severed fingertip trauma

So, so tired in the evenings these days, it’s hard to find time to wash up, let alone blog. Three weeks ago, we were in our local library, Peaches and I, and she got her finger trapped in the hinge side of a big heavy door, and the tip came off, nail and all. Big trauma at the time, overnight in hospital while they stitched it back on (respect to the guy at the library who, at my tearful request, went to said door, retrieved said fingertip, and put it on ice. Word to the wise – I didn’t know this – you have to put the severed article in wet gauze in a plastic bag, seal it, then put it in another sealed bag of water, and put that on ice. Even the A and E staff didn’t know this).
We are all fine, overall. Peaches's finger is healing, it's hard to see at the moment how it is going to turn out 'aesthetically', but of course, as I well know (I have fingers missing on one of my hands), that's not the point! Daily dressings are a pain, she is supposed to keep the whole thing dry, but loves to suck the dressing (it must itch like mad), so I'm replacing it at least 3 times a day. She is a bit poorly right now, with a virus thing which has laid her low, but she was better tonight. She is still completely delightful and gorgeous!
Peanut is well, she is loving school - she leaves much earlier than she has to in the mornings, I take that as a good sign! She is making lots of new friends, and relishing the independence her new life is bringing! Poor love phoned me after school today in tears, though, she had lost her blazer and phone. It was found again soon after, but it made me reflect on what hard lessons she is having to learn so quickly. And to me, 11 years has flown by, my baby, getting the bus by herself… She still lets me read to her at night, and I know it may not last for much longer, so I'm making the most of it!
Pasta, dare I say it, is maybe slightly better behaved than over the summer, when she exploded all her anger, jealousy and insecurity all over us all! She's had a hard time recently. Now I know she is dyspraxic, it has made me focus on really trying to get her some of the things she needs, like a motor skills group at school, and chasing up speech therapy, which is just an appaling service. And I'm trying to give her 1to1 time myself when I can; she likes going to the cinema or the museum.
Since I've adopted Peaches, apart from the sheer physical exhaustion of doing so much by myself, the main problems I've had have been Pasta-related. I know she feels dreadful and doesn't know what to do or how to deal with it, but other people are less tolerant of her - previously, she was this docile, amenable baby-like child, and adults can deal with that, but the new Pasta is bolshy, and they comment on it. Pasta is finding her new level, developing, responding to new emotions, and she just has to go through it. But it's wearing me out!!

adoption reaction!

When Peaches was placed with me, I knew this would have an effect on Pasta. I'd read all the books. I'd been to the support groups. I could have predicted that her excitement about her impending little sister would fade, change, mutate into something entireley different....

Well, here it is, folks, it's an adoption reaction, it's big, it's ugly, it's hard to deal with! Otherwise known as 'challenging behaviour', this adoption reaction has sapped my energy over the summer holidays and turned me into a stressed-out, snappy shouter, who hasn't got a proper strategy for dealing with it, because she used to have an amenable, biddable youngest daughter who was text book co-operative. Now Pasta is suddenly a middle daughter, and NOT THE BABY ANY MORE (crucial, that bit), she is a demon fairy.

Pasta is six. Most six year olds would be able to hold their one-year old sister safely with a bit of initial tuition, on their hips; not Pasta. In the first few days of having Peaches, she dropped her three times on her head. Pasta is mildly dyspraxic, and doesn't have the co-ordination to do this at the moment. Peaches began to become nervous around her, and I banned Pasta from picking her up. Ban - what ban? Every time my back is turned, Pasta tries to pick Peaches up. I can tell immediately from the type of noise Peaches makes what is happening. Poor Pasta, she is only trying to do what she has seen girls everywhere doing.

She swears black is white - she is so oppositional, she frequently has me marvelling at her ingenuity and persistence. She flares up at the slightest provocation (sometimes obligingly provided by Peanut, for her own entertainment). She has worked out which of her behaviours wind me up the most, and specialises in them - these are delaying tactics when on the way to school, and making a fuss about eating her evening meal. She always apologises to me after it is all over, almost as if she has been posessed, and hasn't wanted to behave like that, but has had to.

Peanut gave Pasta a Tracy Beaker dvd, which she watched avidly for weeks on end. She started asking me lots and lots of questions about her birth mum (Tracy is in foster care and is 'let down' by her birth mum, eventually being adopted, but displaying many 'behavioural issues' along the way). She was really identifying with it all, and while I'm so, so glad that at last there is a series on primetime tv which deals with sensitive issues like fostering and adoption, I kind of wish that it were a bit more realistic... I guess then it wouldn't be kids telly, would it... She said to me a few times at bedtime, 'I really miss my birth mum', so we went through some questions that she wanted to ask, and I tried to answer them the best I could. I also snuck in some stuff about how was she feeling about Peaches being around, and suggested that she was feeling sad she wasn't the youngest any more. She liked this as an explanation of how she was feeling, and after a few weeks, this birth mum questioning stuff faded - for now...

I think she's angry. I think she's probably angry at me, she growls at me a lot! I've told her I think she's angry with me.

I try to use humour. I try to ignore. I try the naughty step (though I hate the idea of it). I try reward stickers, and praising good behaviour, blah, blah, blah.

I try shouting. It feels horrible, I sound like a witch, and it gets me nowhere. I get a sore throat. It serves me right. I'm going to stop.

This weekend, Peanut went to a friend's, and co-SLAP#1 looked after Peaches. Pasta and I went to the pictures ON OUR OWN!! This is the first time since having Peaches, it's just been too hard to organise previously. Pasta was lovely. She was so happy! We went on the top deck of the bus! We had hot chocolate! We bought popcorn, and afterwards (whisper it) sweets! I told her that we are going to do this every now and again, that it will just be me and her, because Peaches gets me in the day while she's at school, and Peanut gets her dvd nights. I could tell that she really took this on board, that she now knows that it's actually okay, she's still my lovely girl. The other day, she was carrying too much down the stairs, and I heard the distinctive sound of Pasta falling, hard, from half way down. She was okay, but she must have landed on her back, as there was a bruise down her spine. Poor love, she was justifiably sorry for herself, and so I let her sleep in my bed. Normally, this is verboten, as she sucks her thumb very, very loudly, and is such a wriggler, I get no sleep. But actually, I got plently of sleep, and when I told her in the morning that it had been nice to share a bed with her, and that she hadn't disturbed me, and that we could do it again, the look on her face was worth a million quid.

You'd think I would have learnt by now. Every time it happens, I kick myself, remembering the vow I swore last time I was in a retail outlet with one of my children. They ask. They plead. They wheedle. They bargain. They strop. They call you all the mean mums under the sun, all because they can't have that nasty piece of plastic tat which has suddenly become so desirable to them. Never, ever take your children shopping!

It's Pasta who is the worst at the moment. Being of an age (6) where she blithely believes that if you don't have enough money, you can just go to the cash machine and get some more, she mercilessly pecks at my head any time I pop into a charity shop, pound stretcher, wherever. This weekend, we were somewhere, and she asked me for something; I said no. She asked why. I said, because you have enough toys, and you can't have everything you ask for instantly, and besides, I don't have enough money. She chose to gloss over the fact that she has enough toys. The fact that she cannot have everything she asks for instantly is just too painful for her to contemplate. So she focused, for the next hour or so, on the money thing.

'Let's look for money' she suggested... and 'if I find 10p, what can I buy with it?' After I'd patiently listed a few things that weren't sweets which one might be able to acquire, she started on 'if I find 11p, what can I buy with it?' and so on. Then it was 'who will give me some money?' and 'why didn't I get money for my birthday like Peanut did?' Money, money, money.

I'm well aware that this is an important developmental stage, and that she will get the hang of it at some point, and that my job is just to instil in her a healthy attitude towards money, and its value relative to other things in life such as happiness, friends, etc. I'm sure she'll learn that without much bother. But oh, it's painful! And yes! My patience elastic band frequently snaps...

Peanut is spending a significant portion of her pocket money on sweets. Non-vegan ones at that! Now this, I have decided to turn a blind eye to, as making a fuss about it will inevitably cause her to rebel. And when I think about my sweet-deprived childhood, and the obsession I had with spending any cash I could get my hands on on Creme Eggs, I sympathise with her! She's otherwise the healthiest kid you could met, with an appetite like a horse, always appreciative of my cooking - what mother doesn't love that!

I'm thinking of linking her weekly pound in to tasks around the house. When she's in the right frame of mind, she can be very helpful, and I have no desire to rope her in to arduous duties for no reason. But maybe having to wash up a few times a week will make her think twice about wasting hard-earned cash on sweets... no, who am I kidding...

I think Peanut was six when she started to get pocket money. But Pasta is less mature than Peanut at the same age. So her burgeoning desire for material goods has prompted some creative alternatives to pocket money on demand... Pasta has to work for her pennies! She charges 5p for 'hairdressing' (I could sit for ever while someone puts slides, clips and bobbles in my hair) and 5p for 'massage' (in reality, sharp fingernails jabbed into my back unevenly, but still, it's the nearest I get to a massage these days, so it will do). Exploitation? I think not! Child labour? Maybe so, but it's all for a good cause... her technique is slowly improving, plus, she has accumulated one pound sixty-six to date.

She is planning on spending it all at the local school fair at the weekend... hmmm, more plastic tat. I'd better get surreptitiously culling some toys from the playroom to make room for it all.

Attachment

Peaches has been with us over a month, now, but obviously, I'm still meeting people on an almost daily basis who haven't met her yet, or spoken to me since I got her. Inevitably, I get asked 'how is she settling in?' and 'how are you coping?' and 'how are the girls finding her?'. This is great, because these are the main three questions, the biggies, the crux of the matter.
That my replies to all three can honestly be positive, I am happy and grateful. But I must also be bland and saccharine, necessarily skirting issues which are not for public consumption, not giving too much detail, when all folk actually want is reassuring that the adoption is 'going well'.
Every prospective adoptive parent gets tutored about attachment disorder, and most do their own private research, drinking in the signs, memorising the minutiae, hoping that it won't happen to them. But, to my understanding, any child adopted over the age of six months (or otherwise experiencing an incident or disturbance regarding their primary carer) can experience problems with attachment (attachment disorder has to be formally diagnosed), resulting in significant to huge issues affecting family life.
Now to all intents and purposes, Peaches is 'settling in well'. She looks to me as her primary carer, and I suppose like many 11 month old babies, wants to be in my very close vicinity, likes to be held often and cries if I am out of her sight. She also is lively and bright, exploring whichever room she is in, responding to baby games like 'boo' and knocking bricks over, and giving loads of smiles, causing general merriment and joy. She's got good eye contact, and when it's just me and her at the end of the day and she is almost in bed, and I'm staring at her intently, absorbing her eagerly, loving the very smell of her, I feel like there could never be a problem in the world with this little scrap. But...
How do I know? I don't. You can never be complacent. Pasta is well and truly firmly attached, and I to her, but that doesn't mean it will happen with Peaches. A well-meaning social worker acquaintance from school had the 'how is she' conversation with me, and then proceeded to scare the living daylights out of me with casual comments about how all adoptive parents think their child is doing so well, because at first, 'she goes to anyone, she's so friendly', and 'she's so well-behaved'. 'You want tantrums, you want bad behaviour', she said. Not sure how much of this to take with a pinch of salt, really. I know what she means - we should all be looking out for The Signs, and not take anything for granted.
One effect this conversation had, though, was to make me think again about attachment issues with the adoptive children I know; there is at least one with diagnosed, and a couple with undiagnosed attachment disorders. I think adopted children should get a social worker for life. I know the new adoption act enables adoptive parents to be entitled to access a social work assessment if they feel there are issues with their child which have directly arisen from adoption, but that feels a bit weak.
Meanwhile, at Chocolate Towers, Peanut tried to put Peaches to bed for the first time, with me reading Pasta a story in the next room. She did a valiant job, almost succeeding in settling her, but not quite! She wanted that woman who had been putting her to bed for the past month, thanks very much!

Lesbian community?

Took Peaches today for her first visit to the largest park in _______shire (as Jane Austen would have it). Met youngest sister there for a picnic lunch, my nephew is Peaches' age, and the babies happily snotted and gnawed their way through bananas, baby rice cakes (crinkly packet more interesting) and lovingly prepared tofu and organic peas. The tofu and organic peas belonged to youngest sister, not me, as in my haste leaving the house I totally forgot the mashed leftovers earmarked for Peaches, and had to visit Vegan Paradise (our local wholefoods store) to purchase an expensive jar of pureed babyfood.
Youngest sister says we are ladies of leisure. To me, ladies are other people on buses ('mind the lady'). However, sitting there in the sun listening to the wind in the trees, replete, only having to get up every two minutes when Peaches crawled out of sight or towards something she intended to explore with her mouth, I certainly felt like I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing.
Three other lesbians with children came into the park while we were there, prompting youngest sister to enquire whether I knew everyone in the park. It just felt good to be able to exchange news with these women, have that kind of normal interaction. At one point I realised that youngest sister, as a straight woman, was outnumbered. How many parks can you go in, and randomly get lesbians to outnumber straight women? I love where I live!
In Pasta's class alone, I know of three other kids apart from her who have lesbian mums. This is fantastic. In this city, teachers would be shot at dawn if they openly taught that homosexuality was wrong, but there are all kinds of ways they can promote heterosexuality as the norm, the accepted standard. Even an on-message lesbian teacher might inadvertently give a pro-hetero message to kids, having absorbed so much of it themselves. But in Pasta's class, that's a significant minority, one which can't be ignored. Kids who might get teased have got 3 other kids to use as an example of why they're not weird.
But those other 3 kids have all got 2 mums. As a single lesbian, I am invisible to all except those with finely-tuned gaydar.

Family Placement Worker visits

As Peanut spends half the week at her dad's, Very Lovely Family Placement Worker has not yet managed to catch up with her since we adopted Peaches three weeks ago, and so requested that Peanut be present when she called round this afternoon. It not being my usual day to have Peanut, I arranged that she could come home and then get the bus to her dad's later. I waited with Peaches outside school, and Pasta came out promptly with her class and teacher as usual, scanned the crowd of waiting parents for my ridiculous sunhat and came rushing over. Peanut, however, kept us waiting for a quarter of an hour, and sauntered out when and only when she had kept all the necessary social engagements between the classroom and the bottom of the stairs which only eleven year old girls understand and are privy to.
The girls' stomachs dictated that we stop off at the local baker's for the required carbohydrate fix, while 3 horrible old not-low-floor buses rumbled past (I will have to rant about this another time); luckily, we were able to catch a kneeler and arrive home at the allotted time for VLFPW's visit.
Peaches, on arrival, was found to have almost finished the apple she started shredding this morning, and needed a good dust down before we entered the house. A later inspection of her nappy would reveal several shreds of apple skin therein (which had not made the journey through her alimentary canal). I suppose the same thing must happen when she eats bread or rusks - a certain proportion finds its way into the far reaches of her underwear. How uncomfortable must that be, having crumbs in your knickers? No wonder babies sometimes cry for no apparent reason!
VLFPW came and sat at the table with us while we ate toast (yes, more carbohydrates). She asked Peanut how she was finding life with Peaches. Peanut was not quite monosyllabic, but I was a little taken aback at her apparent reticence. Yes, everything was fine, yes she loved having Peaches around, no, life was not the same any more, no, she did not have the same amount of attention from her mum, but yes, she would get used to this and it was also fine. I have to remember that when I was being assessed for this adoption, I was obliged to tell VLFPW that Peanut was less than enthusiastic about the whole endeavour. She, Peanut, had been 6 when we adopted Pasta, and she remembered what it felt like making the transition from adored only child to adored child who now had a usurper in her space at mum's house, and who, horror of horrors, was actually still there in her space even when she was at her dad's. Peanut initially remembered this trauma, and had thought that things were okay the way they were, and protested long and hard against me adopting again. Eventually, with much persuasion, explanation and working through, she was won over. I think today, her uncharacteristic reserve was influenced by her memory of how she felt then, and maybe the realisation that although she was wrong to have been so worried, maybe some of her fears may not have been totally unfounded.
Pasta spent the whole half hour of VLFPW's visit trying to make herself heard. She is used to this, as she has speech therapy for her difficulties with pronunciation and syntax (more on this too at a later date), but I think today was just ordinary rivalry for attention. She resorted to trying to show VLFPW how she could get Peaches to perform the whole repertoire of her tricks, which includes tongue clicking, raspberries, and simple mimicry.
Later on when Pasta and Peaches were in bed, Peanut phoned me from her dad's to say she felt like she was about to cry, and she didn't know why. She very rarely does this. (Now, nine years after I was separated from her for half the week, I am usually able to put my own feelings about not having her here always to one side; time does marvellous/sinister things.) She said she didn't feel tired, and couldn't get to sleep and she thought it was excitement about just having had a birthday! It's lovely that she phones me, and that we could talk about hormones and hot drinks, and warm baths with lavender, and reading 'til she falls asleep.
I wonder will she still phone me next year, the year after? Will she still phone me when she's at university, when she's abroad, when she's feeling like she might cry?
I don't want to know the answers, and I don't want to think about it.