Last year we managed a very good Christmas despite the fact that Robbie had been with us for only eight months. So even though the lead up to it wasn't looking great this year, I had high hopes for this Christmas too.
We had a good Christmas eve busily preparing for Santa's arrival: we made biscuits for him and left them on a plate with a glass of milk, spread special reindeer food in the garden and left a carrot for Rudolph. Then, at dinner time, the Ghost of Christmas past came to visit us again. Robbie started crying, saying he was missing his foster carer (but refusing to speak to her on the phone when we suggested it). We did the best we could and he seemed to cheer up, but when I put him to bed for the final time (he got up endless times with a million excuses to check under the tree) he told me he wasn't looking forward to the following day. It was way too late in the evening to engage in conversation, so I told him I was very much looking forward to Christmas day and that I was sure that deep down he was too, regardless of what he said. It made me sad to hear him say that, though: I knew he wouldn't allow himself to enjoy Christmas the following day.
Christmas morning and afternoon were great: Robbie slept until 8 (yay!) and loved all his presents, which we opened in a structured way like last year. This worked really well again: open a present, do something (assemble a toy, breakfast, bath, getting dressed...), open another, do something else. This kept up going for a while and meant that every present was exciting and not just one more in a pile. Glen cooked an amazing Christmas lunch and afterwards we sat to watch the Queen, Top of the Pops and a film together.
In the evening, we went over to see some friends. We're very aware of how different our household is to his foster carers' at Christmas (they always had lots of people and other children around) and thought it would be nice for Robbie to have other kids to play with. That went well until we started to make our way home. Robbie was cross that we'd chosen to walk (our friends live 10 minutes away from our house) and that we'd had to leave (even though it had got late) and that was enough to set him off: by the time we got home he said to Glen that he didn't want me anywhere near him, and sure enough he refused to give me a goodnight kiss. Tough and rational as I try to be, I was heartbroken that he couldn't bring himself to even kiss me on Christmas day.
By boxing day the misery had set in. Nothing we said or did was good enough. He told us he wished we hadn't adopted him. Glen snapped and told him a few home truths about how few children are adopted after they turn five years old. We both told him that, sad as circumstances are, and sorry as we are that it ever happened to him, he simply cannot spend the rest of his life feeling sorry for himself. We reminded him that he is wanted and he is loved. Later, once he was calm, I asked him if he'd meant it when he said he wished we hadn't adopted him. "Sort of", he replied. "I wish I could live with my mum and dad". You can't argue with that. I was missing my own parents too. Why shouldn't he? It was just another reminder that, at the end of the day, we are "third best". If Robbie were to be granted a Christmas wish, he'd wish to live with his birth parents first and his foster carers second. He knows he can't live with either set anymore, so he makes the best of what he's got. I think we know this will be the case for a few years yet, if not forever. It just would have been nice not to be reminded of it.
Thankfully, Robbie snapped out of his mood in the afternoon and we had a lovely time building Lego and watching TV after that. Since then things have been much better on that front, although Glen and I have both been unwell (me: stomach bug - I'll spare you the details, Glen: tonsillitis). We went to the fracture clinic yesterday and it looks like we'll be allowed to fly to Spain after new year to spend epiphany there, so we are all looking forward to that.
I really wish Christmas had turned out better, but it's not all been bad: we've so enjoyed playing together, reading Mr Men Christmas books (Robbie loves them still), watching Christmas films onTV and the cinema (Arthur Christmas - brilliant!), and the excitement of Christmas eve and Christmas morning. It makes me sad to think that this may well be the last Christmas that he believes in Santa. We've had such a short time to enjoy such special moments. I wish we had memories of him opening his presents when he was three or four. Still, we may not have been part of Robbie's past, but at the end of the day we have the present and the future. And somewhere out there, his birth parents must have been wishing things had been different and they could spend Christmas with their children too.
Saturday, 31 December 2011
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Friday, 23 December 2011
Fear of attachment
Three weeks ago I was feeling really down about Robbie's lack of attachment to me. He was rejecting me at every available opportunity and making a point of it. Since then, things have got a bit better and Robbie is a lot calmer, although at the moment he's a little all over the place with the excitement of Christmas and the lack of structure that school holidays bring.
Someone asked me recently if the fact that I looked after Robbie when he broke his arm had earned me a whole load of "attachment bonus points": after all, I was there for him, took him to hospital and made sure he was safe. I may have earned a few, but not many. Robbie called out for Glen, and wanted his daddy there. When he came round from the anaesthetic after his operation, it was Glen he reached his arms out for. When we were trying to decide who would sleep next to his bed at the ward he wanted Glen, and when we swapped the following night Robbie made his disappointment quite clear.
Whenever we're out shopping, or in any public place, Robbie will avoid being left on his own with me, and he always chooses to go with Glen if he's given a choice of activities. This is not malicious. There aren't any evil stares or victorious looks as he does any of this. He simply feels safer in Glen's company. I think if it was malicious I'd cope with it a lot better, just like I can when he's angry, because I can normally see the hurt behind the anger. But the fact that it's subconscious defeats me. Clearly, he finds it too scary to get close to me. Like last Sunday, when he was so sad after bringing out the Christmas decorations and couldn't bear any attempts at closeness from me. Sometimes, these subconscious rejection moments feel like drops on my forehead. Like Robbie's waterboarding me with rejection. On its own, each drop amounts to nothing, but one after another they become unbearable.
In the past I used to blame myself for the things that went wrong. "I should have done this differently", "I mustn't do that", "am I a good parent?". Now that we're doing it better, attuning, being curious and empathic, picking fights and only giving consequences when absolutely necessary (well, most of the time anyway), the fact that he still can't attach to me feels worse, because I can't see any room for improvement. If I'm doing it right and it's still not good enough, what happens next? What else can I do?
I spoke to Alice, our attachment-focused counsellor, about this and she thinks that Robbie's beginning to feel deep feelings for me and those feelings are too scary. She thinks that Robbie only had such strong feelings once before: for his birth mother. And because the last person he felt that way about hurt him, neglected him and disappeared from his life, he's frightened I'll do the same. She says we need to continue to have as many positive interactions as we can and keep in mind that it's still relatively early days. She also told me that the one thing that Robbie knows, and is proof to him that we won't let him go, is that he's still with us. The longer he's with us, the more he'll believe that he's here to stay. In the meantime I'll have to continue to be strong and try not to let the rejection get to me. Also, there are glimpses of hope: last Tuesday, without thinking, Robbie held my hand as we were walking. It lasted all of 15 seconds before he caught himself doing it and quickly let go of my hand, but for 15 seconds he allowed himself to bring that barrier down. Every attachment nugget counts, and I cherish them and do my best to hold on to their memories when then next drop of rejection drips onto me.
Someone asked me recently if the fact that I looked after Robbie when he broke his arm had earned me a whole load of "attachment bonus points": after all, I was there for him, took him to hospital and made sure he was safe. I may have earned a few, but not many. Robbie called out for Glen, and wanted his daddy there. When he came round from the anaesthetic after his operation, it was Glen he reached his arms out for. When we were trying to decide who would sleep next to his bed at the ward he wanted Glen, and when we swapped the following night Robbie made his disappointment quite clear.
Whenever we're out shopping, or in any public place, Robbie will avoid being left on his own with me, and he always chooses to go with Glen if he's given a choice of activities. This is not malicious. There aren't any evil stares or victorious looks as he does any of this. He simply feels safer in Glen's company. I think if it was malicious I'd cope with it a lot better, just like I can when he's angry, because I can normally see the hurt behind the anger. But the fact that it's subconscious defeats me. Clearly, he finds it too scary to get close to me. Like last Sunday, when he was so sad after bringing out the Christmas decorations and couldn't bear any attempts at closeness from me. Sometimes, these subconscious rejection moments feel like drops on my forehead. Like Robbie's waterboarding me with rejection. On its own, each drop amounts to nothing, but one after another they become unbearable.
In the past I used to blame myself for the things that went wrong. "I should have done this differently", "I mustn't do that", "am I a good parent?". Now that we're doing it better, attuning, being curious and empathic, picking fights and only giving consequences when absolutely necessary (well, most of the time anyway), the fact that he still can't attach to me feels worse, because I can't see any room for improvement. If I'm doing it right and it's still not good enough, what happens next? What else can I do?
I spoke to Alice, our attachment-focused counsellor, about this and she thinks that Robbie's beginning to feel deep feelings for me and those feelings are too scary. She thinks that Robbie only had such strong feelings once before: for his birth mother. And because the last person he felt that way about hurt him, neglected him and disappeared from his life, he's frightened I'll do the same. She says we need to continue to have as many positive interactions as we can and keep in mind that it's still relatively early days. She also told me that the one thing that Robbie knows, and is proof to him that we won't let him go, is that he's still with us. The longer he's with us, the more he'll believe that he's here to stay. In the meantime I'll have to continue to be strong and try not to let the rejection get to me. Also, there are glimpses of hope: last Tuesday, without thinking, Robbie held my hand as we were walking. It lasted all of 15 seconds before he caught himself doing it and quickly let go of my hand, but for 15 seconds he allowed himself to bring that barrier down. Every attachment nugget counts, and I cherish them and do my best to hold on to their memories when then next drop of rejection drips onto me.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Who’s the daddy?
We went to the fracture clinic today to have Robbie’s arm X-rayed and checked out as the doctors ordered. All is well, but we’ll need to go again next week.
Every time we see a doctor or nurse we get the same question: “who’s dad?” We reply that both of us are. Then we wait a couple of seconds for the penny to drop and the conversation moves on. No big deal. No-one bats an eyelid. When we were considering adoption, one of our biggest worries was how other people would react to two men bringing up a child. We’ve yet (and I hope it never happens) to encounter any hostile reactions. At least to our faces, or in front of Robbie, which is what matters to us.
Monday, 19 December 2011
The ghost of Christmas past
Robbie had a very bad day yesterday. He and Glen had a huge argument that started over nothing and blew up into something massive. Glen piled on the consequences and Robbie felt under attack, so he lost it. Glen got kicked in the groin twice and when I tried to intervene in a calm and empathic manner I got kicked in the groin too. It took both Glen and Robbie a good couple of hours to calm down and there were a few smaller flare-ups, but we managed a good-ish evening and Robbie went to bed relatively happy.
This morning Robbie was fine. We cuddled up and played in bed for an hour and after breakfast we all did jobs around the house. Despite his broken arm (which doesn't seem to be bothering him at all now) Robbie was in a really helpful mood too. He even wrote (well, typed - he has broken his left arm and is left-handed) his birthday present thank you cards without moaning about it!
Because Robbie doesn't like the Christmas decorations to go up until after his birthday, and also because of last week's accident, we still hadn't decorated the house for Christmas. So this afternoon we got all the boxes out. At first it was like a gay adoption Christmas postcard: Glen was cooking a nice dinner while Robbie and I put the nativity together. Michael Bublé sang carols in the background. We opened the box of decorations and all of us started putting them on the tree. Then Robbie pulled out a few decorations that he brought last year from his foster home. They went in his room, where he wanted them. When he found his cuddly Christmas polar bear, he hugged it like it was a long-lost friend. Nothing was said, but I could tell a door had been opened and the ghost of Christmas past had entered the room.
As we finished dinner, Glen excitedly mentioned this would be our second Christmas together. At first Robbie seemed pleased about this, but then he started to look really sad. I asked him if he was thinking about previous christmases. He nodded. We told him Christmas is a funny time, both happy and sad, when we are with people we love but also miss the ones we cannot be with any longer. Robbie started to cry. We tried to comfort him, but he couldn't take it and chose to get off the dinner table and sit on a nearby chair. As he pretended to be unable to hear us (but took in every word) Glen and I empathised with how hard it must be. We also said it was ok to be sad, and how we miss our parents at Christmas. Eventually Robbie allowed Glen to pick him up and hug him. When I approached, however, he pushed me away.
For the rest of the evening, Robbie continued to seek sympathy and cuddles from Glen but found it too hard to be anywhere near me. He didn't even allow me to kiss him goodnight. For once, I actually managed not to take it personally. I have no idea why he rejects me in this way and wish he wouldn't, but the only emotion I felt as it happened was sadness. I felt sad for this little boy who wishes that he could still be living with his foster carers (it's them he misses, not his birth parents) but can't. I think he also feels bad that he feels this way and wishes he wouldn't, like it's some sort of betrayal towards us. We always make a point of telling him that it's ok, and that just because you miss someone doesn't mean you don't love the people you're with. He was with his foster carers for almost three years. He's been with us for 610 days. I'll keep hanging on to the hope that when he's been with us for as long as he was with them, he may feel about us the way he feels for them.
Sad as this evening has been, I hope he's got that feeling out of his system and he can allow himself to enjoy Christmas. I would hate for him to feel this way on Christmas day.
This morning Robbie was fine. We cuddled up and played in bed for an hour and after breakfast we all did jobs around the house. Despite his broken arm (which doesn't seem to be bothering him at all now) Robbie was in a really helpful mood too. He even wrote (well, typed - he has broken his left arm and is left-handed) his birthday present thank you cards without moaning about it!
Because Robbie doesn't like the Christmas decorations to go up until after his birthday, and also because of last week's accident, we still hadn't decorated the house for Christmas. So this afternoon we got all the boxes out. At first it was like a gay adoption Christmas postcard: Glen was cooking a nice dinner while Robbie and I put the nativity together. Michael Bublé sang carols in the background. We opened the box of decorations and all of us started putting them on the tree. Then Robbie pulled out a few decorations that he brought last year from his foster home. They went in his room, where he wanted them. When he found his cuddly Christmas polar bear, he hugged it like it was a long-lost friend. Nothing was said, but I could tell a door had been opened and the ghost of Christmas past had entered the room.
As we finished dinner, Glen excitedly mentioned this would be our second Christmas together. At first Robbie seemed pleased about this, but then he started to look really sad. I asked him if he was thinking about previous christmases. He nodded. We told him Christmas is a funny time, both happy and sad, when we are with people we love but also miss the ones we cannot be with any longer. Robbie started to cry. We tried to comfort him, but he couldn't take it and chose to get off the dinner table and sit on a nearby chair. As he pretended to be unable to hear us (but took in every word) Glen and I empathised with how hard it must be. We also said it was ok to be sad, and how we miss our parents at Christmas. Eventually Robbie allowed Glen to pick him up and hug him. When I approached, however, he pushed me away.
For the rest of the evening, Robbie continued to seek sympathy and cuddles from Glen but found it too hard to be anywhere near me. He didn't even allow me to kiss him goodnight. For once, I actually managed not to take it personally. I have no idea why he rejects me in this way and wish he wouldn't, but the only emotion I felt as it happened was sadness. I felt sad for this little boy who wishes that he could still be living with his foster carers (it's them he misses, not his birth parents) but can't. I think he also feels bad that he feels this way and wishes he wouldn't, like it's some sort of betrayal towards us. We always make a point of telling him that it's ok, and that just because you miss someone doesn't mean you don't love the people you're with. He was with his foster carers for almost three years. He's been with us for 610 days. I'll keep hanging on to the hope that when he's been with us for as long as he was with them, he may feel about us the way he feels for them.
Sad as this evening has been, I hope he's got that feeling out of his system and he can allow himself to enjoy Christmas. I would hate for him to feel this way on Christmas day.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
48 hours in hospital
After all the birthday activities on Friday and Saturday, last Sunday we were unsure whether to go to the New Family Social Christmas get-together or not. We hadn't been for ages, though, so we decided to go after all. We met our friends Stuart and Jonathan and their son Connor on the train and we all travelled together. The kids joined all the other kids and went off to play in the park while Glen and I caught up with a few people we hadn't seen in a while and met new people too. It was very nice to also meet the children that some of the people we've offer chatted to (online or in person) have now been matched with.
Glen could only stay a couple of hours and after that he left to take a train up to Scotland, where he was due to be working from Monday. Robbie and I stayed behind. Almost as soon as Glen had gone, I had to give Robbie a consequence (his first eight-minute one since turning eight the day before!) for disappearing without telling me where he was and also not wearing his coat outside, as I'd asked him to. He accepted this, as he knew he'd disobeyed two clear instructions, and waited patiently until his eight minutes were over.
A while later, as I was chatting with a couple about their "new additions", I saw Robbie crying and clutching his arm. He was very distressed and couldn't see me even though I was right next to him. I scooped him up and tried to find out what had happened. He said his wrist hurt. I rolled up his sleeve and saw that his wrist was at an odd angle. Still holding on to him, I went to find Stuart, who is a nurse. He took one look at it and said that we needed to go to A&E.
Jonathan, Stuart and Connor joined us as we looked for a taxi. The driver took us to a nearby hospital in a matter of minutes and he wouldn't charge us when we got there (faith in human kind restored!). In the taxi, Robbie explained what had happened: he was going down a slide in the park when another boy started running up the slide. To avoid crashing into him, Robbie leaned to the side and fell over. He landed on his hand, and that's how it had got hurt.
Once in A&E, we didn't have to wait long to be seen. After a quick consultation with a nurse, Robbie was taken into X-ray and the results came back straight away: both his radius and ulna were broken. Not only that, but one of the bones was really out of place and his arm would need resetting, so we would need to stay overnight until they could put it right under anaesthetic. We said goodbye to Jonathan, Stuart and Connor and thanked them for staying with us. The nurse plastered his arm and found us a bed. I have to say the A&E staff were brilliant. They were very nice, kept me informed of what was happening, and got Robbie to the ward in less than two hours.
I rang Glen every now and then to keep him informed of our progress. Once he knew we'd be staying at the hospital, he got off his train and started making his way back to London. Robbie kept calling out for him and was very pleased when I told him he'd be joining us.
I kept Robbie distracted with games and films on my iPad (I'm starting the campaign to canonise Steve Jobs right now, some of the beds on the ward had TVs, but Robbie's didn't and the iPad was our salvation) until Glen arrived. He brought some food (we'd got to the ward after dinner time), a Star Wars magazine, and a teddy bear (which I'd suggested). Robbie also spent quite a bit of time playing with his bed controls. The bed went up and down like a yo-yo!
A doctor came to see us later in the evening and explained that, in the morning, Robbie would go down to theatre and they'd try to reset his arm. If it was possible to manipulate the bone back into place then they'd do that, but if they couldn't then they'd need to put a wire in or open his arm and do it manually.
Every single person we saw (nurses, doctors, the radiologist, the anaesthetist...) asked Robbie to tell them how he came to break his arm. I thought this was very good, as from the way he was telling the story it was clear that he was telling it as it happened. It struck me that if the break hadn't been an accident and someone had told Robbie what to say, it would have been obvious. I guess that, sadly, the staff are used to injuries to children that are not the result of an accident. This reminded me that, as a matter of fact, this was the first time that Robbie had been to hospital since the traumatic night when he was taken into care years ago. I kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn't remember that. He didn't. Another thing that struck me is how little we know about his birth family's medical history. We were asked on several occasions about allergies and reactions to anaesthesia in the family, and all we could answer was "not that we're aware of". We had to explain Robbie's family history a number of times to justify our answers. And yes, on several occasions we also had to explain that both of us were Robbie's dads.
Robbie was a very brave soldier throughout the whole experience. When in high spirits, he was very pleased that he wouldn't be able to do any writing at school. When the pain got bad, he was clingy, teary, and kept saying he wanted to go home. He didn't go to sleep until after 11 that night.
At 6 a.m. on Monday they came to give him a drink as he wouldn't be allowed anything else for a few hours. Then came the distressing moment when they put a cannula in his arm. The nurse didn't seem to be able to find the vein, and it took a good 15 minutes for it to be finally done. Robbie was scared and hurt, and the blood all over his arm didn't help one bit. Glen was still sleeping, so I distracted and comforted Robbie as best as I could. A couple of hours later, Robbie was taken to theatre. He had to walk some of the way and his main concern wasn't about the operation, but about whether people could see his bum (he'd reluctantly agreed to wear the hospital gown)! We were allowed to go in while he was anaesthetised, and then asked to wait outside.
An hour later we were told that Robbie would soon be in the recovery room. The doctors had managed to reset his arm without having to put a wire in after all, and they'd put a new plaster on, right up to his armpit. We waited until he came around. He looked so fragile, lying on the hospital bed. Half-conscious, he opened his eyes and reached out his arms for a hug from Glen. After that, Glen and I swapped places and I gave him a hug too.
Once he was fully conscious he was taken back to the ward. After a while he was able to drink and then have something to eat. Then we waited for a doctor to discharge him. The doctor came by in the afternoon and told us he'd like to keep Robbie in for another night to monitor the swelling in his arm. We had all been looking forward to going home, so this wasn't great news. He also said that because of the way the bone had broken, Robbie should go to the fracture clinic back home next Tuesday.
Here, I have to make a pause from the (already long) account of our stay in hospital to explain something I hadn't written about before: during the summer I took on extra work and booked us on a trip to New York for five days just before Christmas. It was my way of trying to provide a good ending to what had been quite a crappy year (flood, house, broken rib, difficult behaviour...). I kept this secret from Robbie until last month. Since I told him, he's been looking forward to it and singing songs with New York in the lyrics non-stop. We bought a kids' map and guide which he's been studying, and he's been telling everyone about it. We were looking forward to sightseeing, the lights, the ice rink in Rockefeller Center, shopping and had even got tickets to the Christmas Spectacular show at Radio City Music Hall.
You know what I'm going to write next, don't you? Indeed.
We asked the doctor whether the fracture clinic could be put back and also if Robbie would be allowed to fly. The answer to both questions was "no". His cast would have to be split to be allowed to fly and because of the way it's broken, the arm needs to be restricted from all movement. He reiterated that he needs to be seen early next week for more X-rays. So our holiday was cancelled. We were gutted. Robbie said it was his fault and Glen and I should go anyway. We replied that accidents happen and we weren't going anywhere without him. He was hurting, tired and frustrated. The latter two applied to us too.
Since we had to stay another night, Glen went out to get some underwear and change of clothing for all of us while Robbie and I watched another film on the iPad. Dinner and the rest of the evening were a bit sombre, all of us quite deflated by the news about our holiday.
On Tuesday morning we were told that a doctor should come and discharge Robbie around 9.30. As it happened, she didn't turn up until 4.30 p.m. Time went quite quickly, though, as there were lots of activities in the ward. First, someone came with paints and craft stuff and got the kids to make a big picture. Then they brought out an enormous screen and put a film on. After lunch, they wheeled out a Wii console and the three boys in the ward played Mario Kart for the next two hours.
Even though they'll never read this, I must say a huge thank you to the staff at A&E and the children's ward at the hospital. They were fantastic: dedicated, caring, professional. They looked after Glen and me as well as Robbie, and went out of their way to make our stay as comfortable as possible.
Robbie was finally discharged at 5.30. We collected all the paperwork and started to get him dressed. That's when we realised that Robbie's shoes were missing. We and the staff spent the next few minutes looking for them everywhere until we concluded that someone must have taken them. And so, in quite a surreal scene, half an hour later Glen and I took turns to carry a barefoot Robbie on our shoulders to the station (there wasn't a shoe shop anywhere near), onto the train, and finally to the car, which miraculously was still where we'd parked it on Sunday morning.
As we drove home from the station, Glen and I joked about how, after everything that had gone on, we were expecting to find the house flooded when we got there. It wasn't. But the fish tank we bought a few weeks ago had leaked all over our new sideboard. The fish were ok. The sideboard now has water damage. I don't have the heart to call the insurance about it.
I kept expecting something else to go wrong (it was after all Tuesday 13th - in Spain it's "bad luck day", similar to Friday 13th here), but thankfully we managed to finish the day without any further mishaps.
Robbie spent Wednesday at home and went back to school on Thursday, where he received a hero's welcome. His cast is now covered in signatures and drawings, and his pain has decreased a lot in the last two days. He even danced at the end of term school disco yesterday afternoon!
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Birthday celebrations
The organisation of the birthday party wasn't without difficulties. For starters, two of the children Robbie had invited decided to go to another birthday party that was taking place on the same day. Needless to say, Robbie found this hard to take ("they like him better than me") but we pointed out that some children had chosen his party over the other boy's and we also allowed him to invite another two kids in lieu of the ones who weren't coming. The other issue was that Robbie wasn't altogether sure whether the party would happen at all. Readers with long memories may remember that his birthday party was cancelled last year as a consequence of some very violent behaviour. This year I told him that because he'd been such a good boy he'd earned his birthday party and nothing he did would change that. He found that both hard to hear (as it reminded him of his shameful behaviour of last year) and hard to believe, so I was determined that the party would go ahead no matter what. As it happened, despite some serial rejection and challenges, his behaviour wasn't extreme, so we didn't have any cause to regret our promise.
On Saturday Robbie opened his birthday presents and we had a lazy morning playing with some of his new toys and watching TV. Then we joined a group of his school friends at the local theatre for the annual charity Panto trip. It was a huge success and the kids loved it. Robbie was very excited when one of the actors read out his name and wished him a happy birthday!
After that we made our way to a friend's house as it was her birthday party. Many of our friends were there and Robbie got even more presents. We ended up staying longer than we'd planned. As we were about to leave, someone asked Robbie if he'd had a good birthday. "Last year was better", he replied. As I took Robbie home (Glen stayed behind), I asked him about his reply. I should have known better. Robbie was very tired and he'd found it hard to accept what a good day he'd had. Me asking about it was all the trigger he needed to sulk and try to spoil the day. I didn't rise to it, though, and even though he went to bed in a bit of a grumpy mood I managed to avoid a serious confrontation.
Considering only a week ago Robbie was on a relentless reject-a-thon, we were very pleased with how well the birthday celebrations had gone. Then Sunday came. And with it came an unexpected traumatic event. But that's too long a story to write now, so I'll save it for the next post.
Friday, 9 December 2011
Letterbox contact from birth father
Three weeks ago, while I was working in Spain, a contact letter arrived from Robbie's birth father. This was out of the blue. He is supposed to write in September, but since we'd not heard from him we'd assumed he'd chosen not to write. Glen told Robbie that a letter had arrived and Robbie said he didn't want to read it. After the traumatic reaction he had to his birth mother's letter we didn't want to force the issue, so Glen told him that we'd read it when he was ready.
Three weeks have gone by and Robbie hadn't acknowledge the letter since it arrived, so a couple of days ago I brought it up again. The reason I did this is that both Robbie's birthday and Christmas are just around the corner, and I didn't want the letter to be hanging over us or, worse still, for him to ask to read it on his actual birthday or Christmas day. When I mentioned the letter, Robbie said he didn't want to read it. I said that was fine, and asked if he'd like to see the photos that his birth father had sent. This obviously felt less scary, and Robbie agreed. We looked at the pictures and after we had, Robbie said we might as well read the letter.
Glen read it. He skipped a few bits that we thought were inappropriate, like where his birth father acknowledges Robbie's achievements at school and in sports not as a result of the effort he makes, but as something Robbie's inherited from him. Robbie was absolutely fine while and after the letter was read to him. There was no reaction at all. He didn't look sad, or angry. He just said it was a better letter than his birth mother's. He then changed subject and it hasn't surfaced again in anything he's said or in any behaviour at all. At least for now. Maybe he's getting used to the idea of contact, maybe the memory of his birth father isn't as painful as that of his birth mother. In any case we were very pleased that it didn't serve as a detonator for another emotional bomb.
Three weeks have gone by and Robbie hadn't acknowledge the letter since it arrived, so a couple of days ago I brought it up again. The reason I did this is that both Robbie's birthday and Christmas are just around the corner, and I didn't want the letter to be hanging over us or, worse still, for him to ask to read it on his actual birthday or Christmas day. When I mentioned the letter, Robbie said he didn't want to read it. I said that was fine, and asked if he'd like to see the photos that his birth father had sent. This obviously felt less scary, and Robbie agreed. We looked at the pictures and after we had, Robbie said we might as well read the letter.
Glen read it. He skipped a few bits that we thought were inappropriate, like where his birth father acknowledges Robbie's achievements at school and in sports not as a result of the effort he makes, but as something Robbie's inherited from him. Robbie was absolutely fine while and after the letter was read to him. There was no reaction at all. He didn't look sad, or angry. He just said it was a better letter than his birth mother's. He then changed subject and it hasn't surfaced again in anything he's said or in any behaviour at all. At least for now. Maybe he's getting used to the idea of contact, maybe the memory of his birth father isn't as painful as that of his birth mother. In any case we were very pleased that it didn't serve as a detonator for another emotional bomb.
Saturday, 3 December 2011
Re-balancing the scales
48 hours. That's how long the peace lasted since my return to the UK last Monday. There was a huge outburst on Wednesday evening, during which Robbie tried to punch me and announced how much he hates me. Glen spoke to him: why does he do all this? Why to me and not to him? "Because dad hates me".
Once he was calm I empathised with how hard it must be to think that your own dad hates you and reiterated how much I love him and how much I know he loves me - regardless of what he says when he's angry. I reminded him that at the end of the day, after everything that's gone on, he's still with us and he'll continue to be. I added that all will be well once he truly believes what I make him say each morning: that his dads love him and we don't want to be mean to him. He replied that we should change that to just "dad" (me) as he already believes that of daddy (Glen). I agreed, but added that deep down I think we both know that he believes it of me too, it's just that he needs to get angry with someone, and that someone is me. The main reason why I said this was because more and more I think he says this for effect, to get a reaction out of me, or just because it's his stock answer, rather than because it's actually true. But true it may be. At the end of the day he doesn't flare up with Glen and there's something really wrong in his attachment to me. I suppose we should be grateful that at least he's attached to one of us.
I spent a sleepless night turning it all in my head. Something's gone terribly wrong in our relationship. He thinks I don't enjoy his company, and I think he doesn't enjoy mine. Because of this, I'm feeling more and more stressed. I am tense when he's around. I know that anything I say will be taken as provocation, an excuse to blow up. And the funniest thing is that I'm fairly sure Robbie feels the same way I do. He is tense when I'm around and he thinks I analyse everything he says or does to look for something to pick on, when I don't. When I picked him up from football practice on Wednesday evening he asked me why I'd picked him up rather than Glen. It wasn't meant in a nasty way, I genuinely believe what he was saying was "why did you come? You know this'll only end in tears". And he was right.
Glen told me on Wednesday evening that it's heartbreaking to watch Robbie and I tear each other apart, hurting each other emotionally in such a way. I thought long and hard about this. I'm meant to be the one Robbie models his emotions on. Instead it's the other way around: Robbie consumes me and I live for him. Whether I have a good day or a bad one depends on how his day was. If he's angry he makes me angry. If he's happy, I'm happy. I've been letting everything else in my life slip and barely spend any time doing things for me. This cannot be the case anymore. I need to regulate myself so he can model his emotional state on mine. For that, I need to give myself a break and also have some "me" time. I am only human. I cannot be there for Robbie all the time. I will make mistakes, and that's OK. I can only do my best, and that will have to be enough. I don't need to sacrifice my entire life for him. Yes, I am Robbie's dad and that's a big part of my life. But it's not the only part of me. It doesn't define me.
I talked to Glen and we've decided we need to change things in our routine. Glen needs to spend more time doing routine stuff that I normally take on and winds Robbie up (homework, discipline) and allow me to have more time to do fun things with him. I chatted to a fellow adopter about this later in the week and talking to her made me realise that something should have changed when I returned to work but didn't: I took on the disciplinarian role when I was the primary carer whilst on adoption leave. Because I spent a lot more time with Robbie then, this allowed me to balance things by also spending time playing and having positive interactions. Since I've been back at work, I have remained the disciplinarian, but have less time to balance it with fun stuff. Looking back, the good period we had after the summer came after he and I had spent two weeks in Spain doing fun things and away from routine and homework.
The last couple of days have been much better: I still picked him up from school, but Glen took care of homework. Whenever Robbie's tried to flare up with me, I've remained calm. I've also made time to play with him as much as I can. Last night we had a change of routine and after his swimming lesson we had fish and chips and watched Harry Potter together, which he loved. I said I'd enjoyed watching it with him, and could tell he found this hard to hear. When I asked him if he'd enjoyed it, he couldn't answer. He found it too hard to accept that he had. But I know he had, and that's what matters. He had a late night, which felt special, and should be OK as he has nothing to get up for and can sleep in. I'm feeling more optimistic and hope we can keep this up. Keep your fingers crossed for me.
Once he was calm I empathised with how hard it must be to think that your own dad hates you and reiterated how much I love him and how much I know he loves me - regardless of what he says when he's angry. I reminded him that at the end of the day, after everything that's gone on, he's still with us and he'll continue to be. I added that all will be well once he truly believes what I make him say each morning: that his dads love him and we don't want to be mean to him. He replied that we should change that to just "dad" (me) as he already believes that of daddy (Glen). I agreed, but added that deep down I think we both know that he believes it of me too, it's just that he needs to get angry with someone, and that someone is me. The main reason why I said this was because more and more I think he says this for effect, to get a reaction out of me, or just because it's his stock answer, rather than because it's actually true. But true it may be. At the end of the day he doesn't flare up with Glen and there's something really wrong in his attachment to me. I suppose we should be grateful that at least he's attached to one of us.
I spent a sleepless night turning it all in my head. Something's gone terribly wrong in our relationship. He thinks I don't enjoy his company, and I think he doesn't enjoy mine. Because of this, I'm feeling more and more stressed. I am tense when he's around. I know that anything I say will be taken as provocation, an excuse to blow up. And the funniest thing is that I'm fairly sure Robbie feels the same way I do. He is tense when I'm around and he thinks I analyse everything he says or does to look for something to pick on, when I don't. When I picked him up from football practice on Wednesday evening he asked me why I'd picked him up rather than Glen. It wasn't meant in a nasty way, I genuinely believe what he was saying was "why did you come? You know this'll only end in tears". And he was right.
Glen told me on Wednesday evening that it's heartbreaking to watch Robbie and I tear each other apart, hurting each other emotionally in such a way. I thought long and hard about this. I'm meant to be the one Robbie models his emotions on. Instead it's the other way around: Robbie consumes me and I live for him. Whether I have a good day or a bad one depends on how his day was. If he's angry he makes me angry. If he's happy, I'm happy. I've been letting everything else in my life slip and barely spend any time doing things for me. This cannot be the case anymore. I need to regulate myself so he can model his emotional state on mine. For that, I need to give myself a break and also have some "me" time. I am only human. I cannot be there for Robbie all the time. I will make mistakes, and that's OK. I can only do my best, and that will have to be enough. I don't need to sacrifice my entire life for him. Yes, I am Robbie's dad and that's a big part of my life. But it's not the only part of me. It doesn't define me.
I talked to Glen and we've decided we need to change things in our routine. Glen needs to spend more time doing routine stuff that I normally take on and winds Robbie up (homework, discipline) and allow me to have more time to do fun things with him. I chatted to a fellow adopter about this later in the week and talking to her made me realise that something should have changed when I returned to work but didn't: I took on the disciplinarian role when I was the primary carer whilst on adoption leave. Because I spent a lot more time with Robbie then, this allowed me to balance things by also spending time playing and having positive interactions. Since I've been back at work, I have remained the disciplinarian, but have less time to balance it with fun stuff. Looking back, the good period we had after the summer came after he and I had spent two weeks in Spain doing fun things and away from routine and homework.
The last couple of days have been much better: I still picked him up from school, but Glen took care of homework. Whenever Robbie's tried to flare up with me, I've remained calm. I've also made time to play with him as much as I can. Last night we had a change of routine and after his swimming lesson we had fish and chips and watched Harry Potter together, which he loved. I said I'd enjoyed watching it with him, and could tell he found this hard to hear. When I asked him if he'd enjoyed it, he couldn't answer. He found it too hard to accept that he had. But I know he had, and that's what matters. He had a late night, which felt special, and should be OK as he has nothing to get up for and can sleep in. I'm feeling more optimistic and hope we can keep this up. Keep your fingers crossed for me.
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