(Not) A Perfect Parent

On the outside.... My heart feels like it is in a dark, isolated cave. I’m gripped by fear, it’s cold and unfeeling with a damp that chills me to the very core of my being. Light is a hope that is denied to me, my lungs try to breath in air which seemingly dissipates with every try. I am consumed with thoughts of what is to come, the fight that will take place, but not on the outside. The brain is a different organ. Its ideas can be without compassion, cold and calculated and angry, yet bold. It lies and betrays, it has to, it can’t let the heart win. It will keep knocking on a door with a chance that it will be answered. So who do I listen to? My heart that traps me in the dank, depressing cave, leaving me powerless and afraid? Or my brain that can be mistaken as being cruel and unfeeling. However, there must be a balance, a face-off, which will win, which will survive? But being on the outside, it's like your breath catching the window, as a steaming mass appears,

Why is it that social workers don’t always see the big picture? Yes I know that therapy is very important when a child has had a traumatic experience and that the welfare and well-being of the child is paramount. But what about the parents? Why is the heart of every family (the parents) so often forgotten and left neglected, yet high expectations are placed upon them/us? We do matter and it is about time that our well-being wasn’t taken for granted. We are hanging on by a thread at times, but we are still hanging on! Being a parent is never an easy job, I know I second guess myself all the time. I look at different ways I could have handled certain situations differently. Spending a lot of time reflecting (crying in the bathroom) and coming up with different strategies with the hope that it will work better. After all, is this not just part of parenting? But believe me parenting adopted children is very different. The challenges that face us every day can only, at times, be describ

When my 12-year-old daughter started high school, she got her first proper mobile phone.  3 months into high school life we found out that she, along with her friends, had created an Instagram and SnapChat account (not that this was a huge problem as I recognised that this was another way for her to communicate with her friends). The main problem was that being an immature 11-year-old (at the time) she accepted any followers - and I mean anyone! Her moto was, “if in doubt, accept!” This horrified us. Looking through her account there were various images of scantily clad men and women, clearly the less to wear the better. Their ages seemed to be around 20, a LOT older than her. So we sat her down, once I had left Earth orbit, flown past Jupiter and returned a little calmer. We tried to explain the dangers of what she was doing and what this could lead to, but it didn't go particularly well. We had the now staple looks to the ceiling, the huffing and associated

The other day whilst I was at university (I am studying Child Development and Behaviour) a discussion started up in the cafe, centered around children and specifically their teenage years. I had mentioned that I have a 12-year-old daughter with the attitude of a 15-year-old. This was met with expressions of shared despair from some, generally the ones that were parents themselves and disbelief that I was so blunt about it, from a young 23-year-old fellow student. In our house something really interesting must be written on our ceiling (visible only to the non-adults), as eyes are constantly rolled upwards, especially when my husband and I speak. This is unless we're saying, “yes you can have your mobile whilst doing your homework”. But we never say that, so the eyes stay fixed skywards. We are evil, of course, saying that she must do her homework or even, God forbid, play with the gerbils that she literally begged for just a couple of years before. Whilst at university