parents' evening

We had Parents' Evening this week.

We found out that Son is either staying the same in all key areas or improving slightly. His teacher has no particular worries, says he is gaining in confidence, but still melts into the background for Literacy. I told her Son knew this was his weak point and his low self-esteem meant that he was backing away from tackling it. I was roundly told that there are no weak points, just areas that need support. Yeah, like I said, Literacy is his weak point.

As for Daughter, we found out that she is slipping in two key areas, despite the support she is getting, that she was wetting herself when away on the residential course, that she is sometimes spiteful to her friends and hits them, but that her teacher thinks it's fine because she 'knows her background'.

So there you go, pretty standard Parent's Evening stuff. Oh, wait....

Daughter's falling behind in Year 6, wetting herself and hitting people? But her teacher thinks it OK because of 'her background'?

Her teacher also thinks that Daughter not being able to spell basic words like 'does' 'could' and 'point' is OK too, in fact she's 'not bothered' so much by Daughter's inability to spell as her writing having no 'fizz' (she means 'adverbs', people, she wants 10 year olds to put more adverbs in their work but isn't bothered that they can't spell ). I pointed out that adverbs are useful in literary pieces, but in most jobs decent spelling is generally seen as more important. 'Jobs' you know one of those things all of us have to get when we leave school, unless we become a teacher.

I don't even know where to start with this. I've given up with the School's Learning Mentor, who, not to be too unkind, is nice but thick, the Inclusion Manager appears ignorant. I don't even just want another meeting with Daughter's teacher. I've only spoken to her twice and twice I've had to hold back from quickly (adverb!) and lightly (adverb!) slapping her annoying face.

The Headteacher is an competent woman and was helpful when we approached the school to try and get our children places there, but I don't know. Do you go straight to the Head when your child has holistic problems and you don't know what you want done? The other option, which I feel a bit more comfortable with, is to speak to a woman I respect in the School Office who is not a teacher, but who is obviously quite high up the school hierarchy. She was there right at the beginning helping the kids into school, so she knows them and me. Thing is, she's got a fancy-dan school title and I don't know what her remit is.

And I don't know what to ask for, I don't know what Daughter needs.

It's all smoke and mirrors. Sometimes when I look at Daughter I see someone who is worryingly dysfunctional, heading towards mental health problems, and in need of serious professional help. Other times I see a girl who is damaged but doing very well considering, who will be OK as long as I hold her hand.

It's a really good school and I have no doubt that if I speak to the right people if something needs to be done, it will be done. But does something need to be done? Am I making too much of everything?

I'll have to sleep on it all.

trauma crap

There is a resistance movement in this house intent upon petty acts of sabotage just to show that the spirit of the people is alive and will not be beaten.

For instance, the resistance movement will pump large amounts of toothpaste down the sink, throw towels on the floor and knock the toilet roll holder over. Other acts of sabotage include wearing two pairs of socks, stealing and hiding freely available fruit, making banging noises at nighttime, constantly 'forgetting' to change the school reading book, telling us there is no homework when there is, hiding completed homework rather than hand it in, unbuckling seat-belts whilst the car is still in motion, wearing dirty clothes from the washing basket, asking for things that they then don't want, doing any task they are asked badly and/or after a tantrum, listening outside doors. All of this type of stuff mixed up in a fog of nonsense chatter and questions.

As Christine Moers says in this post:

SOME DAYS THEIR STUFF IS SO CONSTANT IT IS OUTNUMBERING OXYGEN MOLECULES!

Different adoption experts have a different take on the psychological roots of this behaviour and differing solutions. There is a sliding scale with some experts more on the 'be more empathetic' side of the and the others up at the other end towards the 'give firmer boundaries' end.

My own thoughts are that you can have both empathy and discipline working together. For instance:

I know your emotions are all wobbly right now because [insert random event that's unsettling them], but it is not acceptable to [insert unacceptable thing]. As a consequence of you doing that I'm afraid [insert a natural consequence of their unacceptable thing]. This is so that you learn [insert whatever it is you want them to learn].

Since I lost it with Daughter over the penguin bars for breakfast debacle, I have been Playful Loving Accepting Curious and Empathetic (PLACE) + Discipline like I was born to do it. And they have pushed and pushed and pushed. At one point I caught myself rummaging in the stinky kitchen bin looking for something I thought had been put in there unauthorised, and I said to myself YOU ARE LOSING YOUR MIND and then I found the thing I was looking for and suddenly I didn't know who was mad, them or me.

The thing is, I know that they have both been thrown by Daughter's residential and then a birthday in the family, so I've been trying really hard to help them. But their behaviours just kept getting more and more and so I didn't know if I needed more empathy or more boundaries because their didn't seem room for more of both!

In the end I sat the kids down and asked them about it. I said that I was really puzzled. That there were certain things that they knew they shouldn't do, that had been explained to them why they shouldn't do it, that consequences kept being given for doing it, and yet... they still kept doing it. Why?

But the thing is they are even more clueless as to why they do this stuff than I am. There is such chaos inside them, there's little room for reason or logic. They will tell me they do this stuff because they want to. When I ask why they don't do it at school, they will tell me because they don't want to get told off. When I point out that they get told off at home, and list all the privileges they've lost and stuff they've missed out on, they look at me with blank expressions that betray a desire for me to shut up so they can carry on watching telly.

Thing is, I'm not prepared to spend my time as a Mother rooting through bins, doing body searches, spot checks on rooms and locking things away. That's what Prison Guards do. I've got to ease up because with tackling the behaviours the way I've been tackling them, I'm not enjoying the children and I'm going to lose my mind.

So I'm changing tack slightly. A friend suggested that we don't have to tackle everything they do, but we should acknowledge to them that we've seen/discovered it. That seems to be the way forward. Rather than worrying about giving consequences to everything, I'm not going to sweat the small stuff, I'm just going to acknowledge it.

I do worry that that won't be enough. That it's somehow slack. A big part part of the problem is that I have this idea that I can fix this behaviour. And I worry that if I don't fix this behaviour now then they will grow into great big massive criminal type behaviours when they are teenagers.

But that is a hell of a lot of pressure to put on me and them at this stage, not to mention not necessarily true.

I can't let myself get bogged down in all their trauma crap anymore. It's not a happy place to be. I'm getting out and, you never know, the kids might follow me.

no residential for Son for reasons obvious to everyone but Son

Before I forget, I should report that whilst Daughter was away, we had the Grandparents over so that Son could apologise for his behaviour. Both Husband and I briefed the Grandparents well beforehand and they did not make it easy for him, brush off what he did like it was no big thing, or bring him presents and offers of future treats, all things I was worried that they would do.

They sat on the Rug of Truth and Trust with him and after he had said sorry, and then upon request explained what he was sorry for, he squirmed and wriggled as we all talked about how in this family we do not hit, kick, hurt of swear etc...

He was very hyper by the time bedtime came, shame making him very uncomfortable, but he still let his Grandparents put him to bed with no trouble.

Next up, we take him and Daughter over to Grandparents' house and leave them there, during the day, for a couple of hours. The idea is to build up the trust again.

Son had news of his year groups residential course coming up in March. He wants to do it. His sister has done one and his best mate is going, and so he wants to go. Of course, by the time the course came around, he wouldn't want to go. It would completely freak him out. And there is no way he can handle being away from me and his home for four nights, no way.

Plus, he needs to earn the privilege. Daughter earned it and we made it clear to her (and Son) just how she earned it.

I had that chat with him about it all and he started wailing. When he stopped I explained that that was part of the problem, that he needed to be expressing himself more with words and less with emotional outbursts.

So he told me he was angry at me because I wouldn't let him go.

I told him that I wasn't letting him go because of his own behaviour. He didn't handle an overnighter at his Grandparents, and completely lost it last time they babysitted, so no, he'd have to show some real improvement in his behaviour before I let him do a school residential.

He said he'd never get better, so I talked about the progress he had made since I'd been his Mummy, and I stated a few examples of how he used to react, but doesn't anymore. Perhaps he can be ready for next year's residential, I suggested hopefully.

No, he said, he won't be, because his stupid Birth Mother taught him to hit and he'll always hit.

I said I thought it was sad he thought like that, and that I thought he could do it.

sandwich stand-off

Many years ago there was a fascinating programme that followed British teenagers nominated by their parents to go to an American bootcamp for delinquents. I'm not sure that was the exact name of the place, but that's what it was. A big fat boot camp in the deserts of America, where - as I recognise now - highly trained staff tried to help the kids become functional beings through a therapeutic parenting style.

I remember one particularly dysfunctional teenage girl, who used, amongst other things, drool and snot to try and get her way.

When the teenagers entered the camp, they went through a building where they had to surrender certain artifacts, take things out their hair and remove all jewelry. This particular girl did not want to remove her piercings. She cried, and wailed, and let snot hang from her nose in long, thin lines. She threatened to be sick. She dribbled saliva all over the floor. She was like a snotty, grizzly toddler in a teenage body.

She kept it up for hours.

And all the time a member of staff stood quietly by gently telling her every now and again that she just had to remove her piercings and she could move through to the next room.

Eventually, half a day later, she realised she couldn't win and she did what she was asked.

I think of this sometimes, with my kids behaviour. I remember the meltdowns over very small things. And at first, a little stress did send them into meltdown and I had to be very careful not to overstretch them. But then, time went by, I started to get to know them better, I started to see a change, and I started to see that they were like the snot/drool girl. They would trip themselves into a state of trauma in order to try get out of doing the smallest of required tasks.

Less so these days, but my kids will expand 100 times more energy trying not to do something than it would have taken just to do it.

If I am sure I am being reasonable and polite - tidy room, wash hands before food, pick up your lego - then I have to take the view that any traumatic overreaction is their problem. Otherwise they would be able to recognise what an effective weapon self-induced trauma can be and use it all the more.

We cannot have that. That way dysfunction lies.

So, take last night, for instance.

The rule in this house is that supper is fruit, yoghurt or cheese, unless anything is left in their lunchbox, in which case that becomes supper

Last night, daughter ate a plum for supper knowing she had not eaten her lunchbox sandwich. Husband found the sandwich and told her she could finish the plum, but afterwards she then had to eat her sandwich.

Daughter finished the plum and then picked at the small jam sandwich like it was something despicable.

The sandwich. One piece of bread with jam and butter. She eats it every day. She chooses it for her lunchbox. She could have finished it in eight bites.

But she didn't want to.

And so it started.

She didn't like butter! She felt sick! She didn't liiiiiiiike it! She had tummy ache!! There was too much butter!!!!!! She couldn't eeeeeeeat it!!!!!!! Mummy! There's butter on iiiiit!!!! She doesn't like butttterrrr!!!

Daughter has been doing this A LOT lately. Subtly setting up situations of conflict. The crazy lying and stealing, the pushing boundaries, the attempts at manipulation. All a reaction, I think, to the stress of that residential course she went on. She's not feeling safe. She's looking for boundaries.

So I gave her one.

I told her that she could go get ready for bed as soon as she finished her sandwich, and I sat her on the sofa and settled myself into the big old comfy armchair and watched. Just me, her and the sandwich. Cozy.

Sensing that outright defiance was not going to get her anywhere tonight, she tried a different tack. The eating-as-slowly-as-any-human-being-could-ever-possibly-eat tack. She picked off the tiniest amount of bread, in a sort-of slow motion fashion, she rolled it around her fingers for a few minutes until it was barely there anymore, then she placed it on her tongue like it was rat poison and chewed it like it was a piece of gum.

Clearly at that rate, she'd be finishing the sandwich around about the time of the opening ceremony of the London Olympics.

Whilst she did this, husband had a humorous conversation about all the things we could do really slowly, like buy Christmas presents reeeaaalllyy sloooowly, so that no one got them for two years, or drive to McDonalds reeeeaaaalllly sloooowly so that we were really old before we got there.

The we concluded that that would be madness, and how sorry we felt for people who did things slowly because it must not be any fun at all.

At some point during all this, we put Son to bed, taking it in turns to watch Daughter, who would shove the sandwich somewhere if we didn't watch her. This we know.

Then, with nothing else to do, both Husband and I settled down in the same room as Daughter and her sandwich. I spent the time composing lymerics of the situation in my head, some of which I might just have text to a friend for amusement purposes.

Much later, lounging idly now, watching Daughter still not eat her sandwich, I reflected on how calm I felt. I knew that if I needed to, I would be there all night. I felt it was something I needed to do. I wasn't the least bit angry or frustrated. In fact, the image in my head was of me offering my cold and lonely daughter a big snuggly blanket to be wrapped up in and of my Daughter rejecting that blanket, wanting to stay out in the cold, feeling comfortable with being uncomfortable. I couldn't take away the offer a blanket, I had to sit it out.

As the hours went by, I felt sorrier and sorrier for her.

Then, as she realised she was not going to bore me into submission, another change of tack. The feel-sorry-for-me ploy.

She was cold. She had tummy ache. She wanted the toilet. She wanted a drink. She felt sick. The container the sandwich was in was dirty. She was going to be siiiiiick. She was being bullied at school. She was cold. She was tired. She wanted to be siiiiiiiiiick.

The answer was always the same. Well, finish your sandwich and ...

Wail, snot, false puke, cry.

Then she put the sandwich down and announced she was not eating anymore.

I said nothing.

Silence descended for a long while.

She said she was going to throw up.

I said OK, but do it on the wooden floor so it would be easier for her to clean up.

I could see she was getting very tired and knew it wouldn't be long.

Then, two and a half hours in, she announced she would be eating the last three bites of her sandwich at 9.30pm.

So I took the sandwich away and gave it back to her at 9.33pm. With permission to eat it.

And finally she did. Wolfing it down, with a big smile on her face. She seemed immensely relieved all of a sudden, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She took a shower and I put her to bed and she was very affectionate towards me.

Kids might think they want to be able to control their parents, get their own way, but they don't. What they really want is for the parent to be bigger and stronger than them, to keep them safe.

That snot/drool girl off the telly? She came through boot camp a functional, matured teen. I don't know how long she stayed that way when she got back to the UK though. That would depend on whether her parents were the sort to stop up all night to make a child eat a sandwich if that's what it took.

lying and stealing, again

Nearly bursting into flames is never a good thing to happen, but it also happened at a particularly inconvenient time. Daughter, of course, has just returned from her five day residential course and I particularly wanted to spend time with her and keep her close.

As it happened, she didn't come out the jibbering trauma-sprouting wreck I expected, but came back mature and calm! It was Son who couldn't handle her return with several angry outbursts and random crying fits, but hey ho, I was there for him too.

Reader, you will recall that my daughter has trouble not taking things that are not hers and also has a fast and lose relationship with The Truth. On Saturday, when my friend came around for our cinema trip, Daughter had to apologise to her for taking five packets of Haribos from her house last time we visited. Both friend and Daughter handled it well and it was a very dignified moment as apology was given and accepted.

This is on top of the apology letter she had to write and post to her Grandparents for throwing things around and having a tantrum last time they were here.

Apologising is never easy. Maybe, I was thinking, she'll conclude that life will be easier if she just doesn't do stuff for which she later has to apologise.

Reader, you may also recall the incident of the jaffa cakes in which I allowed myself to consider the possibility that I was going slightly insane, rather than believe that Daughter had climbed up onto the kitchen work surface to take and consume a whole box of jaffa cakes.

Well, yesterday, Sunday, jaffa cakes were mentioned quite a lot. Where did that empty jaffa cake box come from, I wonder? Who could have taken them? How could they have got them? Surely not climbed up on the kitchen work surface because that's dangerous! How upsetting it was for me that someone could take Daughter's jaffa cakes. How sad it was she missed out on them. How awful that someone thinks it's OK just to take stuff.

You get the picture.

Her face, every time I mentioned those damn blasted jaffa cakes, was a real sight. Maybe I was tapping into something, I kept thinking. Maybe she was feeling guilt in a safe way. Maybe she would reflect on what she had done.

Then.

This morning.

I had got up and seen to the children and to the pets, then went upstairs to get dressed as usual. When I came down again Son was happily eating his cornflakes in the living room, but Daughter was absent. Son told me she was in the kitchen. Daughter then opened the door to the kitchen and came out holding her cereal bowl very close to her chest.

For one crazy stupid fool-hardy moment, I thought nothing of it. I went to carry on with my business, then, suddenly, it was... hang on...

Why was the kitchen door closed? The kitchen door is never closed!

Why was Daughter hogging her cereal bowl close to her chest? What didn't she want me to see?

I went into the living room and stood in front of Daughter sitting on the sofa, still hugging her bowl to her chest. I asked her to hand me the bowl. She refused. I told her I wasn't going anywhere until she gave me the bowl. She refused. I remained. She handed it over.

For breakfast, Daughter had decided she would like five Penguin chocolate bars. The chocolate bars that I keep on top of the kitchen cupboard. The ones she'd have to climb up onto the kitchen work surface to get.

I'd love to say that I handled this revelation with humour and consideration of her traumatic past, but I did not. I lost my rag. And I called her a liar and a thief.

No, I am not proud of myself. Although there is a part of me that thinks because I actually managed to make her cry this morning that maybe it might have done her some good. She never cries when I have a go at her, she only cries when she's trying to get out of being told off. Maybe this morning she allowed herself some real genuine human feeling, although I suspect that was a painful sort of pity for herself.

Actually, no, let's face it. I am relieved that she cried because I managed to make her feel as bad as I felt at that moment. Which is the kind of crap the children do to me.

It is the crazy lying and stealing of the adopted child that can drive you slightly mad. She gets to pick her own breakfast cereal, she can have whatever she wants. She picked her cereal on Sunday and yet on Monday she thinks, sod it, I'm gonna have chocolate bars. Five of 'em. Never mind that I get chocolate after school, never mind that I get chocolate after tea, I want it now too.

This morning I've had work to do because my business is just starting to take off, but I haven't been in the right mind. Instead I've been reviewing all the stuff on the internet about adopted children and lying and stealing. I am in a better place now. I know I shouldn't take it personally. I know she can't help it.

This article summarises the whole crazy making business best.

In particular the following rings true:

"Control: if they feel they are controlling you it makes them feel safer, if the child can make you believe there was an alien landing who came and ate all the biscuits that is one up for them. They are in charge!"

This is the thing that pushes my buttons I think. Yes, Daughter likes chocolate, but she gets enough of it, she doesn't need to steal it. What she likes more is pulling the wool over my eyes. She feels better being in control of what she can eat, taking that control off me, even though I am fair and generous with what I give. Even though taking control means doing something that will hurt me, and something that she knows is wrong. Doing it even though have spent much time with her talking over these issues, dealing with them sensitively, trying to get her to udnerstand why she feels the compulsion take things she knows she shouldn't.

I have to accept that I cannot fix her. I cannot help her see reason and get her to not lie and steal. Her compulsion is deep and hard-wired.

I have decided to put a lock on my bedroom door and keep all money and chocolates in there. I've read of adopters having to do this, I was reading about it this morning, I never thought I would have to live in a house and a family like that and I feel sad.

I feel sad for Daughter too. This weekend she showed me the girl she would have been had her birth parents not screwed her up. Then this morning she showed me the price she has to pay for being that girl. I don't know, I'm not sure sad is the word.

how I nearly burst into flames

Friday night something very frightening happened. I was woken up in the wee hours by stomach pain. It wasn't like any other stomach pain have ever experienced. It wasn't cramping, it was burning. Burning like acid was pouring through my gullet into my upper stomach. My temperature shot up and my whole body felt like it was on fire. I was in tears walking around the bedroom naked trying to cool myself down so that I didn't burst into flames.

It was so bad even Husband woke up! He got the laptop from downstairs, got the phone, and looked up the number for NHS Direct on the internet. Personally, I was thinking an ambulance, but hey, it's the thought that counts.

I managed to calm myself down by looking up my symptoms on the internet. Nothing seemed to fit and eventually the pain had died down enough for me to go back to sleep.

In the morning I told Husband that I was going to catch up on sleep and so I wouldn't be taking them all to Tescos that morning as per usual. Husband can't drive and so he took one of the kids to the local shop to get a few things in. I slept until lunchtime, woke up feeling groggy but painfree and well enough to go to the cinema with a friend that afternoon as planned.

The kids handled it very well and I thanked them for it, saying I was sorry I didn't get to spend much time with them that day.

So what the hell was that? Stress? Ulcer? Near miss with Spontaneous Human Combustion? Answers in the comments box please!

the curious case of the missing jaffa cakes

And just as I was really loving my Daughter, having spent an enjoyable weekend with her getting all her stuff together for her week long residential trip, that too goes belly-up.

At a friend's house recently she and friend's Daughter raided the sweet cupboard and helped themselves to five bags of Haribo. A lot of talking to Daughter ensued. What did she think her friend's Mother thought of her now she had done this? How did that feel? Why did she think it was it OK to steal sweets at a friend's house when she knows she shouldn't do it here? What should she have done instead? What would she do if her friend's wanted her to steal someone's sweets when she went away with the school?

Lots of talking, reflecting, and discussion have followed that Haribo stealing episode.

After I had waved Daughter off for the week on the coach, I went home and did some housework and I found an empty box of jaffa cakes hidden under the coffee table. This made me very unhappy.

We had an incident at the end of last week when I went to fetch Daughter her jaffa cakes for her pudding, when all I found in the treat box was an orange jaffa cake wrapper. I keep the treat box on top of the kitchen cupboard so high that even I have to stand on a stool to reach it, so I knew the kids couldn't have taken it. I concluded that Husband must have eaten them all. He does that. Stuffs his face with the kids' things when I'm not looking. It's VERY annoying.

But Husband denied having them, reminding me that he doesn't like them. I was puzzled. I totally know what the kids have to eat because I am in charge of it, and no one had eaten the jaffa cakes that week because we had been eating the cakes and cookies we'd made for Halloween. And yet, I could also have sworn I'd bought toilet roll that week too, and I couldn't find that either and we were having to wipe our bottoms on tissues, and so I concluded that I must be misremembering and had not bought jaffa cakes at all.

And that's what I've thought all week. Right up until I found that badly hidden jaffa cake box. To get those jaffa cakes Daughter must have climbed up onto the kitchen work surface and then STOOD ON TOP OF THE MICROWAVE.

And she did it in a week that she was getting a cookie or cake after school, a chocolate mousse for pudding, and fruit, Froob or Cheese String for supper, so she was not exactly going without.

And she did it in a week that she and I were having chats about trust and honesty, and not stealing things, and the difference between right and wrong, and most specifically NOT STEALING SWEETS.

After this find I went into her bedroom. I had told her I would be thoroughly going through her room when she was away and so to make sure everything was just as t should be. And that's what I did this morning. Where I found chocolate bar wrappers (not of any chocolate bars I have ever bought her, so where did they come from?), money (I keep all her money for her, so where did that come from?) and felt pens (not allowed in room and not seen before, so where did they come from?) as well as a few assorted things carelessly hidden in bags instead of put away properly, now placed loving in the kitchen bin.

When I was putting the felt tip pens away in the felt tip pen box kept downstairs under the coffee table, guess what I found hidden in there? Why, I do believe it was a mouldy jam sandwich.

Daughter's the one who eats jam sandwiches in this house.

And so, the stealing and lying continues unabated.

It is probably a very good thing that I won't be seeing Daughter for a few days. Gives me time to calm down and think up something really enjoyable to dish out for a consequence.

traumafest

Daughter has gone off with the school on a week long residential course this morning. She was leaking trauma all over the weekend, but it was easily mopped up by a bit of empathy and keeping her close. She has been so excited and I am so pleased for her that this is something she can cope with. I think she will benefit enormously, in all sorts of ways, from this week.

Son was the one who couldn't cope. Last night he brought back into service his 'attention seeking cough'. No cough all day, no cough during showers, no cough during bedtime story, no cough during the fifteen minutes wait for us to bring his drink up and wish him a final goodnight. Ten minutes after being put to bed, cough. Cough. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH *open door and stand in doorway* COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH.

Reader, he kept it up for nearly an hour. I did question, when I realised he was going to make himself sick if he didn't stop, whether I should go upstairs and do the therapeutic 'I wonder if you're coughing because you're worried about your sister going away tomorrow' type empathy stuff, but Husband asked me if I thought it would work. I thought about it for, ohhh, ten seconds, and admitted it wouldn't. You do that with Son and he just manipulates you to try and get something off you and then tantrums when he doesn't get it. Who knew where that road would lead these days?

After an hour he started coming downstairs and so I met him before he got to the bottom. 'Mummy,' he said to me in a voice that didn't sound at all sore considering, 'I can't stop coughing.'

I told him matter-of-factly that he could easily stop coughing if he wanted to and that I was sorry there was nothing I could do to help. But his throat hurt, he told me! I suggested he should probably stop coughing then. He stomped back upstairs and slammed his bedroom door hard.

And not another cough was heard.

See!

Perfectly capable of not coughing all by his little self.

He waited until the next morning until he pulled his next trick which was to start screaming and crying rather than get dressed for school. He used to do that a lot. I have long since made up my mind that when he does this he gets bundled into the car in his pjs, and if he doesn't get dressed in the car, I'll carry him into school undressed if I have to. And so I paid it no further thought.

He did get dressed, but then his next trick was to do everything very slowly. Again, a no win for him because I was well ahead of schedule and we didn't need to rush.

His last ditch attempt at ruining his sister's morning was to pretend he couldn't do his coat up and start screaming on the way to the car THAT HE WAS COLD.

I knelt down and whilst I calmly zipped up his coat I said smiling at him that he could do his very worst, but this morning wasn't about him, it was about his sister and he could suck that up hard. He seemed to find that genuinely funny.

And just in case there are any innocents out there reading this whose hearts are bleeding for my little Boy right now, thinking how unsettled he must be by his sister's imminent departure, and how he could have done with some love and understanding from his mother rather than a mother who would take no shit off him, I tell you this...

His mood continued during the car journey until his Sister pointed out that the school was having a fun week for those who weren't going on a residential course this week. He brightened right up the moment he didn't have to feel quite so jealous of his Sister.

Thing is, his Sister is wrong. It's a fun week for the rest of Year 6 who aren't going on the residential course, NOT for the whole school.

Bwhahahahahaha!!!!

I am so looking forward to spending this week with my trauma riddled Son. It should be such fun.

scream if you want to go faster

At our last family meeting, Son asked a lot of questions about his becoming adopted and the children also opened up for the very first time a little about the abuse that went on in their birth home. We have decided to have a family meeting every Wednesday evening, sitting on the rug of Truth and Trust, cuddling with teddies and warm under blankets, where no sanctions are given, no threats are made, and no tellings off happen.

This past Saturday was the second anniversary of the official placement date of out children. It was a busy day. Tesco shopping in the morning, lunch, kids off to a birthday party for the afternoon, tea, then attending a large municipal bonfire and fireworks display.

It was made busier by a last minute request from the mother whose birthday party our children were going to, to pick up another kid on the way. I say 'on the way'. It wasn't. It was exactly in the opposite direction. Through very disruptive roadworks.

So we had to set out 3/4 of an hour earlier than we would have done, and it took us an hour longer to get back home. That extra hassle would have been bad enough on a day when we were already pushed for time, but it was made worse by the fact that the boy we had to pick up turned out to be a master at trauma language. His constant talk was of bombs, guns, fighting, smashing, breaking, hitting, you know, all that pleasant stuff you really want your own kids to be around. Margot Sunderland would have recognised this type of language very well.

In the afternoon whilst the kids were at the party, Husband and I went into town and enjoyed a civilised lunch and a cosy drink in one of our old haunts. Last year when we had done this, I was desperately unhappy when it was time to go and pick the kids up again. This time I did not feel so bad. That's progress for me.

After a hurried tea, we dressed the kids up in the new autumn clothes that had been delievered courtesy of Next, and they were in very good spirits. We were all, it seemed, having a fabulous day and we went off to the bonfire in high spirits.

As we stood watching the fireworks explode into the sky, a great fire burning behind us, I remembered how we had done the same thing last year and how anxious I had been. I felt sure that one of us was going to crack under the pressure of the anniversary, have a massive tantrum and give us a horrible memory of our 1 year landmark. As it happened, we just avoided a tantrum from son that year over a toy he wanted. Luckily, he got his toy, and we had returned home a happy if tired family.

This year, we were not so lucky. We could not find the toy Son wanted. He didn't want any of the toys from the Hook-a-Duck stall and so I paid £3 for nothing, failed to win the big teddy he wanted on a game stall, and didn't want to go on any ride. There was nothing anywhere he wanted us to buy him, although we were willing.

As we left the park I said very clearly to both of the children in an energetic yet sympathetic way, that it was a real shame there were no toys they wanted us to buy them, but that we would buy them something tomorrow, so isn't THAT great?

Daughter and I walked ahead, and very soon, snaking its way through the noise of traffic and crowds, came the shrill sounds of Son's tantrum.

When we got to a quieter spot I asked Husband what had happened. Apparently Son had started to try and hurt Husband's hand as he held it, an old trick of Son's. He tries to crush fingers and sometimes goes for digging his nails into your cuticles. Husband had told him off and so Son had hit him.

In a day that Son had had a comic, chocolate bar and collectible cards from Tesco, a fabulous party with goody bags and cake, new clothes from Next he'd picked himself, ice cream, fairground, bonfire and fireworks, he wanted to hurt his daddy because he couldn't also have a toy right there and then. A toy that didn't exist. A toy that we had said we would buy him tomorrow.

Hitting has obviously become the Weapon of Choice for one damaged little boy. I really don't know what I shall do if he ever hits me.

repair

So, we got the kids together, told them to bring in blankets and a soft toy friend, sat them down on a rug with us and asked them to talk to us, tell us what had happened. And much to our amazement they did.

Son had apparently already 'tricked' his grandmother into letting him out of the bedroom (that must have been the bit when she was holding the bedroom door to keep him in his bedroom) and so after that she sat in his bedroom with him, her back against the door, ignoring him but not letting him out. That's when he escalated his behaviour to hitting and kicking her, trying to make her move out of his way. Charming image, isn't it?

Husband spoke to his parents last night and they had already done a sort of whitewash of the incident, claiming they were not the least bit upset and everything was fine. They want to take Son out on a special trip to show him there are no hard feelings. This shows me they have learnt nothing and are still not listening. I can't think of a worse way to handle this than to reward him for the way he behaved.

I also don't feel that 'punishing' Son is the way to go. Punishing him, taking away his wii, stopping him go to his friend's party this weekend, making him go to bed early, would suit Son very well. That would allow him to be the victim once again, to feel sorry for himself, wallow in the idea that the world is against him. That's a very comfortable place for Son to be.

But he's not the victim here, he's the perpetrator. He's the one that did wrong. He's the one who has got to face up to what he did and apologise. That is a very uncomfortable place for him.

It's the all pervasive shame that these children feel that makes 'being sorry' difficult. They find it hard to believe they 'did a bad thing' and instead believe what their low self-esteem tells them that 'they are a bad'. That's a very painful thing to believe about yourself, and so they fight against it. They don't want to feel sorry, they don't want to admit they did wrong, that's catastrophic for their fragile ego.

But if we can get Son to confront himself over this, to go through the process of remembering what he did, imagining how his grandmother feels, feeling sorry for what he did, that's got to be to his benefit. To learn that in this family, you will be held to account for what you do, you will be made to face it, but when you do, you will be forgiven? I think that could be the biggest lesson of his life to date.

We meet as a family again tonight at 7pm. We'll see.

son's worst blow out yet

So the in-laws came to babysit last night. Husband overheard MIL whispering to Son in a conspiratorial way as she gave him a mini chocolate bar. Son immediately sought me out, knowing that he'd had his supper and wasn't allowed to eat anything more. He's one for sticking to the rules, my Son.

Not so Daughter. Before Husband and I left to go to the cinema a fight broke out between the two children. Son had spotted Daughter hiding the mini chocolate bar she had been given (given by MIL after Son had already made it clear they were not allowed any more food treats that night, I might add). As she denied having anything, I stood over Daughter and held my hand out. With a right face on her, she put the mini bar in my hand and Husband got an apology from her.

Driving to the cinema I remarked to Husband that it just wasn't wise to encourage our children to break the rules. You might get away with it with neurotypical children, but the stakes are too high with adopted children.

And yet! There was a little whispering voice in my head that said 'Yeah, but it was only a small chocolate bar, can't the grandparents just treat the kids? How mean did you look standing over Daughter getting her to hand over the treat her Grandmother had just given to her?'

Hands on the buzzers please ladies and Gentleman for the following question - was giving the children chocolate just before bedtime without their parents' permission:

A) the harmless act of an indulgent grandmother.

B) the act of a subversive grandmother trying to buy the affections of her grandchildren with sugar, messing with the kids' heads by undermining their parents, and storing up a whole lot of trouble for herself?

***the studio lights flash and spooky music plays whilst the readership make their choice***

And those of you that plumped for answer B give yourselves a pat on the back!

It was very upsetting for Husband and I to come back from the cinema to find a strained pair of Grandparents. Son had lost the plot again. And it was worse than the time Son stayed over at their house and went mental.

We don't have a clear narrative of events, but Son's behaviour escalated after a happy bedtime story. We've heard fragments of stories about him saying how he didn't like them, that they weren't 'generous', that he preferred my Mom and Dad. He wouldn't do as he was told. He wouldn't stay in his room. His bedroom door was held shut on him. He threatened to wet himself. Finally he was screaming obscenities at MIL and after threatening to hit her, did so. Several times, apparently about the head.

Son has violent emotions but has never been physically violent towards anything but his toys before now. I was, and am, shocked. From the things MIL said he was saying, it would seem that he was trying to get MIL to stop him, but she just didn't know how. It made me think just how much of my energy I spend of 'containing' son, steering his behaviour and managing his moods. If he doesn't have an adult doing that for him he can't contain himself. Clearly.

None of this was the fault of my Parents-in-law. My son's impressive range of expletives and his need to scream them at a woman in her mid-70s who has shown him nothing but indulgence and kindness, comes from the years he spent with his birth parents where such conflict was every day.

But if last night proves anything it is that you just simply cannot parent traumatised children in the same way you would ordinary children.

You cannot try to get these children to break the rules and not have payback. By giving him chocolate in a subversive way she made Son choose between her and me. He chose me. She was doomed from that moment.

I wish my parents-in-law had listened to me and their son the times we've tried to explain to them how and why we parent like we do. I wish they had taken our advice to 'be in charge' and to not let the children get away with anything. It makes them feel safe, we told them. Their birth parents were chaotic and scary, they need adults who give them rules and routine and refuse to be bossed around.

But they bumbled on with their particular brand of relaxed grandparenting, an open palms , shrugging style of parenting, indicating that nothing will phase them, all behaviour is acceptable, pitting themselves in open conflict with me and Husband too many times.

Son was literally begging for boundaries last night ('Aren't you going to hit me to shut me up?') because he didn't feel safe. I'm not making excuses for him, I'm just outlining cause and effect. He kept pushing and pushing and pushing trying to find that boundary, for someone to stop him, for someone to at least tell him off. When that didn't happen ...

The whole thing is hideously upsetting. I feel very sad for MIL who has wanted for so long to be the type of loving, affectionate grandparent that her own parents were to her children. I feel sorrier for her tonight than I ever have for myself that I was not able to have birth children. She's probably grieving right now for the grandchildren she wanted and will never have. Yet, bless her, she left our house last night insisting that she was still going to carry on babysitting for us.

At 7pm we are having a family meeting. I will get out the Rug of Truth and we will all sit on it and talk. If Husband and I can come at this with curiosity then maybe we will learn something. Although I have to say if it was my parents he'd done this too last night I cannot say I would be able to handle this so calmly.

Otherwise, having babysitters in is now a lost dream, much as we were enjoying it and benefiting from it. I won't have people come into my house and be physically and emotionally abused by an eight year old boy.