedroom.

  • You might love one of your children first. That’s okay. The love will come.
  • Your partner might fall in love before or after you do.  Still okay.
  • Your children might love one parent before the other.  That’s normal too.
  • With two parents and two children, one day you will all love each other to bits, but it won’t happen on the same day nor overnight.

Let love grow.

4.  WHAT YOU SEE IS NOT WHAT YOU GET

During Introductions, the children played contentedly on their own. They were content, happy and only approached their foster carers Ken and Mary when they needed help or food.  They pottered around the house and we shadowed their move from one area to another. They read, played in the sandpit, chatted to us, not all that bothered whether or not we joined in. They were independent, confident, outgoing.

Yet children we’d seen in their video and at the foster carers’ house were not the children who moved into our house.

They became dependent, cautious and stuck to us like chewing gum to hair. They whined and Nibbles went ballistic when we said No, spinning around on the floor like a Catherine-Wheel whilst Andy and I stared at each other in awe and shock.

The move changed our children.  And we hadn’t expected it.  I naively presumed that we could transfer the children from the video to our home.  But they needed more reassurance, more attention, more of us than they had ever needed during Introductions and that took some getting used to.

It took months before Nibbles and Bubbles were like the children we saw in their video.

5. ONE THING AT A TIME

It is all to easy to try to create a perfect family from the moment they move in. Don’t.

I tried to be the best possible parent I could be – with homemade cakes, delicious and nutritious meals made from fresh ingredients, lots of playing together with stickers and playdough and trips to the library and park, with little TV, no shortcuts, no giving in, clear boundaries, walking places without using the pram, whilst constantly battling the influx of toys into every crevice of my house (and even once in my bra).  All from Day One. I made myself miserable.

Choose happy over everything: laughter over tidiness, bouncing on their bed over fears of them falling off, messy fun over tidy boredom, reading over ironing, cuddles over clean clothes.

  • So what if you feed them spaghetti hoops for every teatime for a week or a month?  In ten year’s time will that have caused any long-term damage?
  • So what if you let them watch TV for an hour every morning so you can shower without an audience?  Yes I know you don’t want to set a precedent (I can’t tell you how many times I worried about that), but is it really setting them up for a life of crime?
  • So what if they don’t have a bath for a week because you don’t have the right bubble bath?They might pong a bit, but baby wipes work wonders and do you really want to fight that battle just before bedtime?

Don’t let reporters in the Daily Mail stoke your guilt about feeding them fish fingers and drinking wine of an evening. Do what needs to be done and leave the rest until you have got this bit sussed.

Build your family one solid foundation at a time, and start with love and laughter.

Go for happy.  And that includes YOU.

YOU MATTER

It’s easy to focus on the children when they turn up in your family.  How can you not, when you’ve waited this long to become a mum or a dad?  Yet when we forget about ourselves, when we let our own needs slide, then we are doing our family a disservice.

Sleep, food, laughter and love. Those things matter far more than how much you spend on a pram, or how tidy your house is, or if your ironing gets done.

Make your life simple.  Make it easy to be happy.  Make your kids and yourself smile, as often as you can.

What do you wish you’d known before you adopted?  Comment below and they might make it into “what I wish I’d known… part two”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dear Children On Our Fourth Birthday

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Dear Nibbles and Bubbles,

How can I forget the day we finally laid you down to sleep, in cots built months ago that had lain achingly empty?  You’d bounced in them but tonight you would sleep in them for the first time.

A Forever Family  At Last

You watched TV in your PJs then we carried you upstairs. Daddy gave Nibbles his bottle, we kissed your foreheads, turned out the light, slipped out your door and stood in the hall, smiling and pulling silent faces as we waited…

You slept.

Daddy and I grinned at each other and tiptoed downstairs, desperate not to wake you.

We Had Made It

After all the disappointments and struggles, finally we were a family. We could barely believe that we’d made it, that we were now parents, that you were our children.  It didn’t seem real.

How tiny, how precious you were, marvellous in every detail.  Yet we were a little frightened by what we had done.  We had no idea how to be parents. There’d be time to work it out.

Except there wasn’t because two hours later Nibbles woke, cried, screamed and we tried everything: soothing, stroking, cooing, milk, rocking, jigging, hugging, more milk until Nibbles, you found a spot, half-way down the stairs in Daddy’s arms and finally gave into how very tired you were.

A New World

Those first few months, learning how to be your mummy, were the hardest months of my life. I had to learn everything, from how to read to you, play with you, praise you, hold you without dropping you, feed you, cook the right foods, prepare your bottles, bathe you, change your nappies, recognise that John Wayne walk before your nappy burst and get you dressed as your wriggled and writhed. I had to learn to cope with too little sleep and keep an ever watchful eye on you in case you fell, tripped, slipped, choked or ran into the road.

I kept waking up bleary eyed, putting one faltering step in front of the other as a Goldilocks mum: sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold and sometimes, miraculously, just right.

But as exhausting as it was adopting you is the best thing I’ve ever done.

It Goes So Fast

There’s been so much change in these four years:  you started mostly helpless and dependent on us, toddling, muttering words that were difficult to understand (chibley? what’s a chibley?), needing help with everything. I ached from lifting you so much, until my lifting-and-carry-little-angels muscles developed (not the technical term).

Now look at you.  Two amazingly independent, loving children with strong wills and personalities that shine. You love school and reading, you populate imaginary landscapes with dragons, superheroes and princesses in stories you build as you play.  You do your bit around the house, getting breakfast ready and helping sort out and fold the laundry, always keen to mend things (even Daddy’s motorbike) by bashing it with a hammer.

Moments To Make Me Glow

The last four years have been packed with firsts, for all of us.  From that first unsteady walk up the road, where you sat down and I nearly tripped over you and I hadn’t a clue what to do, until you could walk to nursery (with stops), then a few miles, and last year when you climbed up a mountain in the Lake District, aged just five and four.

Do you remember how you learned to twist your socks on so they sat just right?  Trying again and again for weeks, as I patiently helped and advised you (‘stop splaying your toes’), occasionally helping (aka doing it for you) when you found it too frustrating or time/ my patience ran out.

Until one day, without fanfare or ceremony, there was no struggle, no tears, no huffed “CAN’T”s and we forgot how hard it is to wrestle a sock on and moved onto the next skill to master.

When you get it right, when the socks slides on, when you reach the end of a long walk, when your letters are neat and perfect, when you read a whole sentence without stumbling, the look on your face makes me melt.  I am so proud of you both, for all that you have achieved already in your short lives (#glowmo).

Firsts and Lasts

Remember Bubbles, last summer when Daddy and I were busy disagreeing how best to help you learn to ride your bike and you simply powered off and did it all by yourself, silencing our debate? I cheered, high-fived, hugged you, shed a tear and then filmed it again.  I couldn’t have been prouder if you’d just won the Tour de France.

This week Nibbles, you proudly raced in to declare that you were ‘dry again!’ and I delighted in the your reaction and praised you for being so grown up, and we threw your last nappy away to great fanfare with party poppers.  And how now you’re getting dressed every morning, fending off my offers of help with an insistent “I can do it by my own“.

So Much More..

Our lives are sprinkled with more, more shouting sometimes, but lots, lots more laughter. There are giggles, tickles and silliness (and yes, sometimes that silliness drives us bonkers) with your homemade jokes and pranks.

Every day you say things that delight us and make us laugh, like at the wildlife park this weekend, when Nibbles asked:

  • “Can we see the cannibals, mummy?”
  • “Do you mean the camels?”
  • “Yes, the caramels, let’s go”

And who can remember our first trip to the zoo when Nibbles asked if he could see ogres?  How can I not swoon slightly at these surreal and imaginative conversations we have, that I note down and laugh at for months or years to come?

Our BC and AC Life

When you came into our lives, when you completed our family, things changed more than I might ever have imagined.  It was not ‘just us, with two kids’.  Because in adding two children, ‘us’ changed forever.

Yesterday I swam.  Grown-up swimming.  Up and down, up and down.  Quiet, peaceful.  I could hear my breath, the water, my thoughts.

But it wasn’t much fun.

Not like when we go to the pool: when it’s a chaotic, noisy, crowded adventure. When we giggle and jump waves and splash, and queue for our turn down the slide, then scoot down at breakneck speed until we are breathless with delight and need another pee.  For all the noise and chaos, I prefer life as a mad, giggling, frustrating adventure that reminds me what its like to feel truly and breathlessly alive.

I Love Being Your Mummy

Being your mummy is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.  Utterly unpredictable. Iced with an unconditional love for you both that takes bring frequent tears to my eyes.

Being your mummy is a rollercoaster that whips my hair, flushes my cheeks and leaves me struggling to keep up, but I wouldn’t give it up for all the Prosecco in Italy.

Being your mummy has been so much more than I ever expected.

Nibbles and Bubbles, here’s to all the adventures ahead. Here’s to the tears of pride that will fall, to the smiles we will share, the jokes that make us laugh and groan, to the hugs and kisses, the scraped knees and the broken hearts. Here’s to helping you grow and letting you go, to the firsts and lasts yet to come. Here’s to more unforgettable memories. Here’s to more laughter, more love, more joy.

Thank you for being my amazing, adorable, incredible children.

I love you, so much.

Your Mummy

(the woman previously known as Emma)

pass the tissues.

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Shrunk In A Hot Wash

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I am imprisoned.  Trapped in a tiny triangle of land, no more than a mile on the longest side.  The corners are my house, school/ nursery and the supermarket.

My Life Has Shrunk

My days involve walking from home to school/ nursery, and back again.  Twice a week, I go beyond that short line with a trip to the supermarket for more cucumber and washing powder, then it’s back to school again.  Five days a week, three times a day, I walk along the same route, and it’s a miracle there isn’t a dip in the pavement where I’ve worn it thin.

Whilst the journey rarely varies, every day it’s different, due to the inventive minds of my children. Yesterday we all rode invisible unicorns to school until mine became lame and couldn’t gallop any more (I was too tired to keep up the pace).

I Have Shrunk

But this house-school-supermarket-arrest preys on my mind – I fear I’ll be infected with village mentality, because this patch of land is an island of little significance in the ‘grand scheme of things’ whose centre (in the UK) is the chaotic metropolis of London.

This tract of land is both nothing (a teeny dot on a map) and everything (my entire universe) and my mind struggles with that paradox.

Every so often I strap the kids into the car and make it all the way across town, celebrating that I have escaped the well-worn rut that is my life. Over the invisible fence by – another mile.  Woo hoo!  I feel like a different woman to the chemical engineer who delivered complex training to big name companies in places like Oslo, Lisbon, Kalamazoo and Dublin.

A New Richness

It’s over a decade since Andy and I moved into this street.  Ten years of nodding or saying hello and that was the sum of our acquaintance with the people in this street.

Yet this repetition creates a richness, a new depth to my experience.  My neighbourhood has come alive again.  I notice the subtle changes from month to month: where the snowdrops grow, the slipperiest corner to avoid if the ground is icy, where the cat with no tail lives and which gates hide barking dogs.

Memories Ingrained in the Pavement

“That’s a fire station” declared Nibbles confidently one morning.  As I look to where he’s pointing, I admit that the red double garage looks a bit like a fire station.  Now I can’t walk past without smiling at the memory.  Over there’s a hole where  Nibbles and Bubbles stuffed all the twigs they could find until it was fit to bursting and I had to convince them to find another.  Here’s the spot they lay down protesting they couldn’t walk another step.

But it’s more than just familiarity and memories.  There are new faces, new names, new connections.  Its the people who bring it this triangle to life.

People Make a Neighbourhood

There’s grandma Dee in her downstairs flat.  We wave to Dee, and talk to her if the window is open, or mime shivering when the weather is cold.  Sometimes we see her at the bus stop on her way to the shops, or sneak a peek at the new wallpaper in her lounge once she has her flat redecorated.  Once she invited me in and we talked about our families.

There’s a couple who sit on their front step with steaming cups of tea and cigarettes.  One day, when we saw them both on the way to nursery and on the way back, Nibbles stated with wide-eyed astonishment “they’re still there!” I laughed and suggested that they had maybe gone inside in the interim.

Karl tells us about his model airplanes, sharing tales of broken wings or tail pieces and things I know nothing about, with his friendly wagging dog who is stocky and almost never jumps up. When the kids aren’t with me, we talk about his legs and the son he hasn’t heard from in over a decade.

Lydia once shouted at Nibbles for treading on the pebbles on her drive (and I frowned with a harrumph and a ‘what’s her problem?’).  But since her initial outburst, she softened.  Now she waves, remarks how well behaved the children are, as she tends the flowers in her pots and dusts her china.

New Roots

For years I just lived here.  My house is here.  That was about it.  I introduced myself to my neighbours when I moved in, or they did, then promptly forgot their names.

But the children kept asking “what he called?” about the man next door, until I gave in and asked (on their behalf). He’s Charlie, but the children call him “Mr Charlie” which gives a sense of grandeur and respect I really like. Until they shout and scream “Mr Charlie” incessantly through the window at him as he’s leaving his house, which I like a lot less.

And in peopling the walk, I have found new roots, a new sense of belonging, a new sense of camaraderie with the streets in which I live and walk.

Get To Know Your Neighbours

Try it.  Walk to the shop every day to get a paper or a pint of milk, and you’ll discover a whole new world, right on your doorstep.  Full of stories, people, smiles, friendships and community.  Stop once in a while and say more than just “hello” and you can unearth stories that will stay with you for a lifetime.

I am so glad I have my children, because through them, I have found a new me.  A connected me.  A me with roots.  Something I haven’t felt since I was a child myself, falling into the pond at Mr Moon’s house and playing with the Blocks next door.

In shrinking the fibres of my life in a hot wash, I have found a new warmth, a new hygge that was here all along.  A felted mesh of memories, imbued with cosy familiarity, inhabited by people I know.  Who knew that shrinking could be so enriching?

 

 

 

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Letter From Their Foster Carers

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(in response to http://nibblesandbubbles.co.uk/letter-to-their-foster-carers)

Dear Emma and Andy

Your letter described the events so well, just as we felt and experienced them, it took us back to those moments, as we relived the memories and now we’re in floods of tears.

Parting with the children was the hardest thing we have ever had to do as a couple and we will always love them, yet knowing that they had the best parents they could have had, eased our pain.  Thank you for promising we would see them again, even if none of us were sure we ever would.  We couldn’t be happier that Nibbles and Bubbles love and are loved by their mummy and daddy.  As you have found for yourselves, they are so easy to love, they’re simply adorable.

Finding you two was the best thing that happened to these children; you are amazing parents. We are more than happy; we are privileged and honoured to have been a part of their lives and we wouldn’t have changed a thing.

We sincerely thank you from the bottom of our hearts for allowing us to be in their lives, you will always be our special family.

Thank you Emma, for your honesty and for writing this story so beautifully.

With much love

Ken and Mary

xxxx

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Letter To Their Foster Carers

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Dear Ken and Mary (not your real names).

You gave our children a home, when they needed it most.  You kept them together, letting them stay with each other and stay connected to the only family they had left.  You helped her to recognise that she had a brother until they became inseparable (as they still are).  Thank you.

You held her, when she arched her back and threw her head back and didn’t let her ironing board of a body dampen your love for her or desire to cuddle her.  You loved her, unreservedly, however difficult her behaviour, however little she knew how to be loved, until she softened and yielded to love. Thank you.

You gave them structure and routine, love and fun, stories and bathtime, even when you’d only just left hospital and your shoulder was mending.  You parented them with love and joy and kisses and hugs until they became touchy-feely-giggly-happy children. Thank you.

You took photos from the day they arrived to the day they left, charting their history, their lifestory, creating amazing books that meant we almost felt that we were there, stories we share with them and remind them of their past before us. Thank you.

You took those photos.  The photos that tugged at my heart, as the Universe yelled “these” in my soul, the photos that had me falling in love with these little lives with their mischievous smiles and looks of contentment.  I knew that these were my children the moment I saw those photos. Thank you.

You shot that video.  Where he potters around, surprisingly trouser-less, playing with bracelets that she in her tutu kept stealing back for her cart, then they’re bouncing on the sofa until she says ‘that’s my bobble’ in her squeaky voice and my heart melted and I knew I was hooked for life. Thank you.

You came to our house, with a tower of photos, and the tears in your eyes Ken, told me how much you loved and would miss these precious lives.  And if I could have done anything to save you from your tears, I would.  Thank you.

You created a magical moment on the first day we met them, where those four incredible words “flowers for my mummy” shocked, surprised and delighted me, and tears flowed because for years I never thought I would hear those words said to me.  You helped me bond with them, get to know them, by leaving the room and making space in your home for us to nudge you out and take over. Thank you.

Every day, despite your grief at losing them, you got them excited, peering through the window, waiting for our car to arrive – I can still see their cute little faces and feel my heart leap at that look. Thank you.

You helped me believe that I could do it, Mary, when you saw the doubt in my eyes, as you described their routines and I saw how effortlessly you parented them and knew I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Hearing you say that I’d be an amazing mummy, when I felt like a fraud, was just the cheer-leading and encouragement I needed to save myself falling into a pit of doubt. Thank you.

You stepped in when needed, when the children struggled to cope with the confusion and different faces and feelings and more, calming them, even when you were struggling with the separation on the horizon. Thank you.

You were brave and courageous throughout this process, as you stepped aside and let go of our children until they became part of our family.  Thank you.

You are the heroes of this story, their story, our story as a family.

Words are not enough

I cried as I wrote and read this back, because I mean every word from the depth of my heart.

With huge love, respect and more.

Emma

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Is It Because They’re Adopted?

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I only popped out for milk….

Andy had arrived home to the usual fanfare of whoops from my kids, and in the post-daddy-comes-home invisibility of  ‘Mummy?  Who she?‘ I’d chosen to bank their inattention and pop to the shop for milk.

An Unexpected Reaction

The minute she’d heard me go, my 3YO little girl started crying, her hands dragging forlornly down the window pane, begging me silently to come back, whilst I obliviously skipped to the car and shop, unaware of the reaction I’d unwittingly created.  It was only when I returned a few minutes later with milk and wine (it just lept into my basket) that I noticed her distraught features, all blotchy and puckered.  I dashed in to comfort her.

Yet my ‘I’m home now, sweetie’ repetition, my kissing away her tears and the evidence before her eyes were krill to the whale of her fear.  I hugged her and consoled her and told her that ‘I will always come back’ but my popping to the shops had triggered a secret fear inside her that no amount of logic would redress.  Where did it come from?

The Scapegoat

Later that evening, as Andy and I talk about her tears, we ponder what might’ve caused it. And we start a round-robin of blame that heavily features the birth parents, her foster family and us, as reserves.  And we hit straight into the conundrum of what causes a child to behave a certain way.

  • Is it because she is adopted?
  • Is it because of something that happened (that we do or don’t know about) in her backstory?
  • Is it because she’s a toddler?
  • Is it because she’s tired? Or we’re tired?  Or because she missed Peppa Pig earlier?
  • Is it because the sun rose in the east, or because there’s a rainbow in the sky, or she’s Sagittarius with Pisces ascending, or because of Brexit/ Trump/ Bake Off moving to Channel 4?

Too Convenient By Far

I have found myself sorely (and arrogantly) tempted to presume that everything magical and amazing my children do is because of something I have done as their adoptive mum (with a nod to Andy’s involvement).  And then I surreptitiously blame all their challenging behaviour (i.e. anything that attracts the glares of nosy strangers in public) on the black hole of ‘their past,’ whilst conveniently forgetting the not-inconsiderable impact of their fabulous foster family (who did all the hard work, if the truth be told).

  • She bit her brother?  No idea where she gets that from.  Not my fault your honour.
  • She learnt how to put her sock on the right way around?  All me.
  • She drew lipstick onto her face with a permanent marker?  Where’s she seen that?  I never even wear lippy.
  • She gave me a hug, a cuddly toy and a book when I was shivering with fever?  Of course she learnt that Florence Nightingale routine from me (those who know me well are choking on that line).

It’s Not Because They’re Adopted

After a few rather dodgy scapegoating sessions, my husband and I choose to ban the phrase ‘because they’re adopted’ from our vocabulary (and I humbly recognise that this might not be true for you).

We did it to take full responsibility, to accept that we have the most direct impact on their behaviour now, to make up step up to the plate and take it all as a reflection of our abilities as parents.  Yes there may be some ripple effects from their lives before us, but it’s up to us now to give them new skills, new reactions, new behaviours for their new family.

  • If he bites her, it’s because I haven’t taught him not to.
  • If she draws on her face in permanent marker, it’s because I left a marker in reach and ignored her when she begged me to play makeup, but let me take a photo of that pen moustache for Twitter before I suggest she tries scrubbing it off.
  • If she cries when I pop out for milk, it’s because I slipped away thinking it would go unnoticed, instead of talking her through where I was going and when I would be back and perhaps even giving her something of mine to look after for me.

They are my children, my responsibility, and everything they do and say is a reflection of my influence on them.  And maybe that is easy for me to say, because I have never had to deal with behaviour that gets my kids excluded from nursery or school, or suffered child-on-parent violence or things that aren’t easy to live or cope with.

But for me, for our family, that’s the way it has to be.

Have you ever been tempted to use the phrase “because they are adopted”?  Share your stories below…

 

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Birth Mum, Adoptive Mum, Real Mum, Confused Mum!

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Andy rounds on me with a sour face that says I’ve done something wrong.

‘What have you been telling Bubbles?’

Ummm.  My brain scans through the last 48 hours and tries to pin down exactly which of my major or minor mummy misdemeanours he might be referring to.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask innocently, knowing that his accusation is enough to send a flush of guilt to my cheeks.

‘Bubbles seems to think that you are not her real mum’ he continues and the surprise on my face is genuine.

‘Where’d she get that from?’  I send my brain on a rescue mission, searching for memories where those two words appear together.

Search string “real mum”… Results – zero

I come up blank.  ‘I don’t think I’ve mentioned it’ I say, with the closest approximation I can make to certainty.  My PhD-brain has run off with the milkman and I’ve lost  about 75 IQ points (probably down the back of the sofa) and there are parts of the last few days that are shrouded in mystery.  Did I say it?  It’s a good job I am not in court as any half-decent court-appointed defence lawyer would blow my statement into pieces.

Her Other Mum

We’ve always stuck to simple terms.  Your birth mum and dad, and mummy and daddy (aka us). We started off trying to use birth mother and birth father, but the unwieldiness of those phrases soon had them morphing into birth mum and dad.

Why is she now calling her birth mum her real mum? I wonder where she heard it?   Andy is uncharacteristically livid.  I wonder why?

Who’s Your Real Mum?

I hear him explaining sternly but patiently to Bubbles:

‘Your real mum is the mummy who looks after you, who takes you to school, who makes you breakfast and combs your hair.  Your real mum is the mummy who cooks your meals and reads you story and washes your clothes.’

Oh,  I see.

I feel a warm cuddly sensation – he is protecting me.  Protecting my right to be Bubbles’ real mum.  How sweet.

Her Real Mum Is Me

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