It’s hard to believe a year has passed since we visited the foster carer’s house, and met the girls for the first time. A year of fun, stress, hard work, exasperation, elation, laughter, hilarity, tears, tantrums, paint, glitter, glue, and more pink than you can possibly imagine.
More than once over the past year while sat in meetings at work I have put a hand into a pocket and pulled out crayons or hair clips.
Our house is no longer quiet, tidy, or ordered. Our washing machine never stops. Our elderly cat has grown irritable and bad tempered (there’s only so much enforced love even a cat can withstand).
We have somehow survived our first year as a family. When carrying a screaming child along the high street, we are passed knowing glances from “experienced” parents. We smile when we see other parents doing likewise. We are repeatedly told by all around us that “you’re doing SO well!”, and yet we don’t feel like it sometimes.
There are moments when you wish you could go and sit in the coffee shop - but you don’t. There are moments when you want to shout “SHUT UP!” at the kids, but you don’t. There are also moments when the children snuggle up next to you for no other reason than to be with you - take your hand in the street, wrap their arms around your legs… call for you when unsure or upset. There are moments when excited shouts summon you to share in a victory - a new achievement, a painting from school (“Look - it’s you Daddy!”), a cake they made (and ate before they got home).
It all happens, every day, and we have slowly become used to it. When seperated from them throughout the school or working day, we look forward to their return - to share a few more hours of their young lives.
One day they will be grown up, and probably fight with us over some boy or other that we don’t approve of. Until that happens they are our girls, we are their world, and they are ours.