All Change

I'm not a good manager of change. I've known this about myself for some years now.

I am more than happy to eat the same meals over and over again and watch the same TV programmes again and again until I know the words. When I decide to decorate or move furniture around, I always regret it for quite a while until I get used to it. Most of the ornaments in my house are in the place I plonked them on the day I unpacked the boxes.

I have lived in the same town for years, apart from a two-year blip when, quite out of character, I went off to live in Romania. I did the same job for ages. I've attended the same church for nearly 30 years now.



Welcoming a new foster child into our home is obviously a massive change, and I have learned that, for a while, all my brain power will have to be focused on managing the change. There will be at least a two to three week hiatus on normal operations until I can find our new rhythm.

Managing change consumes large parts of my brain function that would otherwise be put to useful gain elsewhere. In particular the 'filtering out random noise' part of my brain seems entirely to shut down. This is unfortunate when you live with a person who can quite easily sing one line from a song in a tuneless, robotic manner for upwards of 20 minutes without pause.

The 'speaking normally like a person' part goes off on a holiday too. I find myself incapable of calling anybody in the house by the correct name. OB is always (always!!!!) on hand to correct me. We have a lot of conversations similar to this:

Me: We need to stop and get some petrol for the car.
OB: Do you mean diesel?
Me: Yes.
OB: Because this car doesn't use petrol.
Me: I know.
OB: You really must remember to put diesel and not petrol.
Me: I just used the wrong word. I know it uses diesel.
OB: But you said petrol. It's not petrol, it's diesel.
Me: *BOOM*

Birdy, on the other hand, is apparently an excellent manager of change. About five days ago, we couldn't find her dummies when it came to bedtime. Frustrated by her total lack of willingness to help me look for them, I eventually declared that she would have to go to bed without them. She said ok. She hasn't asked for them since. I subsequently found them both and hid them!

Our new fosterling (we're calling him Squidge - he has squidgy feet and cheeks) is experiencing change the like of which I can hardly imagine. I wonder which parts of his brain are currently off their usual function and wholly committed to managing the massive tsunami of change that's just crashed over his life?

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