Desertmum has moved…!

Thanks for stopping by the blog.

Excitingly, I now have a new home for Desertmum, which you can find here. Please pop across and keep me company while I wait for everyone else to turn up.

You could also, you know, add me to your bookmarks, share the new website with everyone you know and write the words ‘lucyrycroft.com’ in beautifully artistic brush-strokes across your bathroom mirror.

Just sayin’.

Lucy x

the un-birthday: celebrating the birthday of the child you haven’t met

I wrote the following nearly two years ago, on the occasion of our twins’ first birthday.

Image result for 1st birthday candleToday, our twins turn one. I haven’t yet met them, but I love them already. We need to celebrate – and yet how does one celebrate the birthday of someone they’ve never met? Someone who is already so firmly locked inside one’s heart, but so achingly distant? Perhaps our celebrations looked a little odd from the outside. But I think that those who, each year, mark the birthday of a child they never met, a child born asleep or taken too soon – maybe they can understand our need to celebrate.

We did some of the usual traditions. There were balloons, cake and candles, and homemade cards. Missy didn’t struggle to create a card for each of her new little brothers. But, lacking the no-nonsense self-confidence of a 4-year-old, I stared at my blank card last night and I was stuck. Making a homemade card for each of my children’s birthdays is a tradition so firmly imprinted into the DNA of our family that I couldn’t do anything else – yet how do you make a card for someone you’ve never met? I settled on a generic caterpillar design, suitable for a first birthday. Twins, please forgive me – I don’t yet know your characters, your traits, your gifts and your passions. Next year will be different.

We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ – to each twin, individually, marking the start of an upbringing which will firmly recognise each of them as separate, unique entities. But it was our birth kids who blew out the candles, it was they who were in the photos. Next year will be different.

There were no presents. The twins are coming into a home already bulging with entertainment and activity and, besides, there will be moving-in presents and Christmas presents. Their birthday presents were the cots, drawers, shelves, clothes and nappies I’m rapidly sourcing from eBay and Gumtree. Next year will be different.

There was no measuring on the height chart. We have a permanent record of how tall each of our birth children were on their first birthday – but, for the twins, we will have to be content to measure them two months late. Next year will be different.

There was no party – not at our house anyway – because how can you party without the guests of honour being there? Instead, they celebrated at their foster home, and their brilliant foster mum deserved every minute of this joyful day with them. She has been the one to feed them, nurture them, love them through their first year. Next year will be different.

For me, there were no nostalgic reminisces, no casting my mind back to the first twinges, the contractions, the labour, the birth, the early minutes and hours. I have no idea what I was doing one year ago today. Next year this won’t be any different. Nor will it be next year, or the year after, or the year after that. I will never have this date indelibly etched into my memory because, at the time, I had no awareness of the significance of it, no idea that our family had just changed forever.

But I think of her. And I wonder how many hours she laboured, and how she felt, and what she was thinking, and if she had anyone by her side. And I like to remember my joy when each of my birth children screamed their way into this world, and imagine her feeling this about her birth children, giddy in love with them like I was with mine.

They are our twins. But they are hers as well. Today we celebrate the three of them.

adoption: am i excited?

We’re preparing to adopt. (For more I’ve written on adoption, click here.)

People keep asking me “Are you excited?” or pre-empting with “I bet you’re excited!”. Usually, for a quiet life, I respond with a simple “Yes, I’m excited!”, and that ends an otherwise awkward conversation. Apologies if you’re one of the friends I’ve fobbed off in this way – please understand that it’s only because the answer is so very long and so very complicated that you’d be at risk of missing your flight for next year’s summer holiday if I actually gave you the honest truth.

But I feel you deserve a bit more of an explanation, so I’ll attempt to explain how I’m feeling. Overall, I guess I’m excited – we chose this path, after all, and the arrival of new members of the family is always exciting. But this emotion, for now at least, is clouded by so much else.

I’m busy. Writing emails, taking phone calls, filling in paperwork, answering the same questions over and over again to myriad professionals.

I’m shopping. Planning what we need, what we can borrow, what to ask for. Scanning eBay and Gumtree for second hand bargains. Comparing prices, sizes, colours, efficiency. Reading reviews.

I’m preparing. Laminating family photos, shooting a DVD, sleeping with cot sheets and soft toys, recording our voices onto special toys. All crazy stuff I’d never have imagined would be part of welcoming children into our family.

I’m mothering. Preparing our birth kids, chatting to them, dealing with their emotions, asking questions, picking up on their clues. As well as the usual routine of school runs, clubs and groups, playdates, mealtimes, bedtimes, endless tidying and cleaning.

I’m nesting. Yep, you read that right. These children may not be growing in my tummy, but they’re growing in my heart. I’m painting, assembling, moving, re-housing, washing and arranging. Preparing their bedroom makes my heart skip every time I’m in there.

I’m catching up. By phone and in person. Coffees, lunches, dinners. Trying to make the most of my friends while it’s still easy to make time for them. Knowing that the next bit of life will be chaotic, that it won’t be so easy to get out in an evening, that my child-free daytime hours will reduce to zero.

I’m nervous. Nervous of meeting them for the first time, nervous of being watched by the social workers, nervous of how our birth kids and adopted kids will get on.

I’m clueless. How will we cope with four kids? Will we cope? Will I be able to ask for help when I need it? What will mornings look like? Bedtimes? Can we really protect our adopted kids from over-interested parties?

I’m naive. I know there’s lots that I haven’t thought of. Will I regret not having prepared more? Will it matter? Will we be OK?

And, I’m excited. Overall, I am. I promise. But perhaps, at this moment in time, you are more excited than me. Because you see the bigger picture. You’re not caught up in the detail – you don’t have to be. And, friends, please keep being excited for us, because it is this which sustains me through the long, long to-do list, and reminds me to keep focused on the end goal: the huge blessing of the children God is giving us to love for the rest of our lives.

And yes, I’ll hand it to you – that is exciting.

he turned 6: learning to mourn the past but love the future

Last week, my boy turned 6.

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I’m looking back at the last year and, as well as a huge growth spurt evidenced by the birthday-measuring tradition we completed on Birthday Morning, there are so many ways that he has grown and flourished in this last year, his first at school.

In fact, the simple reality that I spent his birthday child-free, celebrating his birthday with a keyboard and a computer screen, drafting this blog post, while he was celebrating it at school with his friends and teachers, eating Minion cakes and getting sung to by other people, shows how much he is growing up. The independence frightens me and delights me. He doesn’t need me constantly – there is so much he can do – nay, prefers to do – by himself, whether that’s choosing what to wear, making a card for someone else, or walking into his classroom of a morning. (The exception to this is Birthday Morning, when un-cool Mummy is bringing cakes, and therefore becomes an acceptable companion into class.)

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But of course there are still so many situations in which he needs our guidance, mentoring, advice and suggestions. His dad and I are still the greatest influences on his life – for how long, I wonder? He needs us to help him learn to read, add up, and understand the world. He needs us to help him cross the road, to fill in forms, take him to the doctor, make his meals. He needs us to introduce him to different creative expressions: new music, art or literature. He needs us to validate his emotions, give him language to understand them, and help him navigate the tricky ups and downs of life.

And this is the definition of parenting, right? You work hard to bring life into the world – and then, once that life has arrived, your job is to gradually encourage their independence, their moving away from you. In other words, you’re making yourself redundant. Of course, you’re never fully redundant – even grown-ups need the love, support, childcare and financial bail-outs that their parents give – but sometimes, looking at my son, I feel the quickness of the years, and the phases which have passed, and I need to remember to parent in the moment.

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This year, Mister has developed his interest in gymnastics (and can now do some pretty clever things on the bars), learnt to write whole stories, continued with his Lego addiction, rediscovered the fun of Playmobil, and (of course) continued his love of football, now attending a Football Club at school. He’s learnt to sing more-or-less in tune, and sung a solo in his school nativity last Christmas. Just as soon as I’d written this post, about how I throw away my kids’ numerous art creations, and a friend had commented “Just be thankful they’re not in 3D yet”, Mister started to bring home 3D creations. I mean – literally the day after that post was published, we started to amass a collection of shoeboxes with a variety of recyclable items stuck to them.

This year, I need to pay tribute to the teachers who have helped shape Mister’s life these past 12 months – for their unfailing enthusiasm, energy, and professionalism – always striving to give Mister (and his classmates) the best, most personalised education experience, within a communal setting. No easy task. Up until now, it was me and my husband whose influence affected Mister’s existence most strongly – now his life is entwined with all sorts of influential strands from his teachers, and we’re so grateful for all they invest in him.

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Character-wise, while Mister has always been fairly placid, increasingly we’re seeing a steely inner determination. Sometimes this manifests in competitiveness (read: he’s a bad loser), sometimes in carrying out his own ideas, asking for little or no help from anyone else. I’m so proud of him when he makes the right choices at school, free from the Parental Stares which would otherwise communicate which path he should take.

We can’t live our children’s lives for them – we can simply teach them what we know, trusting that God will make up the difference, and then sit back and watch the people they become. This year, although I might mourn the hours we now spend apart from each other, I can’t help but watch and love my boy, delighted in the person he is and is becoming.

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