Between Us Two

Checking, that's all I did in preparation for him. Checking for sharp objects, checking for any hazards, checking for anything adverse. It's quite strange analysing your own house and work ; you forget how much stuff you have. Yeah, stuff.

Hastily, I ran through the twists and turns of the corridors, chucked and balanced art pieces to try and catch even an ounce of a glimpse of the floor underneath. Messy work. It would have been nice if any of the neighbours could have come round to help - but I guess a twenty year old, with a job in art, adopting a toddler was too ... odd - for them at the time at least.

When the sharp knocking came at my door, I almost screamed in trepidation. Not only had I not cleared and purified the lounge of my heaps of crisp packets and tissues but I also looked like a tired, distressed badger. Maybe not a badger - but my attire was strewn across my figure and mixed with an untamed, curly mane, it didn't look the part for a 'mother'.

I distinctly remember the scowl the social worker gave me, toddler in one hand and documents in the other. To be honest, I was surprised she even let him in. But she did. He was my new 'son'.

As she drove off in her polished Merc, I sat him down on the abused sofa, looked him in the eyes and just sat. Thinking back to it, not the best introduction in the world to the world. His chubby cheeks burnt a bright red whilst his pale blue eyes glared right back at the darkness of mine. In the end, I decided to pull out some good-old wooden blocks and left him to make lunch (technically breakfast in my case). Beans on toast seemed good enough.

Unfortunately, he didn't agree. Apparently, it's more fun to flip the toast with the beans onto the floor. And the cucumber and the cereal and the sausages. Nothing would please him.

The toddler has triumphed over the adult. No matter how many times I played with him, chased him, left him, absolutely nothing suited him.

Except sitting. Sitting and watching me.

Every time I plopped him down in the lounge, he would always toddle back into the gallery. Silently, patiently watching the paints blend in a burst of colour and the preciseness of each brush stroke

Tucking him into bed for the first time, I ended up doing the same thing: watching his chest rise and fall as he slept, blonde curls glinting in the waning moonlight. I feel asleep there that night.

He was trouble, I'll give him that ; a pain in the neck. But it's strange. He'll still come and watch me paint after school and do a bit of his homework. Things may not be perfect. But was I happy?

I guess so.