The things we do: The Mattress

We have an old mattress in our sitting room.

It is used for jumping on. By Digger, by us - his parents, and any guest – big or small – if they fancy. The three of us use it at least two or three times a day for a good 30 mins. Often to a sound track of some pop with a good, steady beat. At the moment Fat Boy Slim’s Weapon of Choice and Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder are favourites.

It gets Digger out of puff, and quite steamy after a while, which leaves him happier and meeker for the rest of the day. We notice the difference on days with little or no mattress action Digger style. Digger throws himself around, in funny and amazing shapes, and is perfecting his moves.

The mattress is incredibly useful to have inside. Even on rainy days Digger can get a real workout without leaving the house. But it really comes into its own every evening, when we use it to squeeze the last bits of energy of the day out if him. He sleeps much better after a good session.

My husband was very sceptic when I wanted to keep the battered old thing, and use up so much floorspace. But we made a nice (washable!) cover, so now you find him bouncing most nights too.

15 life skills mastered by my son this week

Perhaps many 2 ½ year olds have mastered these skills long ago, but to us they are new, as of early March 2014. Digger takes quite some pride in all of them. And so do we.

1.    Serving himself at dinner. Including filling our water glasses.
2.     Smiling and waving goodbye, when I said I was off, leaving him with his nanny. Normally he will wobble. That felt very strange for me. Not entirely sure I like this new response either.
3.     Retrieving his dummy from another room. He asked, I suggested. Off he went and returned with it. This is complicated stuff. Q&A, imagination, translating words into concrete scenarios, and then stepping into action. Wow.
4.     Filling a mould with sand, the tapping on the sand to compact it before tipping over the mould, ‘Tap, tap, tap…’ again, before lifting the mould. And hey presto: a fine moulded mount. Lots of neat little mounts in the local sandpit this weekend.
5.     Blowing a whistle. Will probably live to regret this one.
6.     Firing a water pistol. Quickly moved on to level 2: firing at his dad’s crotch. Will definitely live to regret this one.
7.     Popping bubble wrap. Again quickly moved on level 2: driving a tricycle across a great expanse of it. Much more efficient and fun.
8.     Blowing his nose. I mean really blowing it. So we can forget about the Nuk snot-extractor, which did many a times end in tears, and only marginally red noses.
9.     Skipping and spin jumping. Much of it exhibited while dancing Martha Graham style to mummy and daddy’s (bad) flamingo-style clapping. New evening ritual, as off this week.
10.  Drawing circles. Very Giottesque. At this rate and determination, Digger should be able to do a perfect circle – without the aid of compasses – at the ages of … say… 16. This week he also did a perfect capital ‘A’ and a perfect capital ‘D’. By accident, we think.
11.  Heading off to the Park - on his own. This is a dodgy one for many reasons. Not least that it was 8.15am, when Digger took of on his scooter, dressed only in a diaper and wellies. But it does show he is 100% certain we’ve got his back.
12.  Playing by himself for more than a few minutes. Then checking in with me, then off again. The jo-jo is working at ever longer intervals. I even opened a book when at the playground today. No complicated literature, but all the same. He still needs me, but is also happy for a bit doing his own thing. Again tugging a bit at the apron stings here. But it is very interesting. I already miss his all time need of me.
13.  Went to the loo to do his business, like all the above - at his own initiatives.
14.  Ringing the doorbell with a stick. Never know when that might be really useful.
15.  Getting and out of the buggy all by himself. Soon there will be little need to strap him in.

All in all another week of quantum leaps. Where are we headed?

The smell of Digger

The first time I met Digger, I thought his smell was strange, and truth be told, unpleasant, vaguely off-putting. It made me very worried. How could I bond with him if I didn’t like the way he smelt? Was it a fundamental dislike I had sensed? Was adopting him going to unravel because of it?

I love the way my husband smells, and have always done so. I fell in love with it and him at the same time. But with Digger was different. It felt like a barrier I had to break through, and I didn’t know how.

Few months later, the perfume of Digger was as intoxicating and wonderful to me as that of my husband. After a good work out in the park or the playground, it is always that little bit stronger. Especially if the sun is out. I can bury my nose in his soft, wild curls and inhale him. It has become familiar, and completely connected to this little person who I love.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when it all changed. I guess I was too busy to dwell it. But by October I found myself in love - he had moved in in August. I imagine I started to like the scent of him sometime in that two-three month window.

Perhaps it was the diet then that initially made him smell so peculiar to me – along the lines of Europeans smelling a lot like old cheese to the Japanese, because of our diary intake as opposed to theirs. And I wonder whether he now smells like us. I guess we smell like a family, The Norwoods. Or perhaps it is simply the love I feel for him. But one thing is certain: It is.

Our Norwood smell would have been an omnipresent signifier of how things had changed. I imagine he must have felt something similar to what I was going through, only he had landed in our world.

No doubt Digger thought we smelt odd at first. As did our house and everything in it. He couldn’t turn away from it.

Digger has a keen sense of smell. Nowhere is it more obvious than when he is trying new food. He is very confident in declaring likes and dislikes. I think smell is at the heart of this. He doesn’t need to taste it to know.

I guess, after a while you grow used to a scent. Or it could continue to grate. Or you begin to love it.

Now when he turns towards me as he falls asleep at night, it is not only the closeness he wants. I sense he wants my smell too. And that it adds to his sense of safety.

In preparation for transition we were told to copy and transfer as much as possible from his foster homes into our house, his new forever home. We were told to begin using the same washing powder and softener as his foster mum, and we did so as soon as we had met her, and continued to do so for months after wards. I still like the particular transition-softener smell very much, and sometimes use it for our towels even now – for sentimental reasons.

I can’t help but to think that it is actually impossible to transfer very much from the foster homes. Bringing the physical things from one home to the new is the easy bit. It is whole context that is difficult to translate and is mostly lost. Because the overwhelming sense and reality of the situation will be changed, forever. This is not to undermine the sound and obvious advice in being very sensitive and in trying. It is to remind myself of just how much these children loose through adoption. As good as everything vanishes overnight. Expect for their little bodies and some physical memories. Smells and scents are but one aspect of it.

We were conscientious to bring some the smell of his foster home with us. And we expected not to wash his bedding for a long while. On Placement Day, the foster mum wasn’t going to let Digger go with dirty laundry, so everything was spinky spam and smelt of her clean home.  We left the bedding on for two weeks. Then he peed on it, which neatly ended the discussion of when to wash it.

Whenever we travel we make sure to bring along something with Digger’s distinct smell on it – his pillow, for instance, or better still duvet. And one (or two) of his beloved soft transition bunnies without which he will not leave the house and cannot sleep (we haven’t really tested this – we trust his judgement on the subject). Bringing these items helps him sleep in a new environment.

The only malodour around Digger’s two-year-old self (well… expect an obvious one) is that occasional pungent waft of a too well-loved soft bunny, when he sweetly offer it to our cheeks for comfort. That can be really hard on the old nostrils – stale regurgitated milk and sleep dripple, and whatever else it has been in contact with over the last few days.

I am grateful to Digger’s foster mum that she always kept everything so very clean, that it is easy for me too to stick everything – bar Digger himself, or my husband for that matter – in the washing machine when it needs it, without fear of loosing too much redolence.

Touch

It seems counterintuitive to use words to describe touch, something so personal and often fleeting. But I am going to have a go. It is so central to the communication between Digger and me.

When Digger first moved in, I spend a lot of time pondering over how and when to touch him. It felt awkward at times. As if I was invading his privacy. Which of course I was. Touching him now seems so obvious that I don’t really think about it.

In the early days, diaper changing was very much slower than he was used to. His forever mummy and daddy were amateurs compared to his fostermum. Once the allotted diaper time slot had run out, he would start wiggling and whining. Now of course, we can whip a diaper off and slam on a new one on in no time, almost without him noticing.

Three months in, I enjoyed a first proper hug from him. And I noted that he touched me in a new and different way. More intimate and loving. And then I realised I too touched him differently. This week I had the same realisation. It happened when he stroked my hair, gently in long soft movements. Like I do his hair. He smiled as he did it. Enjoying it – probably not nearly as much as I did.

Negotiations about lifting him, moving him around – especially since he couldn’t really walk yet – has become quicker over time. Only a split second of showing him my intentions, something like holding out my arms, lifting my eyebrows, making a rising noise or saying ‘Let’s go?’ All those careful manoeuvres were concertinaed down, in time and movement. He knew what was coming. And he would allow it, or not. Or sometimes he just wasn't quite ready yet, but a few more minutes would do it.

Now we are 18 months in and the movements are yet again different to what they were. He is longer, leaner and stronger, and hugs like no body else I know. He nestles into my neck when I hold him, and make a series of cosy noises, any time of the day, when he need refuelling. He does that in the morning in his PJs, at the playground covered in mud, while we watch TV, reading a book, getting a drink, or just when, and just because… The recognition of our evolving touch feels like a wonderful acknowledgment of how my son and I were getting to know each other. Of the continual strengthening of our bond.

Now when he falls asleep at night he turns in towards me, and lies as close as he possibly can. Often with his little legs pulled up under him. He is snuggling tightly up against me.  I am his source of safety. There he can let go of the day, and fall into the deep sleep that will take him through to the small hours of the morning.

My husband and I enjoy our bedtime routine. With three (or more) books, a couple of songs, and if he still isn't quite ready, then a little made up story in the dark of the room, after lights out. Turning towards us is that last movement before he falls asleep. We lie for a little while longer, and then gently lift him into his cot. I often add the words ‘I love you, little mouse.’ Hoping the words will worm their way into his unconscientious self, and deepen his sense of safety.

Digger needs reassurance during the night – not as much as the first few months, but still once or twice. Just to know that we are still there. Now all that is needed is one gentle stroke of his otherworldly soft cheek and his curly mop, and he goes back to sleep. No need for any words, like ‘safe’, ‘mummy’ or ‘right here’.

I nearly melted the first time Digger padded my back as I held him on my arm. Just like I pad his back, for comfort, for closeness, out of a habit. I hadn’t even noticed I did this, till he padded me back. Sometimes it is request for mutual padding, sometimes because that’s what happens when you are in mummy’s arms.

And then there are the rough touches. The rough housing, which he loves. Like being carried around upside down, or flung over a shoulder. Or blowing great big raspberries on his tummy. He is very good at blowing raspberries on us, might I add. That said, I feel that both tickling and blowing raspberries should be done in moderation. It can be too much. A big person inflicting something rough on a little one. I remember my own dad doing it to me, too much too hard. It didn't always feel nice. And sometimes it was even scary. It could spoil the moment. He wasn’t a bad man, he just often wasn’t on our wavelength.

There are also the assertive parental touches. The ones that accompany sentences like ‘Nope, Digger, I cannot allow you to touch that rotary saw.’ Or getting down to his level, and saying ‘When mummy says STOP, she means STOP.’ There is also the firm hand on his arm if he lifts his arm to hit, or on his leg if he kicks. Again it is accompanied by ‘no kicking of people’. And if I have the presence of mind ‘shall we go kick some ball?’ As a mum I am more likely to assert myself through my voice than by touch.

Respect of boundaries is a part of touch, my respect of him, and his of me. Respect shown through touch. Knowing when to and when not to. Mostly we both get it right now. Like Fred and Ginger.

All these movements, and our familiar touching each other are for me the ultimate signs of love and attachment. And I can't get enough.

Curling Parent

I’m afraid this week’s blog is just about a week off being topical. But hey …it is still one of the many things that kept my brain ticking over this week. So here I am. Sharing it with you, my computer, and hopefully, my silent readers.

Curling Parents is a term I came across this week. You may already know it, but it was new to me. It refers to overparenting of a child.  And yes, it is related to that most curious of Olympic sports. Executed with those bizarre tools: a few brooms and some stones, carefully arranged on a patch of ice. Mostly by amateur sportsmen and women, that much missed category at the Olympics. It is the shoes and their gliiiide that appeals the most to me. I would love to try them sometime.

The Curling Parent refers not only to those parents, who sweep all obstacles out of the way for their precious little ones. It also pertains to that certain frenzy attached to the vigorous sweeping, and the distinct – perhaps even desired – possibility of bumping into other stones sending them flying out of orbit. The term is of Scandinavian origin and is close in meaning to Helicopter Parents. Although it is a little unkinder…

The term made instant sense to me. And made me feel guilty. (Another one of these unhelpful knee-jerk reaction. Sigh.) It has sparked off a host of thoughts. About modern parenthood. And me as a mother. Overparenting? Me? Probably. In trying to do it just right. All the time.

This week we went to a soft play session.. you know... doing our thing. Digger roaming, me watching him, but also the other kids and their parents. Having your own kid I think opens your hearts to all children. I always loved children, but now I see their little beings more clearly. Delicious, funny, cheeky, curious and so much else. 

And then suddenly, it struck me that all of the parents were occupied with their own children. Exclusively. All 25-30 of them. Not one of them were actually letting their children roam. Or at least no more and two feet away. And there was only little interacting between the children. I’m not exaggerating. It was striking. And it felt claustrophobic, despite the open plan of the area. And then… as a punch in my stomach I recognised myself in it. Especially, a year ago when Digger was just over a year. My eyes were clued to him and his every move. Anxiously getting to know him. And I am still doing that.

I thought of my own childhood. And whether our own parents would have been this obsessively omnipresent. Frantically sweeping the ice in front of us. I think not. In fact I know they weren’t. Our parents drank coffee, smoked fags and chatted when they met up with the offspring, the sex rubbish as one parent of that generation recently put it. It wasn’t entirely unkind. It was just the 70s. I recall pictures of me and my brother, aged 1 and 2, exploring the world far away from the parents, and our parents being occupied with themselves and their mates, rather than us. We knew where to find them, or at least a parent, and so felt free so venture off. And to come back. They trusted us to do both. And mostly they were right to…

My thoughts wander of to us parents a safe bases for our children, as places for them to return to, in order to refuel. Emotionally. Them wandering off, exploring the world, only to return a regular intervals for a hug, a biscuit, a quick drink and a kiss, and then off again.

I wonder whether I might be a better safe base, if I let Digger wonder off, and come back – on his own account. If I stay put. Rather than teaching him that I will come running if he twitches. Of course there is a time and space for either. But for all the sitting close and observing him, as I described in my last blog, should I step back a bit more? I am beginning to think so. There is more trust and thus potential development in stepping back.

All these thoughts coincide with one of those quantum leaps I see so regularly in Digger. This week it was interest in other children, he was actually playing with them! And he started venturing off on his own at the playground. Now I can even have grown up conversations while he roams! I haven’t really been able to do that since he moved in 18 months ago. At 95 cm he is turning into a very confident young man. And I could burst with pride when he does his own thing. The poise. The self containment. The concentration.

So what does this have to do with adoption? Well, I wonder whether being a Curling Parent is another Achilles heal of mine. As an adoptive parent. It may of course just be what I would be as a parent no matter how I arrived at parenthood. But I think I am over acutely aware of… everything regarding Digger. I try to be. Too hard, possibly.

‘Do we, as adoptive parents, over-supervise our children?’ I asked a fellow adopter. He paused. Then “There may be a tendency… We always wonder about whether it is normal or down to being adopted.” I don’t know what you, who reads this, may think. But I wonder whether he isn't right. Perhaps because we are more anxious, having spent waaaayyyyy longer than birthparents from ‘conception’ to a child of our own nestling in our arms. We are older, we are first timers, and it all feel very precarious and fragile. I certainly am a first time parent. Of an only child. I fuzz. I overthink and overanalyse and read too much. But I am learning. And Digger is my supreme toddler-sized teacher. I love it.