Categories: uncategorized
Date: 10 November 2010 08:24:26
Although blogging has its limitations as a record of events, it's quite useful to look back at some of my posts from the past as an emotional diary of pseudo-losing a son, the false bereavement without the closure of a funeral. And so, as I move into a new stage of that strange limbo-like state, it is helpful to muse on it here. Thank you for your patience in this moment of self-indulgence.
Last month my eldest son turned eighteen. A time of mixed emotions for any parent. The emphasis was intensified by my friend's son turning eighteen at about the same time - a lad my son has never met and in all likelihood never will. It's a joke really, the idea of turning from child to adult overnight, just like when the Smudgelet turned into a teenager on the night of his thirteenth birthday. But this coming of age was a strange one.
I sent no card, just a letter. Hours of standing in card shops searching for the right card was just too difficult. My son turns eighteen and I feel no desire to celebrate. No parties. No "first pint" (an odd thought for a teetotal-or-almosttotal mother). No "key of the door". Not even a card.
The eighteenth birthday is significant in the prison setting as a child magically does become an adult overnight there. From the moment he turned eighteen he could be moved into the "adult estate", as they call it, at any moment with just fifteen minutes' notice and without even definitely knowing, as he climbs into the van after emptying his cell, where he is being moved to. So from the moment he turned eighteen, I had no idea whether he had moved or not... not until I was contacted by the Youth Offending Team to let me know.
From the moment he turned eighteen, I no longer had any automatic involvement in his life. I will no longer be invited to reviews unless he asks for me to be there. Probation will no longer keep me informed of how he's doing or what's happening with him unless he actively requests it. I can sit here and wait until he writes to me to tell me how to contact him. Maybe he'll send a visiting order - who knows?
Eighteen. Maybe he wouldn't have been coming home for Christmas anyway. I can certainly imagine he could have been causing me plenty of worry were he here. But at least I'd maybe know him. My son is becoming a man and I won't even really know him.
Please remember all birth mothers whose children are adopted. I guess it must feel something like that for them too. A strange sort of limbo.