Approval Panel Day

I'm delighted to say that we were approved, unanimously if you please, at our adoption panel on 4th May.  It's taken me a while to find time to update the blog so apologies if anyone has been reading this expecting to find out!

It feels a bit strange now.  We've completed our assessment, thank God, and done all of the training we had to do for now.  We've gone through the pain of waiting for the panel date and now we're in limbo waiting for things to happen.  It's fine, really, we did expect it to be like this but it seems strange after all the constant toing and froing of the past 12 months.

I think our social worker was flapping more than we were on the day.  For us, given that we'd been told that we were 99.9% sure to be approved, it was part of the process.  For him, well, let's just say he didn't get an easy ride with the panel who didn't like the style of his report.

I know that 'panel' is the big event for most prospective adopters, so let's go over the day for those who are approaching or looking forward to this event.

When asked how we should dress our social worker said "well, I wouldn't turn up in shorts and t-shirt if I were you" which is ironic since that's the way he's appeared at our house several times before during the assessment!

So we opt for a suit with an open-necked shirt - a tie is probably too stuffy and, bored of watching the clock at home, we decide to leave early and get to the council's offices in good time.  Max drives in his usual Italian way and we arrive there VERY early, park at the far end of the car park so we can kill some time walking, and then take a stroll along the canal to waste even more time.

We've been told to arrive at 1005 for our hearing at 1015 so we rock up to reception, having seen enough ducks and canal lock action, at 0945 to be met by what can only be described as the most miserable, sour-faced woman I've ever met and, believe me, I've met a few.  OK, so she's not interested in our excitement, it's a long time since she had children and, to be honest, if I worked on a council's reception desk, dishing out plastic badges and parking permits I'd probably be pretty miserable, too.

She tells us we can 'wait in there' which, we assume, means we should proceed through the double doors and take a seat, helping ourselves to tea and coffee whilst we wait.  Only one problem with that.  We enter this cavernous 'waiting area', filled with comfortable sofas, low tables, a vending machine and a fridge marked 'Children only', to find that the meeting room where the 'panel' takes place has a thoroughly modern and un-council-like glass wall so we can see the 12 members giving another couple the once-over.

We try to find seats that don't face the glass wall, so we can't see their faces or what's going on, and spend a considerable amount of time debating who is going to approach the tea/coffee making facilities which are cleverly placed on a table against said glass wall.

We're relieved of our dilemma by the sight of the 'chair' of the panel rising from her seat, looking directly at us and making her way towards the door separating us from the lion's den.  OMG, what does she want?  Is she coming to speak to us?  Why?  Aaaaaagh.

'She' introduces herself as the 'chair' of the panel and apologises that they're running a little late - we'd been warned of this by our social worker.  She also comments on the fact that our social worker has not yet arrived - it's 1015...our call time.  I assure her that he's most likely on his way and that we're used to his to-the-bone timings.

Then he arrives, 1017, apologising for being late, wearing a pair of casual chinos and an 'I'm not a social worker at the weekend' shirt.  We feel over-dressed but then we always do when we see him!

He then does what he always does - says something stupid that throws me.  "Hello, hello.  So.  Nervous?" to which I reply, truthfully, "No, not at all, quite relaxed actually given the circumstances".  So there.  "Well, you look nervous."  Thanks.  Thanks a lot.  That's really helping.

We're just about to sit in front of a panel of 12 people we've never met, who will, at their own admission, spend 30 minutes deciding the future of our 'family'.  If they say no, we're back to luxury holidays, a new car every year and the carefree life that we led until now.  If they say yes, we're most likely going to adopt a child at some point.  Why would we be nervous?!

Then we get this:

Social Worker (SW):  "OK, OK, they're running late.  Do you want to stay sitting here or would you prefer to sit in a smaller, quieter meeting room whilst we wait?"

Me: "No no, we're fine here, no problem."

SW: "Well, we could always move to the little room and wait there if you want"

Me: "Really, we're fine here"

SW: "They provide this little meeting room, just around the corner there where people normally wait.  It's just so that, if the medical examiner needs to come out and ask anything, they can do it in private, but if you're OK with them doing that here then that's fine."

Me:  "Yep, absolutely fine.  We're fine here"

SW: "OK, tell you what, why don't we go to the little meeting room around the corner?  They prefer us to wait there.  Shall we?"

Well, why the hell didn't you just say that?  Arse.

The "little meeting room around the corner" is accurately described.  It's tiny.  A round table with four chairs and window...overlooking the courtyard...and an identical glass wall so we can see in to the panel meeting room!  Not helping.

Anyway.  Chit chat, chit chat, chit chat and then the 'chair' returns to tell us that they're ready to begin.  They want to speak to our SW first, then they'll call us, and then they'll make their decision.  OK?  Oh, I think, we have a choice.  Of course we don't.  It's fine.

So, off our SW trots to be asked questions about our assessment, about our lives and our general ability or inability to parent an adopted child.  Normally takes about 15 minutes.  This time it takes 30.

We get bored of sitting in the little meeting room around the corner and take a wander back to the nice waiting area with the sofas.  Just as we get ourselves a coffee, having managed to find a way to hide behind a pillar and extend our arms to reach the coffee jugs without being seen, the SW re-appears, looking flustered.  This is not a good sign.  He's looking red and sweaty which is not a good look and we know from our time with him that it means there's something wrong.

We ask what the problem is and get "oh, no, nothing, it's fine, I just got a grilling - never had a response like that from a panel before, very strange" [Now I'm nervous!] "No, no, nothing to worry about, they've got a problem with me, not you, anyway, let's go in if you're ready..."

Are we ready?  About as ready as we'll ever be.  This is it.  We open the glass door, on the glass wall, and enter the lion's den.  The room is set out with tables in a big square, with a handy atrium space left in the middle - a void over which they can watch us, analyse us.

We smile, say "hello" to the general assembly, more smiles...no response from the panel.  However, undaunted, we take our seats, opposite the 'chair' and she manages a small, very small smile.  Everyone else just fiddles with papers and avoid eye contact.

There are microphones on the table, like they have at the UN, and a 'How did we do' questionnaire for us to "rate the experience".

The 'chair' introduces herself by saying "Hello, I'm Xxxxxx, I'm Chair of the adoption panel.  First of all I'm going to ask everyone to introduce themselves, then I'll talk about your application and ask some questions.  Everyone else has specific questions and they will ask them next.  Then we'll ask you to leave the room, have another quick chat with your social worker and then we'll vote and make our decision."

Fair enough.  That seems quite straightforward.  Nothing too much to worry about.

So, one by one the panel members introduce themselves, they get to us and we introduce ourselves and it continues around the table until we get back to the beginning.

We get asked questions about: thoughts on the age of our potential adopted child, whether it should be a boy or a girl; we're asked for more details on our plans for adoption leave; a couple of questions about things we'd said in the report; identification of a guardian for our adopted child (they made a lot of this) and about parenting styles.

In all there were just eight questions, which we thought was a very low number.  Apparently there are normally four or five, so eight was high, but it didn't feel like it.

We weren't asked any questions about how we would cope with the 'two gay dads' question, nothing about dealing with bullying, nothing about our mixed heritage (English and Italian-South African), nothing about our history/life so far.

It was all very, very straightforward and manageable and we were right not to be nervous...until our SW told us we were!

I managed to get a joke in when asked about our experience of interacting with children - I told them I was quite used to it after five years with Max!  That got a giggle and some affectionate smiles...from everyone but Max!

That was it.  We were asked to leave the room whilst they chatted with our SW and voted.  We retreated to the now perfectly acceptable glass fishbowl of a waiting room and waiting for the vote, Eurovision style.

Our SW appeared five minutes later to tell us that we had, of course, been approved by a unanimous vote.  We were relieved.  We didn't start dancing around the room or anything crazy but we felt relieved.  It felt a bit odd though.  We didn't really know how we were supposed to act or, in fact, what we were supposed to do next.  Should we stand, say "thanks" to our SW and leave or should we sit, bask in the glory and soak it up for a while?

Well, this was answered quite quickly by the stream of panel members exiting the meeting room to get coffee, toilet breaks etc., each of whom came over and individually congratulated us, telling us that they were sure we'd make great parents.

That was it.  All over.  All approved.  All happy.

Next step...finding a child.  More on that later...gotta run...