That Achilles has a lot to answer for!

Achilles’ heels, we all have them, don’t we? That’s the truly vulnerable spot that we protect with emotional sticking plaster all our lives. Of course you don’t know what your Achilles heel, (Ah), is until someone hits you right there. Poor old Achilles died when he was shot in the heel which had been the bit his mother hung onto when she dipped him in the magic strengthening waters of the River Styx. Naturally, it was mum’s fault, isn’t it always? My first Ah was my weight. I was a bonny baby, a chubby child and an Amazonian adult – pleasant enough adjectives meaning FAT!!!!! I’ve been on some kind of diet for most of my adult life, very few of which have actually worked. Now aged 64 I’ve grown into my own plump skin and feel relaxed enough to say “Sod it”, what you see is what you get and that goes for all the other insecurities of youth. Ah its grand growing old when you can do and say exactly what you like, (within reason).
My second and probably hardest Ah became apparent in my early thirties. Married for over 7 years and tired of the usual tactless remarks from so called “friends” about the patter of tiny feet, we had our fertility tested and received the devastating news that the only way a baby would come our way was through AID and that wasn’t guaranteed either. I remember one particularly insensitive colleague at work who kept offering friendly advice on fertility treatment. Having popped out three of her own as easily as shelling peas she was obviously fishing for news. After a few months treatment we gave up on that too and later became proud parents through adoption. Like all families, we’ve had our ups and downs; the teen years were particularly challenging, but when aren’t they? We don’t regret our choice for one moment and our daughter’s beautiful little girl has brought untold happiness to the whole family.
However, that doesn’t stop the busy bodies from trying to shoot that arrow at your Ah. People, i.e. those who consider themselves “normal” parents, whatever that is, like to parade their snug middle class offspring in front of you. You know the type, whose children have made good marriages and have set off into the sunset in a haze of white tulle. Of course I would love my children to meet, love and be loved by good partners but adopted children often find adult relationships tricky as they come to terms with their own life story. Still things are looking up – last September our son got engaged to his lovely girlfriend of 6 years and our daughter at last has a new boyfriend who treats her like a person and not a chattel. Where there’s life there’s hope I suppose. I think I’ll try and fill a bottle with water from the River Styx just in case though.

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