So here we are. Last night I cried at the news, knowing that this, inevitably, was it. Micah’s been ill for a week already. Little Miss M had come out with a cough over the weekend. Megan had a temperature. Liam was concerned over how long he can self-isolate before he goes onto unpaid leave. I clung onto the fact that Megan’s dodgy looking tonsils could maybe mean no isolation yet, but after a phone call with a very lovely GP this morning, this is in fact where we are. It turns out they don’t know enough about the virus yet to rule out temperatures with other symptoms, so the advice is the same. And by the end of the night, Toby and Little T had temperatures too.
It’s felt a weird sort of day, as my mum said, it’s like a snow day with no snow. Despite being ‘in isolation’ I had to go to the GP at a set time to collect a prescription. We stood outside in the rain in a long queue, some with coats over their noses, some like nothing unusual was going on. The receptionists opened the door and handed out the paper, and then we all went over the road and ironically all crowded together in the pharmacy, the staff there wearing masks. I felt a rising panic suddenly being so close to all the ill people I was meant to be avoiding. But we all left again, to go home and hide away.
This morning the kids and I brainstormed things to do whilst at home. I need a vague plan, ideas to throw out when boredom comes by 9:15.
You’ll see our categories of play/learn/church/socialise/jobs/exercise. You need to know my jobs list for Liam is not included but is very. long. Also please note I did not suggest ‘anger management’. That was a child. Perhaps they are as fearful as I am of the results of us being confined to a small space?
It wasn’t really that organised or orderly however. They got out many games which they half played and abandoned to play on the Wii Fit. Toby wrote the title to a World War 2 project then wandered off to do something else. The little ones did enjoy the new letter tracing boards I’d ordered, so that was a success, but I fear boxing may prove to be a slightly too dangerous sport for the lounge.
I’m most worried about the food. They want it all the time. Snacks were rationed accordingly-pick and mix bowls seem to be the way forward to keeping it healthy and fun, and them not consuming the entire contents of the cupboard in one day. We should last until Thursday at least.
By the afternoon small people were getting cranky and Toby was going downhill with a temperature so we decided a pre dinner walk might help. I’m so grateful for this space in front of us, but wandering down the river, still fresh with debris from the floods, was a stark reminder that for some people they are moving from one very recent crisis straight into another. 2020 certainly has made its mark so far.
The lovely part was seeing the signs of spring along the way. Buds on trees, flowers poking through, birds calling, it all looking a bit greener. Spring will come. There is hope. This too, shall pass.
We had a play in the empty park before dinner, child 5 of 6 then developed a temperature too, so bedtime was a fairly quiet affair. Followed by wine. Because, no driving tonight.
It’s definitely felt a surreal sort of day. It’s been good to connect with other mums via different groups, to have a phone call with a sister, to have offers of help if we need things. The way forward seems to be to take one day at a time. To keep connecting with others. We will come out the other side. And, as ever, my little girl’s bedtime reading lifted my spirits once again.
(Thoughts to Make Your Heart Sing, S Lloyd Jones)
Help is on the way. Tomorrow is a new day. No doubt it will bring new instructions and changes to the way we live, but there will be good to find in it too.
We all know these are the strangest of days, I don’t have to tell you that. And no doubt you have your own thoughts, fears, ways of dealing with the current craziness that is going on all around the world. I don’t profess to have scientific knowledge, or spiritual wisdom, but as I’m currently housebound with a child who has a cough, I thought I’d write down my thoughts on how I’m processing today, and my feelings about the next few weeks.
In the past week I’ve seen a wide range of responses to Coronavirus news. There are the avoiders – it feels too scary, so we play it down. It’s only flu, I’m not going to look at the news, what’s the big fuss all about.
As the week went on, there were more voices that were the controllers – it feels too scary, so we need to be informed and control our risk. We check every update, we see what’s happening around the world, and start questioning about why not enough is being done to stop this. We race to the shops (or online shops) and make strategic plans for what might happen next.
I’ve done both of those. But I think those are both anxious responses. And given that the scenario we’re living in is likely to last weeks and months, not days, neither of those are sustainable long term. So here’s what I’m trying to do in Coronavirus confusion:
-Read the Bible. Before I look at the news or social media, remind myself of the truth of Who is in control. That this world is only temporary, and there is a hope and a future. Practically, I’ve decided to pick a book of the Bible and read a chapter a day. I’d already started Isaiah, and there have already been so many rich truths that I’ve been holding on to. Earlier in the week I read words which have stayed with me all week – ‘For the Lord spoke thus to me with his strong hand upon me, and warned me not to walk in the way of this people, saying: “Do not call conspiracy all that this people calls conspiracy, and do not fear what they fear, nor be in dread. But the Lord of hosts, him you shall honour as holy. Let him be your fear, and let him be your dread.”‘(Isaiah 8:11-13) These have helped me hold perspective and to quieten my soul when anxious thoughts arise. Pick a Psalm, a Gospel, or even just a verse, and hold onto it.
-Worship. I ask Alexa to shuffle songs by Hillsong or Bethel worship, or Rend Collective, or hymns, or whatever takes my fancy in that moment. I sing along in the car and in the kitchen, and I try and fill my mind with helpful words and loudly and badly sing it even when I don’t feel it. It helps, it really does.
-Be informed. I don’t want to avoid or obsess, the reality is there is big, world-changing stuff going on, and I need to know the truth. But I need to keep that balanced. For me that looks like limiting myself to checking the news or the Public Health site a couple of times a day. If something comes up on social media that seems hype, I check the source before believing or panicking.
-Pray. Being honest with God about what I’m afraid of, what I don’t understand, how crazy it all looks. Asking for wisdom and peace.
-Then put it aside in my mind. If I’m dwelling on all the data and what’s happening in Italy then I’m not consciously present with my kids or my responsibilities for today. My child needs to be picked up and held. My washing needs doing. My house needs cleaning probably more than usual. These are ongoing needs that won’t change whether I know how many cases of Coronavirus are in my town or not. Life cannot be completely on hold indefinitely, and there are things I can keep doing (or start doing the ones I’ve been putting off…finishing the landing painting might be a good way to spend the time!)
-Do the things I can do. I can make meal plans and have an idea of what I will need for this week. I can book a click and collect order. I can write a list of things to do if the kids are off school for a while. Several of my children will not cope without structure. So I’m planning a vague timetable of things we can do each day, and I’ll look up things like playdoh recipes and order a few craft things from Amazon. Maybe we’ll have a topic and all the different ages can do something related but suiting their different stages. I’ll put wellies and waterproofs on them and send them in the garden for at least a little bit every day, whatever the weather.
-When I have to make a decision, look at the facts and advice and be sensible and considerate, not dramatic or foolish. I don’t need to ring 111 for my child’s cough. But I do need to follow the advice about keeping her home and protecting others and the health service.
-Remember other people. Who can I love today? And how can I do it? Coronavirus has taken over the world, but for many people, their world was already painful for other reasons. I might not be able to meet up with people, but I can check in on them. In a time when we may need to ‘socially distance’, we can still choose to connect. The person who was grieving is still grieving but maybe feeling more alone. The tired mum is still being woken in the night but may not be able to go to the toddler groups that give her some social interaction. The healthcare worker who was already stretched and tired is going to be under a whole heap more pressure. I’m not very good at phoning people, but if we are isolated I intend to speak to someone on the phone every day. Because as good as whatsapp is, it’s not the same as actually hearing a human voice. There may be neighbours I can drop a card to offering to pick up some shopping for if they can’t get out. No man is an island, and I find it ironic that in a time where the world is more ‘social’ than ever before, we are worried about social distancing. I think the fear is because we know that we all need to actually connect with people in our lives, and that looks like going beyond Facebook and Instagram, and choosing to truly interact and care.
-And have fun. Watch happy films, play games, read books, craft, drink wine and eat chocolate. Also do online exercise to combat the above. (That one might be harder for me to motivate myself to do, but important nonetheless!). Look back at old photos and use the time to make the photo book you never get around to. Write real letters to people. On paper. (Wash your hands first).
I honestly believe this is all for a reason. Let’s use this time to reevaluate what we’re about and maybe come out of isolation a bit stronger, caring, and more compassionate. Whatever your situation, I’m sending love and calming vibes to you today. See you when my kids stop coughing, but hopefully speak to you in the meantime!
It’s National Adoption Week, and as I was reflecting this morning, it seemed like a good time to write our story. Many of you probably know parts of it, but maybe not the back story to how we began fostering in the first place.
It’s hard to say when the journey began. Was it when I was a child, imagining how I might find an abandoned baby and take it home? Was it as a teenager, when I did work experience in a Special Care Baby Unit, and spent a day cuddling a baby going through drug withdrawal, having my eyes opened to the impact a birth parent’s lifestyle can have, rocking her as she cried a high pitched cry, and I was wondering at the injustice of it all? Or was it as a student midwife, holding the baby of a vulnerable mum, who hadn’t been parented, and didn’t know how to do it herself, and I was praying silently for his protection?
Or was it when Liam worked with looked after teenagers, some coming in and out of youth justice centres, and he watched as some foster carers treated their home like an overnight hostel, where the child was kicked out after breakfast, and not welcome back until bedtime? Where some young people lived lives back and forth between their birth family and the care system, not knowing who they belonged to – or who, if anyone, really cared for them?
The moment that propelled us forwards for me, was when I still worked as a midwife. We had been blessed with our three older children in the space of 4 years, and life was full. We had moved out of our tiny two bed mid-terrace before Toby was born, and had found ourselves in a modest sized four bedroom house, but we both felt this nagging feeling that perhaps we aren’t meant to aspire to a comfortable life as our ultimate goal. Perhaps when we are blessed with extra, we are supposed to look outwards and share what we have. And for some that might even include our home with a spare room, our safe family unit, our ability to love.
During this time there came a day when I was working on the delivery suite, and was asked to attend the birth of a baby who, once delivered, would not be allowed to stay unsupervised in the same room as his birth father. The moment came when the baby was born, and as he opened his mouth and took his first breath, his mother closed her eyes, turned her body away from him, and asked for him to be taken away.
It was up to me then, to take the child up to the Neonatal Unit, to be checked over by the medical staff there. Once they were done, and he was given a clean bill of health, the nurses were keen for the baby to leave the unit and go back to maternity.
Except that the baby was not welcome back downstairs, and now had no place to be upstairs either. And I stood over his crib, looking at him, waiting for phone calls to be made and plans to come into action, and wondering what on earth would happen to him. He had no choice over his arrival in the world, and no control over what would happen to him next. He would wait for a social worker to pack him up in a car seat into her car, and take him to the next available foster carer, where he would spend the next few months, waiting for the court to decide his future. Everything in my body ached for this child, and my heart broke whilst deciding that we had to do something. Perhaps we couldn’t help this one, but this story wasn’t new, it was – and is – repeated time and time and time again throughout hospitals and homes all through the country.
So we talked things through with a few foster families we knew, we prayed, and we approached the local authority. At the time of the initial visit from the social worker, Toby was one year old, the girls three and four. They commented that when our application landed on their desk, they looked at it and wondered what on earth we could possibly be thinking?!
Over the 18 months it took to be assessed, we went on courses, answered question after question, asked the children and our friends and our parents to be interviewed, and moved excitedly and nervously towards the unknown. We were interviewed at panel, 12 people sitting across a desk opposite us, knowing everything that had been written about us in the enormous document they held, questioning our finances, our faith, our family dynamics.
And then they announced that we were approved! We headed home, and before we pulled into our street the phone rang. Could we take an 18 month old baby girl? Hearts racing, palms shaking, we said yes. By the time we were home they had rung again, to say this one wouldn’t be coming to us. But by the end of the week someone was.
Those five years of fostering were the hardest and the best. We learned how easy it can be to love a new child placed in your arms. We learned how hard it can be to watch a child fight against your offered love. We learned how beautiful it is to see a child placed with the forever family that is so obviously perfect for them. We learned how hard it can be to trust the decisions of other humans who are making plans for the child you love. We saw and felt anger and guilt and fear and loss and heartbreak, and laughter and joy and trust and love.
We welcomed little ones at a couple of hours notice, dashing to 24 hour supermarkets for bottles and clothes and bedding. We welcomed them, tiny and broken, older and afraid, and we attended appointments and meetings, kept records, and fell in love.
During those years the flame of commitment we felt towards fostering and adoption grew and grew. There were times that were incredibly hard and lonely, times when we wondered if we could keep doing it. But the time someone else looked on and questioned – ‘maybe you’re not called to it?’, we asked ourselves – is finding something hard the reason to give up? On the days I find my birth children hard, can I opt to quit? These children need the people who are willing to do the hard things for them. When people said ‘I’d love to, but I’d get too attached’, I wondered if they didn’t see my heart breaking at every goodbye, but knowing that these children need someone who is willing to break their heart, so that that little heart has a chance of mending.
The greatest test came with the baby a social worker asked us to consider adopting. And we said yes. And we imagined her in our family, carrying our name, until death us do part.
And then the judge made different plan. A plan that cut us to the heart.
And in that time, in all my praying and crying, and wondering how I could possibly hand her over, came the reassurance that she was never mine – just like Megan, and Maisie, and Toby are not mine. Each little one was chosen and designed before they existed. Their days were planned and numbered before time began. And the One who created them in the secret place is holding them for eternity. Their lives have purpose, but that doesn’t mean that I am the one who needs to fulfil it. It is an honour and a blessing to have been given them, for as long as He calls me to hold them, and to then release them for purposes greater than I can understand. So after 14 months of loving her, we said goodbye, wiped our tears, and welcomed someone new, trusting that the Perfect Father would be holding her as she moved on.
Three years and a few more babies loved and transitioned on later, we found ourselves in a lull from fostering. Not as many children were coming into the system – a good thing, for sure, but unsettling and unnerving when you are waiting on the end of the phone. Calls came, we said yes, then different plans were made. On one day we were anticipating a six month old baby we had been called about over several days – the clothes were washed, the bed was made, then it was decided she would go to another carer.
For three months this went on, over Christmas, all through January. I reluctantly began to look into jobs and work options. And then on the first day of February half term, a phone call. Could we have two little ones tonight?
We could.
Six months later, with another one on the way, the decision for them to be adopted was made.
Offering ourselves to be considered as their adopters was one of the scariest things we’ve ever done. We knew the pain we were risking. They were already part of our family, and although as foster carers we anticipated saying an inevitable goodbye, as foster carers being assessed to adopt, we were opening ourselves to dream, whilst knowing that at any point, without any power to override it, the decision could be made to place them somewhere else. To be someone else’s family. But with a peace that did not come from us, we offered ourselves, and began the assessment process.
And the rest, as they say, is history. You can find the story of Micah joining us on an early blog post, ‘Never a Dull Moment’, – a whole story in itself! In each moment of the journey I can see how God prepared us for it, how He provided finances and houses and faith, when we could never have anticipated it all coming together.
It took 22 months for the legal court order to be declared in December 2017- the same age M was when she joined us, and it has been 22 months since that order was granted. Earlier today I found something that I wrote in the days leading up to the final court hearing, and it rings truer every day. As we live out the day to day of this messy, chaotic, joyful, and challenging family life, of broken people choosing to love each other, this is still how I feel.
‘I feel nervous and excited at the beginning of a journey and a story that will take me to the hard places, the uncomfortable places, and the lonely places. But there is a hope and a peace inside of me that in this story is beauty. In this story is healing and redemption and life. Where there was abandonment and hurt there is now family and security and hope.
🌷These tulips were a gift from my Mum last week. They’ve sat looking beautiful in my kitchen, and I’ve admired the lovely colour and slightly frayed edge to the petals. They’re getting older now and the colour is fading, but when I bent closer and looked inside I saw an amazing display of colour. It’s not obvious from the outside, they’re starting to look a bit tired. But now they are more open they are showing their hidden beauty.
🌷This gave me hope this week. I can easily feel so negative about myself. My lack of confidence, my insecurities, my failings, my body, my fears, my habits. I foolishly spend time wondering and worrying what people see when they look. And what my role is and what I’m achieving. And wishing I was stronger, better, nicer, more, more, more…
🌷And I was reminded that my beauty may not be visible. Some people will never want to know me well enough to find out who I actually am. Or they will see my frayed edges and fading colour and reject me. But the One who designed me before I existed (Psalm 139), crafted me (Eph 2:10), and knows me (Psalm 103), He doesn’t look at the outside, He sees my heart (1 Sam 16:7). He chooses not to focus on my weaknesses, because He is my strength (2 Cor 12:9,10). He forgives my worst moments and chooses to forget my failings (Heb 8:12). He loves me (John 3:16, 1 John 3:16).
🌷And boy this is freeing! I can walk with my head held high and my eyes lifted up to the only opinion that matters. The One who not only looks inside at the secret beauty, but was the One who designed my own individual colours to be what those He put near me need to see.
🌷And it’s true for you too-whatever kind of week you’re having, however you feel about yourself, know that you are loved, seen, and worth dying for.
I have moments where I dream of doing big things. Maybe not world changing, but dramatic, exciting, people-affecting things. But isn’t this often the biggest and hardest thing right here? To love my family. The ones I see all the time. The ones who aren’t being lovely. Who are in fact being their worst. To love those who are draining. To love when it feels like there is nothing left to give.
We hear so much about ‘self love’ and ‘self care’, and there’s of course definitely a place for that. For not trying to pour from an empty cup. But I’m fairly certain Mother Teresa didn’t book herself a spa day when things were tough. I think she knelt and sought strength from the One who promises that in our weakness, He is strong. (2 Cor 12:10)
It’s been a tough week so far. Liam has been very poorly since Saturday. One child had a sickness bug all afternoon on Sunday. Another was sick everywhere in the middle of the night. On two different nights. Two other children have sore throats, temperatures and coughs. Little Lady M was making a big move to a new school this week, tricky for any child, even trickier when your early life makes change and loss very complicated. And I’ve tried. Tried to keep going, doing all the jobs, chasing the pesky rabbit, being hit by grumpy toddlers, deciding whose illness warrants a day off or not, checking on Liam, planning and buying food, riding the emotional turmoils of the children…the day in, day out stuff of life. I know that I can’t complain. There are people that I love in much more painful, longer term situations. But we all hit those weeks where the going gets tough. And how do I keep going? Keep loving? Not stressing at the children? Not getting frustrated with the illnesses? Holding my tongue when the weariness sets in?
On Sunday we were reminded in our church service about the Jesus who came from heaven to serve those who hated Him. He knelt and washed the feet of the friend who was about to betray Him to be killed. He who made the world, and had authority over the storms, chose to die for the sake of those who let Him down. He knew His friends weaknesses, their arguments, their pride, their laziness, their abandonment, but He loved them till the end. Where He chose to give His life to give them – to give us – life.
Yesterday I hit a tiredness wall. But when I stopped and acknowledged that I know I’m not loving well, that I’m being stretched and I’m failing, that was the moment help came.
Coffee helps, of course, but true strength and energy when my resources have run out doesn’t actually come from caffeine, or from sleep, or a candlelit bath (although I wouldn’t say no to any of those things). It comes from my weakness. From being wise enough to know I can’t do this alone, or perfectly. From loving my family enough to say sorry when I get it wrong. From being humble enough to ask for help and to accept it.
When I reached out, and told God I was starting to lose the plot, and told some friends I was exhausted, these were some of the encouragements that they sent me.
‘He tends His flock like shepherd, He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young.’ Isaiah 40:11
‘The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.’ Ex 34:6
‘But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.’ 2 Cor 4:7
‘But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.’ Lam 3:21-23
I can’t do it all, and I will often fail. But I believe there is grace to keep loving, by turning to the One who loves perfectly, until the end.
*NB I realise Mother Teresa shouldn’t have an H in her name. It’s bugging me, but the coffee is gone so we’ll have to all live with the symbolic imperfection. xxx
I feel like the old lady at the start of Titanic…’it’s been 84 years…’
It’s actually only been four days, but it’s surprising how slowly time can go when you’re confined to the house. Our outings so far this week have been to the school bus stop and back, and to the playgroup and back. On Monday the poorly child vomited on the way to playgroup and on the way back, so we’ve avoided any other non-essential trips. Now this isn’t all a sob story, because I did actually get out of the house yesterday for a quick meeting and emergency food supply top up, and a cheeky meal out for Liam’s birthday (big shout out to the brave Aunty we left here to man the ship!). The meal was bracketed by the second poorly child being sick on our bed and all over me before we left, and us returning home to change aforementioned bed. By midnight we had two small people in our bed with us.
There are times when weeks like this have occurred, that it has felt devastating. I have sulked at cancelled plans, been jealous of Liam getting out of the house, and got increasingly annoyed at the universe and it’s injustice.
Over time I have become more accustomed to these episodes. The maths seems to say that the more children you have = the longer viruses live in the house for. I’ve worked out that if the pattern of first child getting ill on Sunday, followed by second child ill on Wednesday continues, then we’ll be at home for roughly a month. I wonder how many hours of Octonauts could be watched in a month? I guess we need to settle in and ride this wave.
I dart off in between clingy children, and do the essential jobs. I work out the budget. I send emails. I make phone calls. I’m itching to paint the landing, but the length of time between Calpol doses or the sad ‘mum I need a cuddle/drink/snack/telly’ calls isn’t very long and I fear that would be a foolish dream to try and achieve. But already my brain is starting to go a bit mushy. When I left the house yesterday, and we drove to the big city, with the big car park, and fancy restaurants, I was genuinely in awe of how many people were out! At night! Did they not know this isn’t normal?! It felt like a surreal experience of walking into a movie, I’m out in this world but don’t feel like I belong. I’m starting to forget how to hold a conversation or whether I brushed my hair.
I would be lying if I didn’t say the monotony or the challenge of juggling lots of small ill people doesn’t get to me at times, but I think there are definitely things that I can do to help my attitude. I’d seen last week that someone on Instagram was running a challenge about looking for joy in parenting. It seemed ironic timing, but actually it was helpful to be going into this week with that mindset, consciously looking for the good moments. Obviously the danger with too much time on social media is the tendency toward jealousy of all the people who I think are having more fun, but as long as I keep the perspective that we only show what we choose to show of our lives and no-one’s lives are glamorous all of the time, then I find some parts of it can be fun and even helpful. A reminder and challenge to look for the good, and to find things to be grateful for is always helpful to me.
I try not to have too many expectations – over how long the illness will go on for, how much sleep I’ll get, or what I might get done today. Roll with it, we’ll all get through somehow. If I’m stuck to the sofa under a feverish child with Paw Patrol on repeat I can probably manage to hold a book in the other hand and keep my brain alive. The key is to making sure I stop to make myself a cup of tea before committing to the cuddle.
There are times I might have to ask for help. This is my weakest area. I’ve spent a lot of time over the years trying to hide my vulnerabilities. I’d much prefer to think I can manage alone, but why? There are people out there, if they don’t know I might need something how can they help? We aren’t made to do it alone, we’re made for community. I put a quick shout out on Facebook this morning to see if someone local would mind picking up some Calpol for us – the thought of dragging three poorly little ones to the shop wasn’t appealing. Some kind mum friends quickly got in touch and offered, and it wasn’t long before someone dropped some off. But I’d also reminded myself that if no-one did, that isn’t personal either. People don’t always see the message. Other people are in the same – or harder – position, and can’t help this time. That’s okay, if I have to do it anyway it might not be easy, but we’ll be home again in half an hour.
And then there’s that quote, ‘the days are long but the years are short’. Perspective can be helpful. I definitely struggled more with times like this earlier on in my parenting journey. Suddenly the little girl who was driving me crazy with her tantrums and sleeplessness and naughtiness is the same height as me, with a hilarious sense of humour, stealing my make up, and likes to hide in her bedroom. And now I’ve got to the days where she isn’t clinging on to my side, I’d quite like her back here, where I can know who she’s talking to, what she’s listening to, and what choices she’s going to make.
So here we are, washing all the bedding, one small person cuddled to sleep in my bed because he had a strop about the cot. There have been fights, refusals to eat, and more biscuits than is probably nutritionally wise. But outside the sun is shining, inside the small people are safe and getting well again, and there will be a day when we get to go out. Only by then I might have forgotten how to speak to grown ups, and there’s a chance I’ll still be wearing pyjamas. If you see me, I’ll be the one in sunglasses getting used to all the fresh air.
Liam says my mum gives presents if someone sneezes. Actually, that’s not true, because loud sneezes are one of the things that make her really cross. But still, gifts are her love language, and I’m the same. So it was already an interesting dynamic that the man I met and love and married shares his birthday with the day St Valentine met his untimely end. Who gets gifts? Do we just throw out the commercial holiday made to bring more money to greedy supermarkets, or do I get him two gifts and he still sneaks out for flowers/chocolates/wine on February 13th (or 14th…or 15th)? In previous years, we’ve gone with the second option.
Until two years ago, when on this day, we were gifted another Valentine. I’m not willing to take responsibility for poor planning on this one. Granted, our family planning historically has looked like more family and less planning, but on this one we can’t take any credit. I’ve already talked about his arrival to our family on here, so suffice it to say that we had very little idea we’d be sharing our meal for £15 with a tiny newborn that year. But that day changed our family dynamic once again, with a new little one to be grateful for. But what do birthdays look like when you weren’t the one who gave birth?
The very idea of a birthday is to celebrate someone’s birth, their arrival into the world. And, like my mum, I’m definitely up for that. I love giving gifts, I love making that person feel special. And I’m also very nostalgic. I love remembering dates and days and talking memories. But the truth is, that for a lot of people, birthdays often bring a measure of pain in the memories too.
As a student midwife, I quickly learned that the movie idealised birth story, where the perfectly made-up mother with gentle devoted partner pops out a beautiful completely round-headed forceps-mark free baby who is immediately bundled into a pure white crocheted blanket is just that – a story. Birth involves pain. For many people, the pain of labour is put behind them, and they embrace life with a newborn. But I think for possibly the majority of people, there is history that comes with them into the labour room, and that will go home with them too.
In those rooms, I saw mothers who had waited for this day for many many years. They brought fear and anxiety into the delivery suite, and a brave hope that their dreams might at last come true. I saw mothers whose tears of joy were mingled with tears of loss – they’d lost their own mother, or father, a previous baby, or the father of their child, and the birth of a newborn was an intense reminder of that person they desperately wished was still a part of their life. I saw mothers afraid of who their partner was, but they were birthing his baby and clinging to the ideal that he would be who said he could be. I saw mothers who were children themselves, with their own mothers nervously stroking their hair. I saw mothers who hadn’t anticipated this baby, and didn’t know how they felt, how they would bond, if they even wanted to take it home. I saw mothers whose baby was born, and it wasn’t the perfect baby they had dreamed of, it would have needs they didn’t know if they could manage, and their world came crashing down. I saw mothers who knew the baby they would birth would never breathe. Their baby had left earth before it arrived, and those heartbreaking deliveries were sombre with intense, raw grief. I saw mothers whose baby was born far too soon, and they were afraid for its life. And I saw mothers whose baby would be whisked away, because it was too unsafe to send them home to the chaos and abuse and trauma there.
What I learned in those rooms, through my own experiences, and through being privileged to witness so many others, is that often the words ‘happy birthday’ are an oxymoron. Often a birth day is not pure joy and elation. Even in the births of my first three children, I carry buried pain alongside beautiful memories, whole stories in themselves. For my youngest three children, their birthdays are mingled with huge loss. Their loss of safety, of childhood innocence, of the only world they’d known, and the loss of the mother who gave birth to them. I can’t even imagine what goes through her mind on those days. And for me there’s sadness too – all the first moments missed, and all the pain I wish I could have saved them from. But this is life in a broken world, a whirling mess of joy and heartache, a see-sawing of hurt and healing, and with every birth delivered in pain there is promise of hope. A new life, a new story to be written. A new person gifted to this world for a reason, capable of being loved and held and dreamed for, and of loving and holding and dreaming.
I think it’s important to acknowledge the whole story, even if only to myself. I know I’m not alone in these days of mixed emotions. When we celebrate birthdays, I’m not pretending that all birth days are happy days. And I’m not trying to patch over a hard story. But I am celebrating this person. This gift of life. This day that marks another year on earth for them, another year of their unique personality and character and skills changing the world and the people around them because of their individual design. Despite the minor challenges of the two cake-making, double gift-buying, ‘where do I hang all the cards?’ issues related to the double birthday, I feel so honoured that we get to celebrate this little boy. People sometimes tell us that the children are lucky to have us. I don’t think lucky is the right word for such a start to life, but I feel incredibly privileged to have him, to be the one to wrap his presents, light his candles, and listen to him walking around the house still singing ‘happy birthday’ to himself, four days later.
As for Valentine’s Day, I still sneaked it in, with heart confetti on the dinner table and a chocolate for each child. I’m okay with letting it go for myself these days- I’m just hoping for double presents on my birthday to make up for it…
I’m feeling meh today. It turns out that ‘meh’ is actually in the dictionary (thanks to the Simpsons, I believe), and given that it even has an emoji, it is clearly a recognised state of mind. Apparently it is defined as ‘expressing a lack of interest or enthusiasm, unenthusiastic, apathetic’ (Oxford Living Dictionaries).
On a normal day once I’ve pulled myself out of bed and woken up properly, I don’t stop. Until around 9pm when the older kids go to bed, I keep going, busying, organising, moving. But today I got up, got people dressed, made breakfasts and lunches, and that was it. I went up to get dressed but flopped on the bed and decided I don’t want to be an adult any more.
I’m not sure where it’s come from but the fog has been there for a few days now. I think the speeding ticket that arrived last week may have begun it. Then a small person smashed my favourite lamp and violently hammered the wall I’d just painted. Over the weekend I lost my Weight Watchers motivation and drank all the Prosecco and ate all the chocolate. The hall had been my project for last week, and downstairs is looking good, but the half painted stairway that I can’t reach anymore is nagging at me every time I walk up and down it.
Then Monday began badly. This week already felt stressful – Liam away overnight, a day of two birthdays sandwiched between hospital appointments, and a meeting I’m not looking forward to. I was trying to leave to meet friends and had a series of unfortunate incidents including a last minute nappy to change and a child’s fingers shut in the door, cue much screaming and reassuring.
So there was of course an irony in the smoke that started emerging from the bonnet as I drove down the dual carriageway. Accompanied by a rapidly rising temperature gauge in the car, an urgent diversion and parking up at a builders merchants, and all plans for the day being abandoned. So I cried, rang Liam, told the security guard my sob story, and the boys and I were rescued by a kind friend.
But the funny thing about my mood is that the car, which would normally be the biggest of my worries practically and financially, was actually a free and quick repair due to an error at the garage. So in theory, I should feel better today.
But I don’t.
So I started wondering about this as I attempted laundry, mindlessly and demotivated, this afternoon. The speeding ticket seemed to have kick started an emotional reaction in me, which followed along these lines:
I’ve never had one before, so I felt guilty, annoyed, and disappointed in myself. I should know better, be more attentive, be more careful, leave earlier, rush less, and not be distracted. Basically, I let myself down. And broke the law.
And now I can’t even finish off the hall painting job that I started.
Or stick to a diet which I avoided starting for fear of failing.
Or breeze into the week without worrying.
Or confidently manage two birthdays on Valentine’s day, complete with well thought-out gifts and homemade cakes of excellence.
Or be as good a friend as I’d like to be.
Or keep the house as orderly and tidy as Marie Kondo.
Or get myself out of a broken down car situation without feeling helpless and pathetic.
Or know in all certainty what the best way to handle a difficult meeting will be and how to make a wise decision in a seemingly Catch 22 situation.
The long and short of it seems to be this –
I’d like to think I’m superwoman. I place ridiculously high expectations on myself to be everything, do everything, and not make mistakes. And when I do, I wallow in guilt, self-pity, and disappointment at my humanity, and decide I’d like to give up.
The interesting thing is that when I see this in my children, I spend a lot of time reminding them – you’re human, you will make mistakes, it’s okay. We’re not God, we’re fallible creatures who will get it wrong. And we can rest in the arms of a kind God, who gave everything including His own Son for a relationship with us, who chooses not to look on our mistakes but at who He made us to be, and He declares that we are His design, and it is good. And when I remind myself of that, the mood starts to lift, and I can hand over the burden of worry and the pressure of perfection, and know that all I need to be today is me.
So it turns out I don’t need to define my week by an emoji. There is grace – for the mistakes of last week, the disorder of today, and the anxieties of tomorrow. And there is hope, in a new sunrise, a fresh start, and love that never fails.
And Weight Watchers can wait, because it would be downright rude not to eat cake on the birthdays anyway.
In 2003 I finished University, qualified as a midwife, moved to Wales and started working.
In 2004 we got engaged.
In 2005 we got married.
In 2006 Megan was born.
In 2007 Maisie was born, and on December 20th she had a cleft palate repair operation.
In 2008 I went back to work.
In 2009 we moved house, and Toby was born on December 18th.
In 2010 we moved house, and I went back to work.
In 2011 we began a foster carer assessment.
In March 2012 we were approved as foster carers, placed with a child, and I finished work. In September we transitioned that child to his forever home, and in October received our second placement of a tiny baby.
In May 2013 we moved house. In November we transitioned baby to her forever home.
In January 2014 we received our third foster placement, another tiny baby. In September we transitioned her to her forever home. In October we received our fourth foster placement, another tiny newborn.
In August 2015 we moved house. In October we transitioned baby to her forever home.
In 2016 we received M and T as foster placements. In September we began our adoption assessment. In October and November I spent two weeks in hospital with a very poorly T. At the end of November I had the terrible phone call to say my brother Dan had suddenly died.
In February 2017 baby Micah joined us less than 24 hours old. In March we moved house, then went to adoption panel and were approved. In April we began our adoption assessment for Micah. In July we were approved as his adopters.
In 2018 we survived…the impact of grief, six children, a baby with (now diagnosed) milk protein and soya allergies, one child starting high school, one starting reception, one learning to walk, one being potty trained. In July Liam started a new job. In September four went to school and I juggled:
3 ballet classes a week
1 guides group
1 guitar lesson
2 piano lessons
2 swimming lessons
1 youth club
2 gymnastics classes.
What’s my point in this lengthy list? By December I was struggling. I was exhausted physically and emotionally. Liam’s job is brilliant but much longer hours. I was increasingly aware the children were not getting the best of me. At the same time, I was conscious that this was the first year no major changes had happened or looked like they were going to happen, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that. I was used to gearing up for the next thing, and although I dread change, I had adapted to living a fast-paced, adrenaline charged life. And now I was wondering what I would do next – in only a couple of years all the children would be in school. I started looking at what jobs I might do.
In December I was anxious about feeling very un-festive, stressed about all the things to do and the lack of time to do it. But then I decided to start embracing advent, the counting of each day, the repetitive opening of a calendar (or in my case, an email with crochet instructions!). The looking towards something, but making the most of the build up too.
I think somewhere in that month, I began to enjoy slowing down, and that changed my thinking about January. Megan had made the difficult decision to finish ballet, which had been a huge part of her life from the age of three. Maisie chose to leave guides, as she was new into comprehensive school, and felt she would be better home in the evening. Little M, new to reception, was (is) absolutely exhausted, often falling asleep on the way home, and one by one, her after school activities had to stop too. My initial response was to wonder what they could or should do instead? Surely it would help them socially and physically to attend these classes? What if they grow up and resent the lack of opportunities they had? What if they blame me for having nothing to put on their CV because they hadn’t moved from one thing to another?
Somewhere in those weeks at the end of an old year and start of a new one, it dawned on me that this year Megan will be 13. In five short years, she could be packing her bags and moving out. Micah turns 2 in February – by the end of the year, he could be going to playgroup, the stepping stone to nursery, then school. And I realised what I wanted to do most in January was to slow right down. To not replace the clubs and activities with more running around, but to be with the children. The times I get most overwhelmed, stressed, and unpleasant with them, are often the times that I’m running around trying to get everyone out of the house, or get dinner ready in between taxiing people places, doing ballet buns, and washing swimming kits. And then someone wets their pants or has a tantrum, and it’s one thing too much. And I don’t want to have spent the majority of our time together being stressed about the next thing, and missing the opportunities we have today.
I want to build relationships with them, to have time to talk about their days, what excites them, and the things that make them unsettled in the night. To watch and observe as they grow and to be able to speak into their forming characters. To give cuddles and play games and read stories and google maths problems that I have no clue about, and to help them as they think through what their actions meant. To not be so frazzled that by the time I see Liam in the evening I have lost all ability to hold a conversation, and he also gets the worst of me.
I know this won’t last forever. Life keeps changing, things will happen that I can’t anticipate or predict. The children will probably want or need different activities that will fill up the calendar. But maybe if I have slowed down for a time, when we had the opportunity, we’ll all be more ready for that.
So that’s where I am right now. Trying to take time to be. Not filling my days and evenings, but allowing time to be together. And time for me to be filled up so I can pour out to those I love the most. To read, to write, to pray, to listen to music, to crochet more animals, to take more photos, to even have a bath. With candles. And I’m actually learning to enjoy it.
6:15 Alarm goes off. Drag myself downstairs. It can’t only be Monday. Put kettle on. It can’t only be the second week of term. Make cup of tea. Empty dishwasher. Hear footsteps on stairs. Internally pray the person breaking my solitude doesn’t speak to me. Or even worse, ask me a question. Please let them have the respect to wait until I’ve drunk caffeine. Amen.
6:40 Child 5 opens door on his own toes. Comforting Mum mode switched on.
7:00 Husband speed walks to the shop to get change for the bus. Two lots of £1:10 needed four times per day. On no account will the bus driver let Child 1 pay with a £2 and 20p for herself and Child 2. We have used all the coppers and money from the kids money boxes, so times are desperate.
7:20 Remind Child 1 who has lost her dinner card but isn’t intending to make lunch for school that ‘food is more important than foundation’. When you are 12, anyway. At 37 with eye bags this impressive those priorities are reversed.
7:30 First two children leave. Husband leaves. I wrestle two smallest offspring into their clothes. I am sweaty and worn out when finished. Child 3 plays basketball in the hall and Child 4 makes strong objections about going to school.
8:25 At the school bus stop. Child 5 declares he’s done a wee, as the trickle seeps out of his trouser leg and down the hill towards the unsuspecting waiting parents.
9:15 Back home, child in clean set of clothes. Attempt computer type jobs. Child 6 asks for lunch.
9:30 I am feeling motivated despite the ‘wee’ (no pun intended) incident. Months ago I decided to paint a blue wall in the lounge. I tried a tester which the kids all thought was black, so I concluded maybe that was too dark. So those two test patches have been on the walls ever since, all through Christmas, as a little pointer to my unfinished moment of creativity. Today is the day. I paint over the patches with the second tester pot. I hate it.
10:15 In B&Q (not the fire station, despite Child 5’s hopes and dreams) to buy paint. Child 5 announces he needs a wee. Make the long walk with the pushchair from the paint aisle to the secret unlabelled door on the back wall that hides a customer toilet.
10:25 Waiting for assistant to mix a whole tin of paint that I may or may not like when it’s on the wall. Child 5 announces he’s done a poo. It’s true. Wait for paint, head back to the hidden toilet. Didn’t bring bag with change of clothes and wet wipes, so he’s cleaned with wet toilet paper and is going commando. Pay for paint.
10:30 Arrive back at car. Lifting Child 6 into car seat when he announces ‘shoe gone’ in his best speech. It’s true. He has one lonely Converse on his left foot. Given that we’ve already lost his other pair of shoes, I load him back in the pushchair, get Child 5 back out, and we make the long walk back into the shop, down all the aisles we’ve been in, all the way to the very back, through two doors into that same toilet, and there is the offending shoe. We retrieve it, and go back to the car.
10:45 Undeterred by the morning so far, I decide we’ll go and get the boys haircut on the way home. Foolishly tell them the plan. Child 5 likes to say ‘what?’ on repeat, no matter how many times you rephrase what you said, or how loud you say it, he just carries on. ‘What?’ ‘Haircut.’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re going to get your hair cut.’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re going to the hairdressers to see if they will cut your hair.’ ‘What?’ Along with that, Child 6 is in parrot mode, learning new words every 5 minutes. ‘Haircut’, haircut, what, what, what.’ Is it too early for wine?
11:00 Hairdresser is closed on Monday. Drive to second hairdresser.
11:05 Both boys have fallen asleep. I don’t want them asleep now, or else there’ll be no moment of peace to paint the wall when Child 5 is in playgroup. Wake them up and go into second hairdresser. They can’t do it today. Book appointment for tomorrow. Get back in car to go home.
11:20 Child 5 decides he has a spider on his head. ‘There’s a spider on my head! I need the hairdresser to take it off! We need to go back! The hairdresser needs to take the spider off my hair!’ Me:‘You don’t have a spider in your hair, and the hairdresser can’t cut your hair until tomorrow.’ ‘What?’ Meanwhile from the back seat comes the echo, ‘spider, spider, spider’.
11:30 We go home for lunch, playgroup, painting, and bed. I’m not sure who is doing what or in which order, but it’s good to have goals on a Monday afternoon.
Savouring My Days 
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