Photos of your kids there should be none of them in the nude, that being said there is times when a picture is worth a thousand words.. In example
Little Orik 3 years old completely starkers covered in mud head to foot except were he had just removed his nappy, which he had left in the mud... so all you could see of him was his bottom running along the mud flats... his white buttocks the only item that stood out in all that black mud.
I do remember dad making me sit in a blanket the whole trip home, dried mud flaking off all over the place, man was I a mess. I think I had fun, Dad on the other hand was not impressed my memory is very fuzzy on this. I do remember that Mud Flat it went on for miles, talk about a little slice of heaven for a young boy...
It is those pictures that words can never do justice for. But those photos should be for the family only. There is no call for showing those photos to others ever. Talk about grievously embarrassing..
Natasha My Foster parents and I are estranged, somewhat. I left home at 14 for the first time and moved out completely by the time I was 17. I have spent my entire life working in one form or another. I paid rent at home Natasha, my pay cheques that I earned I handed over to my Parents and they handed me an allowance (if i was lucky) I have my reasons for leaving home.
I appreciate my foster parents and all they did or tried to do for me. They are my family and they are not my family...I am the only one of my blood and of my name. I made myself and built all I am and all I own on my own. I did it with nothing but a pair of shoes, a pair of shorts, a tent + sleeping bag a couple of shirts and a torn jacket. A ratty old blue back pack and a half dozen comic books. (all stolen from the squat my first night) I toughed it out and learned. I learned to hate, to Fight and how to survive by any means necessary.
This is something I wrote a number of years ago here on DS
Going home on Christmas eve, after being away for years. having not spoken to my parents in years... knocking on the door and the person answering was not the family I knew... I was kind of heartbroken to discover my family had moved... I guess I should of called them...
When I was in my teens I ran away from home. For many years I travelled and saw much of Canada and a fair share of the US of A. One lonely Christmas Eve, years later I found myself In Vancouver. I forthwith decided it was time to let bygones be bygones and went home to wish my folks a Merry Christmas.
I walked down the old streets so familiar to me at long last. 4 long years later. I had not seen or spoken to my family in so long a time. There it was my old home. The trees I climbed as a wee child were gone, not even the stumps remained. The car port was a new shade of Grey. The Christmas lights that are normally shining, where not hung.
How strange thought I. No tinsel, or snow flakes, nor home made icicles, hanging in the windows. The house looked dark and foreboding, This is most definitively odd thought I. As I walked up the drive Nice beamer, I thought, I wonder whose that is. Dad drove a Buick you see either that or a ford.
I walked gingerly up the steps to the front door. Taking a deep comforting breath, I knock loudly to announce I am home. A strange Asian man answered the door. Since when did my parents hire a butler, how odd thought I.
Low and behold, the house I once knew. I find had been sold and the man at the door was the new owner. I asked of him, what had happened to the family who lived here before? he said to me, they had moved. I asked for a new address for the people who sold him the house... He said they left with no forwarding address.
Heartbroken I walked away. I did check the phone book to see if I could find my family in their. Sadly they where not listed.
Thus proving One can never go home again.
I ran in to my Foster brother a time later while Pan-handling on Robson street. Pepper rolling over and meowing at people, me with my kick a pan handler for a buck sign and a packet full of joints 2 bucks a pop... Big scruffy beard ,denim jeans and cowboy hat & boots. A denim shirt an a 20 lb duster of a jacket
My foster parents and I reconciled a couple of years ago when I nearly died. Natasha I respect them immensely for all they tried to do. Some parts of my heart there is even some love for them. I dare to say I would even cry when they pass on and go to the happy hunting ground or into heaven or where ever the soul goes to when we die.. They are my Foster parents Natasha.
I am not close to them nor they close to me. I am what I am. A single soul a base born bastard, no family & alone... For them that is best that I left... I had to make my own way. I had effectively been finding my own way since I was 12...
I thank My foster parents for the home and for the morals they instilled in me for the beliefs they tried to teach me. I can not be their son I can not be what I am not. I can not be what they want of me. i am what i am. no more no less. I just am... Like it or hate it. That is, what is and what was. Tomorrow, we shall see, what there is to see, if we get their..
If I ever get married that will be the start of the family... Till then Their is only one family I knew, they took me in. They taught me to steal, to fight, to hunt, to kill or be killed. I tip my hat, I lift my glass a toast to the Family, may they be for now and forever. The Granville Family, they were my brothers and my sisters. We may not be blood but we where closer than blood.
My Foster Parents gave me a chance. they taught me the basics . The Family taught me the rest..
