Today’s post is written by an adoptive father, who wishes to remain anonymous.
My wife does it all really.
I go to work each day. I come home, eat dinner, bath the kids and put them to bed, and carry on like this day after day. At weekends I get a glimpse of how my children interact with each other and their mother. I get to see some of the behaviour that wears my wife down each day, the struggles that mean she’s asleep by 9 on the sofa, and the abuse that is hurled at her and makes her weep into her Chablis in the evenings.
My wife, she’s the one who reads the books, researches online, joins in message boards and forums, uses twitter for support, she’s also the one who goes on the courses run by our local authority. She knows, and she learns and she feeds back to me, and I struggle to comprehend it all, not because I don’t want to, but because it’s so bloody hard to accept that these little people have endured so much already in their short lives, and it’s doubly hard to accept that adults – people in charge – subjected MY children to such crap beginnings.
I have the utmost respect for single adoptive parents – doing it themselves, without someone to tag in the evenings when it’s been too much.
But mostly, I have respect for my wife. I have my own demons that I’ve had to overcome, but she, well, she had all those physical investigations during fertility treatment. She fought to get us into the adoption process – it wasn’t an easy ride. She put her all into learning, reflection and supporting me through the self-examination involved. And she parents our children to the best of her abilities.
She is my rock, and my love, and despite the hell our kids put her through, she is the best mother for those kids. She’ll be reading this, and I hope it helps her realise (and all the other parents out there) that although many days are shit, she is appreciated, loved and needed.