No Mascara Needed

I'm feeling nervous! 

Our two days of adoption course training are nearly upon us, and I'm feeling nervous. Anxious. On edge. 

Not because I don't know what to expect; I do, largely. Although presumably some of the content will have changed since last time we attended the same course, I imagine that a lot of it will be similar. And that's what worrying me. 

Last time, I found the two day course full-on, intense, and a lot to take in. They bombard you with quite a lot of information, which you try to absorb while also sussing out the other attendees and trying to make the most of the chance to make friends with others who are potentially in a similar situation as you. 

The course covers lots of things, and a particularly impactful element for me was the part that focussed on birth parents, and reasons for children going into care. You look at the reasons children may be removed, and the way the process works. It's to build empathy, to make sure adopters feel for those whose children are taken away from them. This element of the course, its very inclusion in the course materials, is absolutely right and it's good and it's heartbreaking and it's bittersweet. 

And now I've got to face it again, but this time from the point of view not as a newcomer, with no point of reference, but as a mummy with a son who was taken away from another mummy. As a mummy with a son whose life could have been so different. When the course leaders talk about the reasons children are removed from the birth families, how will I not be thinking of Bounce, and his vulnerable start? When they talk about the issues and difficulties faced by birth parents, how do I not think about Bounce's birth parents, and what they mean to him and what they were to him? 

We knew at the outset of this second journey that it would be emotional - because it's beautiful, and exciting, and difficult, and life-changing, yes - but also because it's closer to home now, in a new, different sense. It's a reminder of things that, rightly or wrongly, you forget about in the day to day busyness of mummy-ing and life-ing. It's a reminder of, 'Oh, yeh - Bounce is adopted....his life could have looked so different...I wonder what he would be like if...' aaaand let the sobbing commence. 

So. I will cry. I will not wear mascara. I will take tissues. I will cry, maybe a lot. And that's okay. A deep breath, a quick prayer, a glance at my phone to see Bounce's happy, safe, gorgeous face, a squeeze of Hubby's hand, a nose-blow, and I'll be okay.