New way/Old way

♠ VISITS to my real home became more frequent. And it bloody confused me. The hardest thing to deal with were the differences. 

Because each household has rules. Different ways of doing things. And there was a battle of dominance being played between foster mum and real mum. I was in their world and I must do things their way.

For example, the way I was supposed to hang the clothes. Hazel had a different way to pegging them and that was the way she taught me. I think it was pegging the shirts by the shoulders. At Mum’s I was to peg the clothes upside down. Often she told me off and made me hang those clothes again the “proper” way.

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And then there was Coke. Mum hated Coke. The soft drink, I’m not sure about the illegal drug. But at my foster home it was socially acceptable to drink it.

M Rated movies. I was allowed to watch them at Hazel’s, although I was always accompanied. I’m talking Deuce Bigalow, Lord of the Rings, Blade, Scream. Hey, I even got to walk in on the worst scene from Nightmare on Elm Street with male mentor Baz cackling away at the TV screen. He had a sick sense of humour sometimes.

Mum was strict on PG meaning Parental Guidance and M meaning 15 plus. We didn’t have aerial anyway. All we had at home was Disney movies, Old Yella and recordings of Sesame Street. We got Shrek for Christmas once. That was fun. We watched that four times that day.

Home didn’t feel like home anymore. I loved margarine used to make Baz’s amazing mash potato. His secret was a dollop of margarine, a bit of milk, lots of salt and pepper, and make it light and fluffy. I hated Mum’s creamy mash potato made with butter. Butter! Cheap, salty butter that was wrapped. Ergh!

And speaking of food! At our foster home we had the best food. And on most occasions I could help myself when I was hungry within reason, and within reason did not include sneaking the Nutella with a spoon. But at real home I could never do that. It was breakfast, lunch, dinner. If I was hungry in between, it was “here, have an apple.”

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Worst, the dog had forgotten me, and dogs don’t do that to family. The Mareema hated and distrusted me. Growled when I came near and that’s bloody intimidating coming from any dog, let along a white sheep dog that reaches your waist.

Mum eventually gave in on the coke, the movies, but with fuss each time. But every other little habit not shaped from the family had to be picked on and discouraged.

 

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