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?

S- was calling from her bedroom. ‘Da da, Da da, DA DA.’ It was 4 in the afternoon and she’d woken up from her nap bang on time.

I was at the computer, typing. I had nearly finished what I was doing. Soooo nearly.

The thing was, I knew that with another 5 minutes I could get what I was doing completed and then go into S- and not have to think about the essay again …

It’s amazing how 5 minutes can turn into 20 right under your nose!

When I started writing this blog it was suposed to be just a diary of my time, and I was very concerned that it didn’t interfere with family life or my burgeoning relationship with my daughter.

Later, when friends and other people started commenting on the blog I began to think of it differently.

‘It’s for S-,’ I’d say. And in a way that’s true. I hope that when she’s older she does have the opportunity to read it and understand a little of what this unprecedented time was like.

But in a sense it was an evasion, too. I may have been writing for her, but the writing was beginning to take up more and more not only of my time but also of my mental energy. I was getting shorter and more impatient with S-, regretting my reaction, apologising and then starting to think about how I could include the whole exchange in the blog.

The so-called ‘diary’ was taking over our time together.

I’ve written before about the difficulty of remaining selfless when you are a stay-at-home dad [or mum] with a toddler. I had planned to say more. But I think this sums it up.

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?’