‘Her mum’

When I talk to the girls about their birth mum, I often refer to her as mum, especially when talking to Big. I tend to follow their lead and call her by whatever they choose to call her in the conversation we’re having at the time.

But when the psychologist referred to her as ‘her mum’ throughout a whole meeting we had on Friday, it really bothered me and I’m cross that it did.

It felt like there was a person missing at the meeting but also it felt like my place at the meeting was being minimised. I was merely the person doing an interim job.

I think for Big, this is possibly how she feels a lot of the time. There is a person missing from her life and I am the person currently doing the job of filling that role. She is still (and possibly will always be) waiting for me to leave. Everyone else has, so I will too. No amount of meetings where I fight for support for her, or every day of me being where I say I’m going to be, or putting her to bed each night, can take away the feeling of, ‘everyone else left, you will too.’ At the moment, Big is adamant that she doesn’t want to be here, she wants to be with birth mum.

The girls’ birth mum is currently living in our small town. The chances of one day having an unplanned meeting are quite high. I keep being told that birth mum would not be able to manage this and that the likelihood is that she would ‘run a mile if she saw the girls.’ The flippancy with which this statement is uttered makes me blood boil. Can you imagine if the main thing that you think about is seeing a person, and then if you happened to see that person she ‘ran a mile’? How do my children deal with that? How do I possibly explain it to them? How do I stop them feeling rejection all over again?

These assessments about birth mum are being made on assumptions. Nobody has spoken to her for four years. No one really has any understanding of how she would manage this. Everyone is looking at patterns of the past and assuming that that is the path that will be taken again. But they don’t know.

The uncertainties in this are obviously the biggest thing. We live with lots of ‘what ifs’ that might never come to anything but that we have to have a plan for just in case. I don’t know if we’ll ever need the plans but what I do know is that I don’t want my daughter’s first time of seeing her mum again to be on the street watching her ‘run a mile’. I don’t want it to be unplanned in front of people on the street. I want both the people involved in it to feel they have some control over it.

I’ll be honest, I have lots of ‘sometimes I wish’ moments. Sometimes I wish that this was something that wasn’t happening. Sometimes I wish that ‘mum’ didn’t mean two people. Mostly I wish that I could somehow stop my children from having to feel the way they do. But then they wouldn’t be my children.

The best bits

We had a snow day this week. We sledged, we threw snowballs and we made a snow house. There were some moments of fun and it was good.

We went for a walk yesterday in some huge snow drifts. It was good fun seeing them jump into them and try to work out when they might fall through them or when they might stay on the top.

The girls have just started to sing along to songs (that are not Disney related) in the car. Listening to Little singing Kiss ‘I was made for lovin’ you’ is quite possibly one of my most favourite things ever.



Three minutes

Today I watched some video clips that the OT had picked out from our last session with Big. They totalled three minutes long. Three minutes out of an hour.

In those three minutes, Big allowed me to help her, she allowed me to explain something to her and she let me touch her. All amazing things.

But it just brings to the fore of how much time she’s not able to do that. For fifty seven minutes out of the hour, she spent the whole time actively not being in my space and actively not allowing me to help her. So in a twelve hour day, she has thirty six minutes where she feels safe enough to let me help. That’s a lot of time that she feels unsafe.

I realise that being at the OT is a different space and that things might be slightly different at home but essentially my big girl spends an awful lot of time actively trying to avoid help. As the OT described it, ‘She’s independent to the point of it hurting her.’

The OT was very quick to point out that for the whole session I was doing everything that I need to do and that when Big is ready to accept it, the help is there. But it was so hard to watch.

Trying to reframe this as, ‘for three minutes she let me help’ rather than ‘for fifty seven minutes she didn’t let me help’ is hard. It’s hard watching someone you love struggle rather than ask. It’s hard watching someone that you love walk in as big a circle as she can to avoid being anywhere near you. It’s hard watching someone that you love battle on rather than listen to a suggestion.

As I said to the OT, once again, it reinforces how hard daily life is for Big. How she has to overcome so much to do anything and yet she does. Everyday she gets up and she gets on. And yes, I wish more than anything that I could help her, to make things even slightly easier. But ‘for three minutes she let me help’ and as ever, the hope is, that slowly, those three minutes turn into something longer.

The best bits

The girls made a ‘rainbow world’ this weekend. They stuck lots of pieces of coloured paper together, drew a road on it, lots of houses and cars and some people. They spent ages working on it and it looks fab.

Little had a birthday! She got a skateboard and is so keen to go on it. ‘Mummy, you take Big round the big loop on her bike, me and daddy are going to stay here and work on my jumps.’


You might see…

If you were to come into our house you might see us playing on the floor. You might see Little sitting very close to me or on me and Big sitting quite far away.

You might not see the little smiles I give Big and the little squeezes on the knee or the foot.

If you came to school to pick the girls up, you might see Big not move when she sees me. You might see me having to go to her and help her out of her seat to come with me. You might see that she doesn’t smile when she sees me. You might see Little come running, shouting, ‘MUMMY!’

You might not see the wee kiss I drop on top of Big’s head or the wee squeezes and rubs I give her hand as we walk up the road.

If you were to watch bedtime you might see Little give me a huge hug and say ‘I love you, I love you, I love my mama.’ You might see Big drop her head when I go in. You might see Big not being able to say anything at bedtime.

You might not see the kiss I drop on the back of her head. You might not see me whisper ‘I love you, I will see you in the morning, I love you.’

If you came on a day out with us, you might see Big try to run away rather than come home with us. You might see Big hit and kick and shout at me.

You might not see me whispering, ‘I know it’s hard. I know it’s scary. It’s okay to be scared.’

If you came into our house you might see a girl who looks perfectly happy and content. You might see a girl who smiles. You might see a girl who looks happy where she is.

You might not see a girl who holds herself away from people ever so slightly. You might not see that her smile is slightly too wide. You might not see how scared she is.

If you came into our house you might think, ‘That mum is with one child much more than the other.’

You might not see how many books the mum has read to try to understand her eldest child better. You might not see how she seeks advice from other parents to help her with different strategies. You might not see how much she fights to get help for her eldest child. You might not see how hard she keeps trying to find ways to be closer to her eldest child.

You might come into the house and sometimes see a parent holding back tears after she has tried to help her child. You might see a child struggling with a coat and see the parent taking a second to take a deep breath rather than helping her.

You might not see the years of trying to help. The years of not being spoken to or touched unless someone is watching. You might not see how many ways the parent tries to help the child and the different ways that that help is rejected. You might not see how scared she is that she will never be able to help her.

I understand that people need to comment on my relationship with Big. I understand that they need to point out the things that they see. I understand that the first thing that people would suggest is that my parenting might be at fault. I’m sure there will always be things that I need to do differently. But I wish people would listen to the things that they don’t see. I wish that people could see that Big needs help. Big and I need help. But that, even though you don’t always see it, I am trying.

The best bits

We went away for the weekend a few weeks ago. I wish I could show you a photo of Little’s face at the bottom of the waterslide. It was just wonderful.

Big had her first session with the OT last week. She persevered with climbing up a hanging ladder and did really well.

I went on the water slides too. At one point I screamed out loud and then giggled. I can recommend it.


Little: I’m your Baba. I came out of your tummy and you called me Little.

Me: Oh Babs. Remember, you came out of birth mummy’s tummy. She called you Little.

Little: Grr. What about my big brother and sister, are they adocted too?

Me: No sweetheart, they stay with their birth daddy.

Little: Grr. Do they have a real daddy though?

Me: They stay with him, with their birth daddy.

Little: NO! I don’t mean that. I mean a real daddy , like the daddy I have just now. My daddy.*

She was so very cross that I’d misunderstood her.

My two have very differing opinions on what ‘real’ is. Big is very clear that I’m not her ‘real’ mum. That she doesn’t want to live here and that she doesn’t have to do anything I ask because I’m not her ‘real’ mum.

The dictionary defines real as: Actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact.

We’re all real in this story, we all occur and exist. I’m sure that the word will be used in many ways over the years. Little’s understanding or thinking of it may change, it may not. Big’s understanding of it or thinking of it may change, it may not. But we’re all real.

The best bits

We went up our local ‘mountain’ (340m) on New Years Day. The girls were amazing. They kept going and were really pleased to get to the top. Big finds descending really hard but she didn’t stop and did so well.

We watched Ballerina this holiday (not the most well chosen film.) Little has shown everybody the ‘sixteen’ positions and has not stopped dancing since.

*I should point out that I have not been able to have one of these conversations with Little without being in tears. Her ability to voice everything astounds me.

** Some of you may have read a blog by Al Coates (MBE) a few weeks ago and might be thinking that this post sounds familiar. This is simply a matter of coincidental timing and not an attempt at plagiarism.

The ‘best’ best bits

Somebody lovely commented on my last post saying that they enjoy reading the best bits. So I thought I’d do lots of them.

Both the girls learnt to swim this year. Big swam 20m independently and Little can currently do about half a width. It’s not an elegant style but they’ve tried so hard to get there. When they came to us, they’d never been in a pool. We’ve been every week for three and a half years and I’m so glad we have. When Big first jumped in on her own the lifeguard on duty was the same one who’d been there on the first day we took them. She cried a little bit too as she said she couldn’t believe how far she’d watched them come.

They are both amazing on their bikes. When I think about how much sensory stuff they are having to overcome to do this, it’s incredible. I think they actually get a lot of feedback from it as they go up and down kerbs, down ‘the big hill’ and on the mountain bike tracks. I love watching them.

I really wish I could show a video of how much Big has improved at gymnastics. For a year everything she did was in separate bits. Walk to the vault, step on the springboard, climb on the vault, walk along, jump off, touch the floor. Now she runs, jumps, walks, jumps in one fluid movement. I still well up when I see her. Little loves gymnastics. She can hang on the bars, tuck her knees up, touch the bar with her feet then rotate round.

‘Out’ has always been the best place to be but coming back from ‘out’ was always fraught. Recently, we’ve not had so much fraught. It’s been lovely being out and then we’ve come home.

This year we have been lucky enough to stay at The Open Nest twice. I cannot describe how wonderful it is there. I have NEVER seen Big so relaxed. The second time we went she came home in the car without a meltdown. This has never happened on a day trip before. (It hasn’t since, the place is magic and wonder, I tell you.)



We bought a paddle board this year. It is the best thing ever. I would take one of them on the board and the other would go in the canoe with my husband and we would swap about. They’ve done so much ‘wild’ swimming this year and have explored lots of lochs and seas. We also got them wetsuits which was probably another ‘best thing ever’.


In the summer we met up with a wonderful family from Twitter. Seeing our girls play together was fab. We went in the water and seeing them all experience something and be confident at it was lovely.

We had a proper fence built this year. (After the old one had blown down four times we thought we needed to.) Big asked if we could paint it in rainbow colours. She’s never asked for anything so we did. We worked together to paint it and she smiled a real smile.


Today, at the beach, Big gave me a little hug.


Wishing everybody happiness, peace and calm for next year and here’s hoping for many more best bits.

This year…

This year has been the hardest yet.

This year I have gone back to work.

This year Little has started school, and all her needs, that we were just about managing with me being mostly at home with her, rose right up to the surface.

This year, the girls’ Headteacher gave me a memory stick of photos from the Christmas show as the girls wouldn’t be on the CD they were giving out.

This year, Little had grommets in and her adenoids out. A very routine operation but it was hugely triggering for her.

This year, our PASW and our senior social worker told me that it was my fault we were experiencing the difficulties we are experiencing.

This year, we paid for a private OT to do an assessment for the girls and Little has had 3 sessions with her. Seeing everything (and more) written down on paper, that I have been trying to tell people for two years was hard but I’m glad we did it.

This year (in the last 6 weeks), Little has slept through for most of the week!

This year, Big swam 20m.

This year, we had a meeting to ask us what we needed in terms of support. We told them, they took away what they were currently doing and told us they couldn’t do anything else.

This year, something happened that, in my head, had always been the thing that I said I wouldn’t be able to manage. I’m not saying I managed it, but I found a way through it.

This year, my husband and I had to move out of our bedroom and move into the living room. (Our PASW told us ‘the event didn’t happen but we’re telling you that the girls need to be kept separate or supervised at all times.)

This year, my husband, the most calm, patient, laid back man in the world, got cross. Cross at the lack of support, cross at having to fight so hard, cross at constantly feeling like we were asking for the world.

This year I began to wonder if we’re going to be able to do this.

This year the violence increased so much.

This year, I did my food shopping on Christmas Eve in the same place and at the same time as the girls’ birth mum. I found my thoughts jumping between, ‘I’m glad she’s got some whole milk in her trolley,’ to ‘I’m glad she’s got a yule log in there, she’s got something nice to eat,’ to ‘I wish she wasn’t living here, I really wish she would move somewhere else again.’

This year, Big didn’t get invited to any parties.

This year, we’ve been in the woods a lot. We’ve been at the beach a lot.

This year, I realised that this is how things are. I’ve not totally given up on the hope that things might get a bit better. But I know that this is the life we’re living. Little will always need a lot of help and Big will always need A LOT of help.

This year has felt very isolating.

This year has been the hardest yet.

This year is nearly done. I have no idea what next year will bring. Maybe I’ll write a similar post next year, maybe it’ll be a post full of joy. Maybe we’ll be in a similar place, maybe it’ll be totally different. Whatever happens, I’m sure we’ll still be in the woods and at the beach a lot. That’s not going to change.




I don’t think ‘fault’ is the right word to use but I’m going to use it because that’s the word the senior social worker used this week.

During a phone call with my husband, she mentioned that I seemed to be being evasive about having a meeting. My husband explained that was because the last time we met, they had made it seem like the difficulties we are experiencing were my fault. She replied, ‘Well I won’t apologise for that. That is a professional judgement made by the PASW. She doesn’t love Big as much as Little and it’s her fault that Big feels the way she does.’

I’m sure that the way things are with Big is not helping. But to say that I am the fault of all the difficulties that she has seems unfair and upsetting. Loving a child who is unable to give anything back is hard. Being met with violence, being met with words that are mean and unkind, being met with no response to a cuddle or a touch is hard.

It does have a bearing on how I am with my children. I know that I am wary of Big. I know that there are days when I don’t give her as much as I should. But I try. For three and a half years, I’ve tried.

Fault is an interesting word. Is there fault with anyone in this situation? Is it Big’s fault that she has lost trust in her caregivers? That she is so worried that she will move again that closing down is the only way she can protect herself.

Is it the fault of her birth family? Should they have looked after her better? Should they have been better at putting aside their own needs to take care of her?

Is it my fault? Should I be doing more for her? Should I be meeting her needs better? Should I be able to move past the constant violence and rejection?

Clearly, Big  is not at fault. She had no control of the things that were done to her.

Are her birth family at fault? Clearly they didn’t do the very things that parents are supposed to do, keep your children safe, clean, well fed, nurtured. They didn’t look after their children. Should more support have been offered to them to help them be able to do this?

Am I the ‘fault’ of all the difficulties we’re having? That is the decision that has been made. Is there truth in it? A bit. I have asked for help with this. I have asked to speak to somebody who knows about blocked care. I have asked if we could take part in some Theraplay. I have always been very honest with people about how things are, I have never tried to pretend that everything is okay. To have asked for help for three years and then to be told that this is all my fault and there is nothing they can do left me fairly broken.

No one is at ‘fault’ here. Everyone tried or is trying to do their best. Trying to do their best living with early life experiences or trying to do their best to show love, to be there, to start each day with a smile and a hug.

The best bits

Big did an AWESOME vault at gymnastics. She ran to the springboard, jumped and then jumped up with both feet on. She did good.

This morning, at an ‘o’ clock that is not really made for being awake, Little came through to us, got three satsumas out of the fruit bowl and peeled one for each of us. ‘Here’s some sunshine’, she said as she gave us them.