Family

A Tale of Six Babies. (On Breastfeeding Awareness Week).

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It’s Breastfeeding Awareness Week.

I’ve seen lots of posts this week, proud ones, sad ones, incredible ones, wistful ones.

And it made me think about my breastfeeding journey. I grew up watching my mum breastfeed, and then I was a midwife, helping other women breastfeed. It wasn’t a question of if I would do it, it was what was expected of me, wasn’t it?

Then I had my babies.

The first one I breastfed for 5 months and she and I both cried the majority of the time. They said to feed on demand. And she demanded. All of the time. And I felt a pressure of being the one who was supposed to calm her, but I wasn’t calm and she wasn’t calm and it was lonely and not the beautiful bonding experience I’d imagined. Because I was struggling to bond with her at all.

Number two I wanted to breastfeed, wanted it to be a different experience, a happy experience, and I tried to breastfeed. And the milk all came pouring back out of her nose, leading me to find her undiagnosed cleft palate. We were readmitted to hospital. She was losing weight. She had an NG tube passed until we were given bottles that we could use to physically squeeze the milk into her mouth. I cried because the choice of breastfeeding was taken away. I cried because my baby had a big hole in her mouth and went blue when she lay on her back, and the cleft would bring surgery and hearing problems and speech problems. I had a 13 month old running around my feet, and a baby who couldn’t suck her bottle, so we would painstakingly squeeze it into her mouth for an hour at a time, but she had severe reflux so she then vomited it all back up. I expressed exclusively for six weeks, until I sat at a friends house trying to chat casually whilst being attached to a pump, and I felt like it might just tip me over the edge. So I introduced formula for all of our sakes. And she was prescribed medication for the reflux and extra calories for the weight and at six months when she was wheeled into the operating theatre I couldn’t care less how she fed, just grateful that we live in a place where we have access to life changing medicine.

By the third baby, I’d decided that for my mental health, and our whole family’s wellbeing, I would breastfeed until it became obvious it wasn’t helpful to one of us any more. I enjoyed it. He fed well for 3 months. And then he was still taking 45 minutes to feed, and I had a 2 and 3 year old and was trying to run out of the house to pick one up from nursery but he was only halfway through a feed. So I introduced formula. And we were both ok with that.

And then there are the younger three babies.

One I don’t know if she was breastfed. But I know she wasn’t fed fresh milk.

One was breastfed. But he was not fed enough.

One was fed his first feed by a midwife because his birth mother had already left.

These last two weeks I’ve been shedding tears over my babies growing up. The cotbed going, more milestones passing. There are days I feel sad that my breastfeeding journey wasn’t what I’d hoped. That my emotional state was so low on baby number one. That my baby number two had a broken mouth that 13 years later is still causing her trouble. That I didn’t feed any of them until they were naturally ready to stop. That I wasn’t there for my youngest three babies first feeds. Wasn’t there when they were not being fed or cleaned or cuddled and rocked.

We are in a culture that encourages breast feeding, and that is good and to be celebrated. Breast milk is designed perfectly for a baby. It isn’t always easy, and it’s right to celebrate the hard work and journey mums and babies go on together, and to raise awareness of the need for support. And it’s important that it is promoted, it comes with huge health benefits and financial benefits, and can bring an attachment which will help a child develop physically and emotionally way beyond its breastfeeding years.

But I think it can become a pressure too. In the world of comparisons and competitions and self inflicted desire for perfection, it can become the perceived be-all and end-all and and there are mums and babies who suffer because of an unwritten need to succeed.

And there are women who feel less because they didn’t breastfeed.

Or even have a baby to feed.

And there are babies who can’t feed.

And babies who don’t get fed.

So I guess this is where I came to this week.

-I can celebrate other people’s journeys whilst acknowledging the parts in mine and my children’s that make me sad.

-Liam says I can’t keep just having babies to try and achieve the (unlikely) ideal breastfeeding experience. (Party pooper). So instead of regretting what wasn’t, I can keep looking for the gifts to be found in today.

-I can remember that every journey is unique in this parenting lark. Every child is different, every parent is different. Achievements will look different for all of us, and milestones are different for every child, individual to their story.

-When I listen to amazing mums worrying, feeling guilty, questioning, I want to remind them: believe me when I say that the fact you are doing all this is proof in itself that you are doing a good job. You have no idea of the impact you are having just by picking up your crying baby.

And most of all:

I never ever want another mum to feel alone.

Whether you birthed your baby or adopted.

Whether your baby is in your arms or carried in your heart.

Whether you breastfed or formula fed.

Whether you are loving every minute or finding that every day is a struggle.

Whether your family is picture perfect or so far away from what you dreamt.

Babies are an amazing gift, but the ride can be rocky. I want you to know you are not alone. Talk to someone. Message someone. I’m here for the laughs and the tears, with tea and cake and tissues. I’m here for community, not comparison.

‘He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young’. – Isaiah 40:11

Imagine.

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Just imagine being almost 2.

Imagine someone you don’t know arriving in your house.

Imagine your parents being angry.

Imagine the sounds of heated arguments, raised voices.

Imagine seeing uniforms you don’t understand, faces foreign to you.

Imagine being scooped up from your cot and put in a car you don’t know with a baby you’re terrified of.

Imagine being driven by a stranger in the dark.

Imagine her taking you to another house.

Imagine being left there with more strangers.

Imagine screaming as they gently wash the ingrained dirt from your hair, encrusted in your eyebrows.

Imagine being offered milk in a different cup, and it doesn’t taste the same here.

Imagine sobbing as they put you in a bed you don’t know, in a room that smells weird, whilst they sing songs you’ve never heard, stroking you with hands you’ve never touched.

Imagine trying to frantically climb away on legs that don’t work from the baby trying to touch you.

Imagine feeling it all without the words to voice it.

Imagine experiencing it all without the power to fight it.

Imagine over time building trust and growing to love and starting to feel safe. Of the old life gradually fading away and the new one becoming home. The strangers becoming family, reminding you you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But imagine that every time something changes or you feel afraid, you are transported back. Back to the two year old, paralysed with fear. Back to the two year old, unable to speak. Back to the two year old, who can’t run away. Back to the two year old, not knowing who is safe. Back to the two year old, having everything and everyone you know ripped away in moments.

And then imagine the fragile world you’re slowly starting to trust stopping with no warning. Those feelings rising up again. Familiar faces gone again. Familiar places gone again. You cling to the safety of home, of family. But you become so used to being there, that each time your Mummy or Daddy goes to leave, the panic rises up again. The world outside is different now. There are germs, there are rules, wash your hands, don’t touch, don’t cough, stand away, don’t hug.

And then imagine change again. You want to try. You want to be brave. You want to go to school. You pack your bag, you put on your uniform, you walk up the drive. And there it is. School, but not the faces you love. It doesn’t look the same. All those rules you must keep. Those invisible germs that might hurt. The fear of friends coming too close. The teacher doesn’t come to welcome you with her open arms and smile – she stands at the door, distanced. No one comes near to take your hand. Nothing feels the same.

Except the old familiar feeling of panic. Of paralysis. Of perhaps there is danger. Perhaps your parents won’t come back.

Imagine. Imagine the fears. Imagine the tears. Imagine our Monday morning.

People said kind things, encouraging things, well meaning things. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great day!’ ‘It’ll be so nice seeing your friends again!’ ‘It’s only for a few hours, you’ll be back for lunch!’

But those things don’t wash when your brain is in fight, flight, freeze zone. When the pathways to the reasoning part of your brain have still not grown.

Adoption is beautiful, and adoption is broken. Because there’s no gain in adoption without loss. And there’s no quick fix, easy answers, textbook remedies for the damage done.

And let me be clear, the trauma is not just from the two years of abuse. The trauma of being removed from all you’ve known – even if what you’ve known was harm – is equally as real.

But, God.

I believe in trauma. I believe in brokenness. And I believe in hope. I believe in redemption. I believe in rainbows in storms. Of finding the gifts of grace.

Yesterday, even as I sobbed around the corner from her classroom, there were rainbows. The kind friend I bumped into in the supermarket, whilst still shaking, still crying. The senior staff member ringing to update me, who acknowledged, we can now see the need for support. The friend walking past the school who messaged to say she could see her, she is smiling, she’s talking to a friend. The teacher texting photos over the two hours, she’s drawing, she’s making, her special things from home are on her desk. The teacher she loves sending her a video message saying how proud she is. The messages from family and friends, asking, loving, caring, praying. The cuddles when she was safely home.

And knowing God knows my girl. He knew her before she was. He designed her. He loves her. His heart breaks when hers does.

He came to heal the brokenhearted. To free those held captive in their pain. To release them from their prisons. To bring joy to the mourning. Giving beauty instead of ashes. Gladness instead of sadness. To repair the damage of previous generations. To rebuild the ruins. To fight for justice. To protect the vulnerable. To counsel the hurting. To bring hope, joy, salvation, freedom. To bring His kingdom to earth as it is in heaven. (Is 61, Ps 146, Matt 6).

It wasn’t the first tricky day and it won’t be the last. But even when I’m sobbing in my car, I’m always surprised and grateful that we get to be trusted with these precious lives. To be the tear wipers, cuddle givers, tickle monsters, hope bringers. To be the ones trusted with the big questions and the big feelings, all the good and all the bad. I’m grateful for not doing it alone. And I’m grateful for hope of an eternity with no trauma or tears, no brokenness or abuse, no violence and absolutely no viruses.

Day 100 – A last minute hospital visit and an impromptu lockdown party

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Yesterday Liam threw out a comment about having a 100 days of lockdown party. And the more I thought about it, the more I decided we’d go for it. Moods have been tricker since school has come up in conversation, and it’s been almost a month since we last had a birthday here, so it seemed a good a day as any to throw a party just for the sake of it.

It helped everything really. Schooling became making decorations for the party. Although I did sneak in a spider web piece of art too, just so we weren’t entirely off topic.

Unfortunately Megan has been having trouble with her braces for a couple of weeks, so I contacted the hospital yesterday, and was told to bring her in today. The tough part was that at age 14, she was considered old enough to go into the department on her own, including being given a mask for the waiting room, having a temperature check and answering all the Covid related questions, and going through the orthodontic procedure, all with me waiting outside.

So off we went, with some understandable anxieties. But the promise of a drive through McDonald’s on the way back, and picking up party food from the shop, all went a little way in helping. She was brilliant and brave and the braces are sorted again for now. And I was brave too, loitering in the alleyway outside.

We got back in time for lunch, and Theo enthusiastically decided our party would have a Numberjacks theme. Because ever since his nursery teacher started sharing episodes for the children to watch, he’s been obsessed. So I went with it, printed off some colouring pages and got them making ‘decorations’.

It did all get a bit hot today though, didn’t it? So we had a break from crafting to dish out ice lollies, and to fill up some vessels with water and have a little play with the hose to cool down.

I then got slightly engrossed with printing off a photo for every day of lockdown, 100 hundred days of memories. Toby created lockdown party bunting, and was so pleased with his success that he announced confidently that he might become a party planner.

It was good to have someone matching my enthusiasm for the cause.

Picnics are a mixed blessing, I find. There’s something delightful about laying a table of food that everyone will eat – obviously completely disregarding the salads. And the happiness of dining al fresco, always to be regarded as a treat in Wales. But then there’s the freedom for small people to run around like excited puppies, and refuse to sit and eat their food, and the frequent freak outs over ants because our entire garden is basically an ants nest.

Nevertheless, it was a fun evening. We looked at all the things we’ve done in the 100 days at home together and picked our favourite photos. It seems like such a long time in a lot of ways, to look at the change in seasons, the things we’d forgotten about in those early days in March. And then the things we are starting to have freedom to do again. The first time we went out more than once in a day! The first time the kids went in the car. The first walk with friends, the first McDonald’s.

And on Monday it will be the first time back to school for two of the children.

There have been many ups and downs over the last 100 days, and although I’ve written a lot, there’s obviously a lot that’s left unsaid too. In my first post on day 1 I shared a page from our kids Thought for the Day book, entitled ‘But God.’ It said that those two words show up over 3,000 times in the Bible – whenever something terrible was looming, ‘but God’! He comes and turns it around, the bringer of hope.

In all the last 100 days, the ill ones, the well ones, the rainy ones, the hot ones, the cranky ones, the loving ones, the jealous ones, the grateful ones, the grieving ones, the rejoicing ones, the claustrophobic ones, the hermit like ones, the anxious ones, the hopeful ones, in all of those days, God has showed up.

He’s been there in the gifts people have sent, in the messages and phone calls. In the Zooms and the virtual church and the music in the kitchen. In the Bible and in books and in the changing of the seasons. In the turning around of cranky days and the teary talks with one another. In the rainbows and the kindness and the sacrifices people have made. In the saying sorry and the forgiving hugs and the chance to always keep learning.

He’s always been here. And He’ll keep showing up in the days, weeks, months to come. Whether they’re easy days or hard days, He’ll be there. Because He loves His world and He loves His people, and it can look like it’s all falling apart – but God.

23 ‘Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand.
24 You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will receive me to glory.
25 Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
26 My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.’ – Psalm 73:23-26

Day 99 – Unicorn Talk

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My latest strategy for coaxing them into learning is to do something really fun and then try and casually switch them into the boring stuff without them noticing. Today we got very excited about making lollies. Micah allocated the red and green chopping boards as teams, and took his banana dissecting duties very seriously. Theo held more of an operational leader role. We successfully filled the lolly moulds and put them in the freezer, and headed to the dining room.

Sadly they weren’t fooled at all. Maddie had a comparison chart to fill in regarding positives and negatives about spiders. The positives were hard to come by. The negatives seemed to consist of ‘creepy, scary, creepy’. I think that we know where she stands on the matter.

So we dragged ourselves through a bit of schoolwork, interspersed with, ‘are the lollies frozen yet?’ every five minutes.

I had to go to Morrison’s this morning, so I took Toby with me to experience the delights of social distancing in the real world. 10 year old boys are not naturals, it appears. But I think it’s given him a little insight into how school might feel somewhat different, and from that perspective it seemed like a worthwhile outing.

When we returned, the small people had moved from playdoh to kinetic sand, which they were now happily throwing around the garden in a wild and frenzied manner. But they seemed relatively happy, and for that both we and the neighbours were grateful.

I’m trying not to assume it’s directly related to the amount of time we’ve all been at home lately, but our neighbours have spent a lot of time constructing an extra extension of trellis above their fence over the last week, to encourage their thick and perhaps sound limiting trailing plant to grow along and up. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve thought about doing the same thing around my chair at the dining table. Maybe one of those Perspex cubes that drummers sit in would work. Although I hear Perspex is tricky to get hold of these days. It seems to be quite popular in the supermarkets.

Much to their delight, the lollies did eventually freeze and were ready for eating. It seems the chocolate milkshake ones were significantly more popular that the strawberry smoothie ones. No surprises there.

Someone had a power nap on the sofa whilst watching telly, a fact he hotly denied later, even when shown this incriminating evidence. ‘No! That’s NOT me!!!’

Everyone seemed to need a bit of exercise this afternoon, so we ventured out, albeit in different directions. Megan and Maisie deemed themselves too cool to go on a family walk, and left way ahead of the rest of us. Toby has been granted a small amount of freedom on his bike recently, so he headed off to do circuits around the outside of the nearby playground.

Which left Liam and I with Theo, Micah, and a slightly fractious unicorn. Who we engaged in conversation to try and see if we could help encourage some verbalising of the fears and feelings that kept her up late last night and saw her creeping into our bed at 1:30am.

‘Hey, unicorn, it seems like you’re a little bit worried at the moment?’

Unicorn nods it’s head violently.

‘I’m wondering if you’re thinking about going back to school?’

Unicorn nods again.

‘I wonder if maybe you feel a bit worried about school feeling strange, and about keeping a distance?’

Unicorn nods violently, neighs and paws at the ground.

It turns out unicorns are real, and I’m learning their language. And it’s much less scary to ‘speak’ through an inanimate object if you feel a bit worried about something and aren’t sure how to express it. I’m thinking about trying it myself the next time I have to face a difficult conversation. I wonder if Liam can interpret crocheted penguin language. And how to say, ‘please could you put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of next to our bed?’ in penguin talk. Not that I’d ever need to say it, of course.

Tonight we had friends over and a fire and we got to use the fizz emoji again after far too long. It may be a cliché, but there’s definitely a new level of appreciation for these moments now we’ve lived some months without them. And with the uncertainty of what the months ahead will hold, these are the pots of gold to look for and enjoy.

It feels like the hope we hung onto is there, coming nearer with every garden glass of Prosecco, every distanced walk, every news announcement saying that maybe, in two weeks, we’ll be able to travel and move nearer and even go in a house. There is light ahead.

I looked closely at the growing sweet peas today. I’d say my sweet peas, but given that I didn’t plant them and haven’t watered them, I’m not sure I can make such claims. I love how as they grow, and they are frail and wobbly, they send out tendrils to hold onto something for support. They are vulnerable, they look for something stronger and cling on.

But in my Google education about growing them, I was interested to see that the advice to was keep a check on the tendrils, and snip them if needed, because if left unchecked they cling onto the wrong things, or their neighbouring plants, and the whole thing ends up a mess.

I saw myself in those young sweet peas today. When I feel wobbly I’ll send out a tendril, look for something to hold onto. A family member, a friend, the words of a book. Those things are gifts and blessings and good. But if I don’t hold onto to the right thing, there is a danger I’ll choke those around me and tie myself up in knots.

There is One I can cling to, who’ll guide me in the right way, who’ll hold me fast when the winds rock me, who’ll allow me to grow stronger and bloom and become who I’m made to be.

14 “Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my name.
15 When he calls to me, I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” – Psalm 91:14-16

Day 98 – Incy Wincy Spider

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Hello and happy Monday to you. I wanted to start by giving a quick thank you to all of you who were so kind to comment on my post on Friday about finishing these blogs. I won’t stop writing, I do enjoy the process and there’s plenty more tucked up in my head! So I will be popping in, just a little more infrequently. If you’d like to see when I post you can opt to subscribe on the blog, and it’ll pop you an email to let you know.

So here we are again, another weekend passed. Saturday we had a morning of activity, prepping for Father’s Day. We made a cake, which my helpers lasted approximately until they’d stuck their fingers in the butter and spilt sugar over the kitchen floor, leaving me to do the rest.

We then moved on to cards. Feeling confident in my new found pre-school crafting abilities, I googled some ideas and went for it. It’s always hard to merge the Pinterest image in your head with actually letting the children have their own creative way. As the photo above shows, I struggle to allow freedom of creativity in the craft department.

The kids insisted on hiding their presents themselves, which was slightly concerning, especially as at least one had chocolate in it. By Sunday morning, Micah had hidden his so many times that even he had no idea where it was. Thankfully it was found just in time to avoid complete meltdown.

Saturday afternoon we walked with friends. This was the first time our little ones had seen friends in all these weeks, and it produced a variety of emotions as expected. But it was so nice to see them settling into it and enjoying hanging out together.

In the evening it was Marvel night, which Toby is generally excited about from somewhere around Friday lunchtime, and I fear it’s going to be with us long after we have freedom again. One should think carefully about these traditions. Especially when they involve watching the Incredible Hulk.

But all joking aside, for as much as the films themselves might not be my viewing choice, I love that it’s important to the children that we do it together. And for that I’ll keep mustering enthusiasm.

Liam was wished a happy Father’s Day by being held hostage in the bedroom, by a zealous Theo, who insisted he stay there until the party was ready. Cryptically, he told Liam the party was for ‘someone who puts up the sitting hammocks’, confirming just how important that particular role is to him.

After we’d made Liam his choice of bagel with poached egg, gifted presents and proudly presented cards, we moved to church online. We’ve hit the stage where the younger three children pick the exact same three songs every week, despite my best efforts at sneaking other ones into the repertoire. There was a lack of musical accompaniment this week, although Micah sat and ‘played’ the music on his pretend iPad, which is actually a kids kindle case, whilst singing along very loudly in his very deep monotone.

We made prayer hands for the crafts. There were different prayer points suggested for the different fingers, which was great until it got to the teenage girls, who were reluctant to choose to pray for ‘someone who points you in the right direction’. It turns out they weren’t that keen on being pointed in the right direction. I wrote myself on that finger for them. I need all the prayer I can get.

Especially on a Monday.

The Monday vibes were strong today. There was a significant reluctance to do anything I suggested. And perhaps not helped by Maddie’s topic for the week being spiders. I can’t say I relished the YouTube videos of extreme close ups either.

There was definitely a sense of heightened tension and anxiety for little miss, lots of questions about school and distancing and it was a day on the edge. So we crafted. A lot. It seems to help keep a vague degree of calm when one of us is by their sides, present to calm frazzled feelings, soothe sulky stand offs, and mediate in the melee.

Liam started them with stick spider webs, which they loved, although raised concerns that a spider might actually decide to live in it.

We made a new batch of playdoh which they then played with for a while, involving plenty of soothing sensory squishing. And also plenty of throwing it around the dining room.

We then attempted spider web plates, the most popular part of that one of course being the hole punching. They then insisted on hanging them on the door, fighting for whose was the highest, had the longest string, and swung the furthest when hit. If there’s a way to compete, they’ll find it.

And as the final last ditch effort, we made spider web rainbow cupcakes. I fear we’ve completed a week’s worth of crafts in a day, but maybe Tuesday will dawn with a slightly more positive take on literacy and numeracy. Maybe.

It took a lot of emotional energy to keep a level of calm today. Especially as I felt like I was losing it at around 9:30am as we attempted early pen skills at the same time as early number forming at the same time as a war was breaking out over the two times tables, one student was standing on a chair waving ribbons, and another was crying because ‘you made me sad’. (Micah’s favourite phrase of late. Said when we say absolutely anything he disagrees with.

In between the meltdowns over, ironically, a spider, the fear-related regression to baby-like behaviours, and the late night soothings of troubled minds, it was a Monday of Mondays.

But the sun shone beautifully and the washing dried on the line. There was enough of yesterday’s roast to not have to really cook another dinner, and lots of pudding and cake. We were on time for piano lesson zooms and happy birthday to my nephew zooms. And Ikea reopened today. So there is much to be thankful for.

28 ‘For it is you who light my lamp; the LORD my God lightens my darkness.
29 For by you I can run against a troop, and by my God I can leap over a wall.
30 This God-his way is perfect; the word of the LORD proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him.
31 For who is God, but the LORD? And who is a rock, except our God?-
32 the God who equipped me with strength and made my way blameless.
33 He made my feet like the feet of a deer and set me secure on the heights.’ – Psalm 18:28-33

I find huge comfort in the fact that tonight and tomorrow and all the days to come, there is One who lights a lamp in my darkness. Who gives courage for the battle. Who gives safety in the danger. Who gives stability in the unknown. Who gives strength in the weariness, freedom in the shame, and hope in the desperation.

Tomorrow is a new day, full of possibilities. And coffee, too, no doubt.

Day 88 – Dancing in the Rain

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We were given a rather large bag of cornflakes yesterday, which Micah was very excited to drag to the breakfast table this morning. And then insisted it had to sit on the table, dominating the standard size boxes of cereal somewhat, but creating a handy barrier for the children who can’t manage a breakfast time without someone ‘looking at me meanly!’

Theo had made concrete plans to use the cornflakes for Gruffalo ‘knobbly knees’ cornflake cakes, so was very anxious that we might use them all up and not leave any for the cakes. We reassured him that even we don’t eat quite that much in one breakfast sitting.

Another day, another self-chosen outfit for Miss Maddie. I’m pleased to report the wardrobe alterations have made a significant difference to the clothes-choosing stress in the morning. As long as I remain true to my word that she can wear anything that is in there. It’s always exciting to see what she’ll come down in.

As the rain was due in the afternoon we decided to let the kids play outside this morning and do a bit of school work after lunch. Liam had some jobs to do outside so I intended to get on with more cleaning. However I ended up having a difficult conversation with one of the children, which was hard, exhausting, and tearful for both of us.

Once we worked through that, I went back to the cleaning. By now it was already heading for lunchtime, so I was busily scrubbing bathrooms and hoovering corners, at which point a small child from downstairs clearly started to get hungry. And decided to start yelling at me.

‘MUM!’

‘Yes?’

‘I NEED TELLY!’

‘It’s nearly lunchtime, I’m just finishing this and I’ll get lunch.’

Angry child: ‘MUMMMM! I NEED SNACKS!’

‘Just hold on, it’s almost lunch.’

‘MMMUUUUUUMMMMM!!! I NEEED TELLLYYYY!!!’

I got downstairs, but needed a wee quickly before getting lunch. Of course, no toilet roll. Despite the fact we’ve always managed to find toilet roll in the shops through the pandemic, finding it in our own house has proven tricky on many occasions. Where it all goes is a mystery. No one ever seems to have used it up, and everyone is confident that they always replace it. Just another family life conundrum I suppose. Along with the disappearing scissors and the serial drink spillers.

Things improved a bit after lunch. Chicken therapy is proving popular for calming frazzled nerves and soothing troubled souls.

Theo was insistent that Daddy make the cornflake cakes with him, so I left them to it and got to be Toby’s maths helper for a while. Judging by the noises from the kitchen, I’m not sure Liam enjoyed the baking experience as much as the boys did. I can’t say I loved the maths either. Maybe we should stick to our usual roles.

I had to collect something from a house nearby this afternoon so took a lively Theo for a walk with me. It was starting to rain a little, so we took his umbrella which he was thrilled about. Theo loves a bit of rain.

It turned out to be more than just a bit of rain, however. It started to get heavier as we walked back, so we came along the river to hide under the trees. By the time we came up the path by the house it was like wading through a lake, the downpour was torrential, and we were soaking and laughing hysterically.

It turned out other family members were also dancing in the rain and coming back in at the moment we arrived, and poor Maddie had just been stung by a wasp. Imagine if you will the chaos of drenched clothes, giggles from some, tears from others, and me applying sting ointment and loving cuddles with steamed up glasses and dripping wet hair.

And yet that chaotic five minutes lightened the mood in the house immensely. The wet people changed into pyjamas, Maddie had cuddles, treats and telly, and we made a cup of tea and decided to get chips for dinner.

The pros and cons of lockdown seem to often be the same thing. I’m loving spending time with our family, getting to know one another better, talking more, and just being together. But at the same time the intensity of that can become the thing that is exhausting. Facing all the discussions head on, dealing with the issues that are arising because we’re seeing them, being both the apparent cause and cure of their frustrations. And having no place to hide from the challenges.

I can see a lot of benefits in that for our family. But there can be days and weeks like this one, where it seems like all the issues and needs are continually coming at us from all directions and we’re juggling emails to schools and social workers, medical needs, therapeutic input, relational challenges, and accident prone pre-schoolers. And it can get a bit overwhelming.

It turns out what helps on those days is crying to God for help, sending some honest messages asking for prayer or advice, and embracing a rainstorm head on.

The freedom of embracing the rain reminded me of the verses in Ezekiel, where he is prophesying to those exiled from Judah, giving a message of hope and a promise of God’s unwavering love and plan of restoration for His people. In amongst some beautiful chapters of reassurance, he says,

‘And I will make them and the places all around my hill a blessing, and I will send down the showers in their season; they shall be showers of blessing.

And the trees of the field shall yield their fruit, and the earth shall yield its increase, and they shall be secure in their land. And they shall know that I am the LORD, when I break the bars of their yoke, and deliver them from the hand of those who enslaved them.

They shall no more be a prey to the nations, nor shall the beasts of the land devour them. They shall dwell securely, and none shall make them afraid. – Ezekiel 34:26-28

Those verses gave hope to an exiled people, and they promise hope of a heaven to come. But they also give me hope when it feels like we’re the exiled people, apart from those we love, held captive by a viral pandemic preying on our world and stressing out our homes. He is the God who sends showers of blessing, who brings safety and security and freedom, whether here on earth or with Him eternally. He promises and provides refreshment, nourishment, sustaining grace, and showers of blessing, for each and every day.

Adoption Story

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

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.

This is our story.’ (December 2017)

Coffee with Words

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment


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

Stuck At Home Mum

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

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.

Birth days.

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

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…