We’re usually pretty strict on S-’s diet, especially when it comes to snacks and in-between meals. But after an hour or so on the flight back from Menorca, when her wriggling was on the verge of tipping into thrashing, we decided to ditch our principles.

The steward didn’t have any Hula Hoops [or oolas, as S- calls them], but he did have some Mini-Cheddars. Within seconds S- was sitting down and munching away happily.

The boy sitting in front of us with the nice Welsh parents was a bit older than S-, and almost as excited. His attention span was slightly greater: he was diverted for a little longer with the colouring books, the toy animals and very flash DVD player. Nevertheless he’d keep popping his head over the back of the seat every few minutes to see what S- was up to.

On one occasion when he looked over S- saw him, smiled and in that sweet way she has offered him an ‘oola’. He was a bit shy to begin with but some gentle encouragement from his mother soon sorted him out.

As we were chatting with mum, dad called the steward back – the trolley had gone a little further down the aisle – and got him to bring the boy his own packet of Mini-Cheddars. And of course the boy was then encouraged to offer one to S-. Which, to be honest, I thought was a bit pathetic!

My problem was that the boy’s father just couldn’t let things be. His son wasn’t permitted just to accept a small offering and in the process engage with somebody else. He had to own the snacks himself, and he had to achieve equality in the conversation by offering something in return. So dad, who I’m sure was operating through the best of motives [paternal pride and also through what I'm going to call the jealousy of self-reliance], managed not only to turn a friendly encounter into a commercial transaction but also to give his son the lesson that whatever he wanted can be obtained with a snap of the fingers and a flash of the wallet.

One of the hardest lessons in life, I think, is to learn how to take gracefully, precisely because it involves learning to let go of your pride. Giving is easy by comparison.

To be brutally honest with myself, I guess these opinions about the family had already been formed by the sight of the DVD player. The boy was only two-and-a-half, for crying out loud! The event of the Mini-Cheddars – half of which were now on the floor, roughly a quarter around or in S-’s mouth, and the rest in her tummy – actually confirmed the lurking suspicion in my mind.

So, what do you think? Do I have a point, or am I just a miserable old so-and-so?

There are certain conversations that adoptive parents can find difficult. One such classic: ‘Oh, she’s going to have her mother’s good looks, isn’t she?’

Does that mean we can’t or shouldn’t have these discussions with our children, albeit using different noun phrases and at a slightly different angle? ‘Yes, X-,’ we might find ourselves saying, for example, ‘You’ve got your birth mother’s eyes/hair/nose’ [circle and/or delete as appropriate].

I am, to use the neologism, ‘conflicted’ when it comes to the issue of ‘contact’ between adopted kids and blood relatives. I’m not sure how it works everywhere – somehow I doubt it happens much in international adoption – but in many instances I know of there is an arrangement/agreement to keep all three arms of the adoption ‘triad’ in dialogue: birth parents, adopters, adoptees.

The arrangement can be individualised in any number of ways, depending on the circumstances, but essentially it boils down to either regular letters [one- or two- way], face-to-face meetings, a mixture of both, or none. Some expression of intent for how contact should happen is usually set out as part of the legal orders when the formal adoption takes place.

In theory the arrangement is in the adopted child’s best interest because it keeps the lines of communication open and gives both child and adoptive parent a way into talking about the adoption.

Thus those odd, slightly tangential conversations I referred to earlier can take place more successfully, or at least with more information behind them. The child, and the adopters, will have a much clearer idea about, for example, physical characteristics having met or at least corresponded with [and possibly received pictures] from the biological mother and/or father.

And if in fact child X grows up having stayed in touch with birth mum and/or dad then he or she will gradually form their own opinion of them. It will be a realistic opinion, untainted by magical thinking ['I'm really a princess and one day my mummy the Queen will come to rescue me'] and free of any bias, whether intentional or non-intentional, imparted by the adoptive parents. That’s the theory, anyway.

Contact is a difficult area. It’s one that many potential adopters are put off by, and also an issue that many people in the wider population are reluctant to accept, I suspect partly on moral grounds. ['They've (the birth parents) had their chance: it'll only mess things up to go back to them now.']

However, the logic behind it is sound – if you accept the theory that it is in the child’s interests. To extend the analogy of The Primal Wound, it’s better for the child to keep reopening the wound, letting it heal gradually from the bottom up, rather than allowing it to close over and risking the development of an abscess.

The trouble is that contact so often appears to be more in the birth parents’ interest. Contact stories I’ve come across often end with hyped up/hyperanxious, overloaded children, while the adoptive parent rages that the birth family have broken the terms of the agreement, either by being late, or arriving pissed and/or stoned or subverting children through sneaky gifts and suggestions. At different times many people – some adoptive parents and some interested observers such as family friends – have said that contact simply doesn’t work.

There’s huge potential for cock-up, too. Over at the Adoption UK website there’s a thread on the message board about social services mistakenly sending birth parents’ the addresses of their adopted kids’ new homes. That is most definitely not the kind of stress that a family needs to have in their lives!

Yet contact may prove to be of value eventually, despite all the heartache. What about the child adopted young who doesn’t remember his/her birth parents but grows up with regular contact through birth siblings placed with other families, or in different parts of the country? This type of relationship could be of massive help to a young man or woman trying to work through identity issues, especially if his/her adoptive parents never met biological mum and/or dad.

It is a dilemma, and there are no easy answers. Actually, I’m beginning to think that there are no answers, full stop. Perhaps all you can do is make sure that when your child asks about ‘tummy’ mummy or daddy you can look them in the eye and say you did your best and found out as much about them as you could.

In the meantime, there are other conversations about identity that adoptive parents can also have with their kids. Here are two examples: ‘Aren’t you generous, X- – just like daddy?’. And: ‘Yes, you’re a brilliant cook: you love sharing time in the kitchen with mummy, don’t you?’

In the evening, after the housework is done, we put on our coats and go outside to look at the stars. S- is thrilled by the sound of the thrush singing from the top of the pine tree in our neighbour’s garden.

When I was a child my family emigrated to an African country where we lived for six years. My memories of life back then are fragmented, but very early one morning my dad woke me up and took me out for a walk and to see the dawn. I often think back now to the sandy grey of the track we walked along and the blood orange of the sun rising on the horizon. It’s an adventure I think I’ll remember until I die: a moment, if you like, of brilliance in my life.

‘Look, look. There’s the moon, and the twinkle twinkle stars,’ I say. ‘Can you hear the birds singing?’

‘Moo, moo.’

‘Yes, that is the moon, up in the sky. It’s a long long way away, thousands of miles, but we can see it shining on us.’

‘Up,’ she says, totally entranced, pointing and craning to see. ‘Up upp uppp!’

‘Yes, it’s very high,’ I say, hugging her tight, knowing that this is another of those moments in my life.

No, this isn’t some crazed love letter or invitation to an Internet forum, but sometimes the titles of these blog posts just jump out at you.

When I got to the playgroup the other day the organiser greeted me with some excitement. ‘You’re not the only dad today!’

I looked around while I was taking S-’s coat off and nodded to a large bloke in jeans and a sweatshirt, talking into a mobile phone. Pulling the drawers out of a toy kitchen just by his feet was a girl of about 3 or 4 years, obviously his daughter.

I thought we might have a manly catch up during the morning’s activities. This is a playgroup specifically for adoptive parents, so we could grab the opportunity to natter about being in the same boat [you don't see many of us stay-at home adoptive dads about, you know!].

But there was little opportunity for any sort of conversation, nevermind the mutually supportive, caring-sharing discussion I had envisaged. He wandered around the room following his daughter, playing desultorily with some of the toys and resolutely refusing to talk with anybody. I tried to catch his eye a couple of times but soon gave up. His face grew longer and darker with each passing minute. For a while he sat at the activities table poking glitter onto a cardboard star with magnificently bemused contempt.

It must have been a depressing morning both for him and for his daughter, and it wasn’t long before her slightly manic attempts to play with everything in the room flagged. As soon as it was clear that she was running out of ideas, he asked whether she was ready to leave.

Perhaps she was ready to go, and perhaps I’m being unfair, but he wasn’t really giving her a choice. Of course she agreed with him! She wanted to keep him happy.

It can be bloody difficult standing in a playgroup for the first time, especially if you’re not used to kids. So I had a small amount of sympathy for him on that score.

But come on man, you’ve got to make an effort and at least look as if you wouldn’t rather be thousands of miles away, for your child’s sake if nothing else.

So anyway I guess we’ll have that chat next time. Or perhaps not!

Fascinatingly reactionary – and rather self-pitying – article on the family, stay-at-home dads and childcare here. Apparently, dads have got more sense than to want to look after their kids, and women have no choice – after all, they’re overwhelmed by biology!

I guess we should expect nothing more from The Times [of London], but I couldn’t resist submitting a riposte. Which hasn’t been posted. 

The paradoxical thing about the love you have for your children is that part of you wants them to stay the same and the other takes such joy in their growing up and all their achievements.

S-’s favourite word of the moment is ‘bubble’. She says it perfectly and knows exactly what it means.

She’s still struggling with some of the more basic words. Like ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and – as G- mock seriously keeps trying to get her to say – ‘Yes, mother, I love you lots and lots’.

But that’s not to say she doesn’t give it her best shot. We were bowling along in the car [dad was going a a bit too quickly, admittedly: we were late for a playgroup, again!]. S was lifting up the window shade and peering out, alternately chuckling and cooing, and kicking her legs, when she started practising.

There came a few indistinguishable noises and then she went for the biggie:

‘Ah yeh… yeye ….ye….zzz [splutter], ah yehyehye, ye, AH ye ye ye yeee ye ah [kick, kick, splutter] yeyeyeyeyeYeeeYEEEYEYEYEYE… [giggle, kick and then finally a shout of pure, unadulterated joy] AH YESSSSSS!’

I grabbed a few moments to have a shave in the sink while S- was in the bath. As I scraped and she splashed and chuckled and threw Sammy the Squid and Willie the Whale over the sides, I remembered the first time she’d ever seen me without the beard.

First she stared. Then she looked away. Then she yelled in fright and took off around the dinner table.

Ever since we’d started the whole adoption process with her I’d always had the ‘chin’ [although G- was never very keen on it]. Now without the facial hair, and despite all G-s efforts, S- was refusing to accept I was her dad.

I spent the next 2 days alternately sulking and chasing her as she staggered away from me on her bandy legs around the house.

Sounds funny now, but it I found it heartbreaking at the time: a reminder that without the visual clues that had become familiar to her I would, literally, be a stranger.