YOU CAN'T STEAM FISH!

 We've just had a child stay with us for a couple of weeks.  A rare duration for a foster placement in my experience, but his was an unusual story.

We got the call on a Friday afternoon. 

Blue Sky said that the local authority was looking for a short-term foster home for a 14-year-old boy whose foster mother had been rushed to hospital.

The boy had arrived home to discover his foster mum on her bed. The poor woman was in pain, there was blood.

He phoned 999 and she was hospitalised. The paramedics learned that the woman was single and that the boy was her foster son, and that he had no-one else to look after him, and was too young to be left alone. They called social services.

A couple of hours later he arrived at our house.

Nathan.

After tea I sat with Nathan to learn what had happened.

Nathan;

"I've been fostered since I was eight. My dad's on the run. I never knew him. My mum's alright but she can't cope with my brothers and sister. She ended up all over the place. I'm the eldest so I kind of organised things. She got taken to court for a benny bend (benefit fraud) and they found out she was doing bad drugs and letting us look after ourselves. We had a load of social workers turn up. I got taken away and they put me with Maggs."

Maggie is the lady in hospital. 

Maggie, it turns out, is a comparative latecomer to fostering. A retired midwife, a divorcee with no children of her own. Apparent.ly sh'es a cracking foster mum.

Nathan continued;

"So Friday, I comes home from school and no Maggs. She's always in the kitchen when I come in, cooking. She loves cooking. Every night, a proper dinner. None of your beans on toast or Mackie D. We had roast chicken this week. On a Tuesday! So when I gets in and she's not cooking I'm like 'Hmmm…something's up'."

I was warming to this lad big time.

"So I calls out; 'Yo Maggs! Alright mate?'  Then I heard this sort of moan from upstairs, so I runs up and she's in her bedroom, so I asks 'Can I come in mate?' and she goes; 'Yeah'. So I goes in and… I tell you I was shocked. She was half on her bed an' half off, and her leggings had blood on them. Plenty of blood. And on the duvet too. My head went 'Jees, she been attacked!' But she hadn't. She went 'Nath love, I need a doctor.'

He phoned 999 then tended to Maggs until the ambulance arrived. 

He was her rock.

Maggs was in pain, and was groaning. Nathan offered her paracetamol and a cup of tea but she knew not to take anything in case she'd need pre-op meds. Being a former medico she knew things.

Nathan told me how he had to pretend to be less upset than he really felt in order to help Maggs be strong. He said he held her hand and told her she was wonderful.

While Nathan was on his way to us, Blue Sky gave us the bigger picture. Maggs had been diagnosed in need of an emergency hysterectomy. The discomfort had been growing for several weeks and they'd tried to tackle it with treatment, medicine and lifestyle changes (Maggs was on the big size, didn't exercise, and had previously been a smoker). She'd lived alone since her divorce, but since fostering had shared her life with Nathan who became her part-carer. Not in a major way. He became her compassionate companion.

Yep. Maggie was caring for a young man who had begun to care for her.

Ain't life sweet sometimes?

Maggs op went well, but she needed to stay in for a minimum of 5 nights. Maybe 8.

On day 10 she told them she was going stir crazy and wanted to go home. Told the hospital they needed the bed. Told them she'd never felt better. She was walking, talking, bathing, using the loo by herself; eveything.

There followed some serious conversations about how she'd be cared for. There'd be daily visits from a nurse, she was to take it very easy, stick to her medication, hydrate properly. She was given a diet, and had the option of pre-cooked meals and other essentials delivered. Plus a directory of telephione numbers to call for support.

Then came the crunch question; whether Nathan could go back to be with her.

The question was given massive - and I mean MASSIVE - consideration by all parties. I was included. So was Nathan.

The local authority decided to return Nathan to Maggs on her return home. He was made up. His local authority social worker collected him from us to be there when Maggs arrived. 

I was asked to be on standby to have Nathan again in case Maggs had any sort of setback, but as one social worker put it "Maggs is a tough cookie. Plus she's medical herself and won't take any chances as long as she's responsible for Nathen. Mind, there's no way she's going to have microwave meals in the house, so Nathan might have to learn to cook…"

It's been nearly a week and we've heard nothing, so everything's fine.

I'll never forget Nathan's guffaws when I showed him the diet sheet that Maggs would be on, and the meals he'd have to cook under Maggs supervision. He went;

"Steamed fish? STEAMED fish? How d'yer STEAM fish? The batter'll fall off. It'll go manky."

I started to explain that he'd be steaming fillets of raw fish, and he laughed and said;

"Know what I love about you mate, you're such an easy wind-up."

Nathan is, as I said 14 years old technically. But thanks to his resilience, and Maggs care, and fostering, he's got a fantastic grown-up heart and mind.

Fostering isn't necessarily a fall-back for kids, often it's a springboard.

If you know where to look, it's often a springboard for us foster parents.

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RESCUE DOGS AND RESCUE CHILDREN

 For me, one of the biggest moments in fostering is when a new child arrives and the Social Workers leave.

Until the professionals say their goodbyes, we foster parents have a bunch of good people in our house working on the placement.

What usually happens is this. Having agreed to take a child arrangements are made to bring the child to our house. Blue Sky send one of theirs; usually the Social Worker who's going to be attached to us and the placement. The local authority's Social Worker, who've sought a home for the child, and whose ultimate responsibility is for the child, arrive in a car with the child and the child's belongings. 

As you can imagine it's a big day for all concened, especially the child.

Not to mention the foster parent.

In my experience both of the Social Workers remain in your house for a while, everyone getting to know each other. There's often a bit of paperwork which I leave to the Social Workers, but I'll sign where they ask me to.

Then.

They leave. 

And we have a child in our house who belongs to someone else but needs our help.  And there's no-one else to help them but us. Our family, our home. And me, mainly.

This is fostering.

I've learned to give the child a quiet tour of the house, especially the bathroom and toilet; demonstrate how the loo flushes and that the towels are communal, but if they would like one or two towels exclusively for themselves, happy to provide.

I show them their room, show how the lights work and the door handle. Then, depending on their age, I let them put their stuff into the clean, empty drawers, telling them to come on downstairs when they're unpacked, and that I've got juice and biscuits. Nothing much elicits co-operation as much as snacks.

From that point on, the foster parent is basically winging it. Learning as much as you can about the individual who's just joined your family unit, while at the same time getting started on helping them feel wanted, cared for and, as the phrase properly goes "looked after".

Next up; your family come home and meet the new arrival; we keep it low-key - it's always a bit awkward what with natural shyness. But as a foster parent you're picking up clues all the time.

We foster parents learn a bundle in the first 24 hours.

Lucy was a case in point. She was six when she arrived. Small for her age (they often are) and with blue veins showing on her arms that suggested possible malnourishment. Not enough was known about her at this early stage to determine whether her poor diet was through neglect (common) or actual abuse (rare but yes, some 'parents' use food deprivation to try to excert control over their children).

Lucy had arrived at 2.30pm, my own kids were due home from school about 4.30pm, my other half home from work around 5.45pm, so dinner was aimed for about 6.00pm. Around 5.00pm I was in the kitchen knocking up spag boll. 

Lucy was in the garden bonding with our dog.

We knew that Lucy had been given bad times by the woman she'd been removed from, but was holding herself together on day one with us, as is usually the case.

Nobody knew much about the 'bad times'.

I drifted to the kitchen window to watch her and our dog - who was called "Dog" BTW, because my partner is a John Wayne fan and The Duke had a dog called "Dog" in one of his Westerns.

Lucy was berating Dog because Dog wasn't sitting on her command.

"Listen sister, either you play ball or it's consequences. You want that? Just try me, go on I dare you. You wanna go for it? I'll drop you like a bag of dirt you little piece of …"

I could go on, but the air turned blue.

Right there, right then, I got Lucy. She let me see she'd been handling a tyranny for her first 6 years.

I said nothing, went back and stirred the pot of spag sauce. And had a clearer idea of how to stir the pot of Lucy's life.

Long story short; Lucy's ok. She left us after 3 months, the Local Authority found a permanent home.

Dog was ok too. 

Rescue dogs often have a wavelength with rescue children.

Foster parents an even better one.

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LOOKING AFTER YOURSELF

 In fostering you get quiet moments.

Not a lot of them, but by golly they're welcome.

Fostering is hectic enough without us foster parents keeping up the pressure on oursleves when we get the house to ourselves or some other breather from the hurley-burley.

You have to make the most of "me-time" when it comes along.

Blue Sky are always advising us foster parents to look after ourselves, because, they say, if we foster parents aren't at the top of our game our fostering won't be at its best.

I seem to use our kitchen table as my oasis. When I've got everyone to school I make myself a cup of coffee and sit at the table with a scrap of paper and make a shopping list. I don't really need a list, it's all part of the therapy. Creating order.

Here's the thing; when I'm chilling at the kitchen table, and our foster children are at home, they notice and are drawn for a chat.

Chatting with one's foster child; golden moments. 

I know a fine foster parent who, every day after school, insists her foster children each have five minutes with her talking about their day and their life and times. It works for her, and presumably the kids, so good luck.

I prefer it when the child comes to me, wanting to talk.

Andrea was seven when she came to us, and became a huge fan of joining me at the table. 

It didn't matter that there were cartoons on the telly, or that she was in banana territory (one banana up to but not nearer than an hour before tea). If I was sat at the kitchen table she would drift, casually, but with purpose, towards the table. 

And end up on one of the chairs. 

Her choice.

I'd often have a little pile of blank paper and some felt tips, and I'd doodle some silly images. Andrea would silently copy me.

I'd chuck out a deliberately flattering remark such as "Next time you're in the living room tell me if you think the fishtank needs cleaning". 

Then I'd fall silent. There'd usually be a long pause, then she'd kick in;

"When am I going home?"

"Is my mummy alright?"

"Why am I here?"

I would answer as best I could, as we foster parents answer all the enormous questions that foster children ask.

Andrea had been neglected. As I understand it (and I'm only a foster carer) , there are four offences a child can be removed from their home for; physical, emotional or sexual abuse, and neglect.

I once had a child who'd been subjected to all four, I won't detain you with that, not today. Except to say that thanks to fostering; thanks to our care and Blue Sky, that child is now ok. Or at least as ok as any of us can be.

Back to Andrea. Neglect is an insideous cruelty. The parent often genuinely doesn't believe they've done anything wrong. They haven't physically harmed the child; but they've ignored the child's need for love, care, engagement, play, nurture… that stuff.

Andrea had learned to feed herself.

Alright, this bit is shocking, but it's fostering.

Andrea learned that the five dogs in the house got fed every morning and evening, and that if she was canny she could get some scrapings - at risk of a bite - when they were going at their bowls.

All this stuff came out at the oasis that's my kitchen table.

Andrea's 'partner' - not Andrea's father, some bloke - was moved on and took his pack of dogs with him and Andrea went home.

As far as I know Andrea is ok.

And at my kitchen table quiet times go on...

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FEEDING THEM

 We foster parents are expected to provide our foster kids with their "Basic Needs".

The"Basic Needs" as set out by a revered expert called Maslow.

The most basic of basic needs - the bottom layer of the heirarchy Maslow says - are; food, water, warmth and rest.

After providing those we provide the next layer; security and safety. And so it goes up to the top of the heirarchy of needs. The top layer is where we help the child achieve "self-actualisation", meaning that they fulfill their potential.

But to start, we provide the most basic needs.

And it's always chimed with my experience that a foster child's most basic need is food.

Angelo came to stay with us a couple of summer's ago, he was aged 10. He looked as though he might have been a happily chubby child, he had a face that wanted to be pleasantly round, but he was haggard, drawn in at the cheek bones. One of the first things we did was have his eyes tested and he ended up with spectacles. His teeth weren't great either, which the dentician put down to poor diet.

As the days became weeks we slowly unearthed how appalling his diet had been.

He had possibly never eaten a cooked meal, at least not at home.

He'd not had many school meals either as he'd hardly ever attended school. His mother didn't want teachers to spot that all was not well at home. It's not an uncommon thing.

Angelo had lived off larder stand-bys; biscuits, crisps and crackers. Sometimes "sharing" the end of a burger bun or a half-eaten KFC wing being gnawed on by one of the adults. I pictured him squatting at the foot of a gobbling grown-up, salivating like a puppy in the hope of a treat.

I learned years ago the absolute importance of making sure that certain foster children learn that in their foster home there's ALWAYS enough food, and that they'll be well fed.

A few foster children that have come our way needed to have their eating habits adjusted downwards, that's a blog for another day. Not Angelo.

I told Angelo from day one that the bowl of fruit in his bedroom was his to eat as he chose. I told him we ate breakfast on the go in the morning and showed him that there'd be sliced bread laid out for toast with margerine and peanut butter. There'd also be a box of cereal and milk, easy on the sugar please, just the one level teaspoon.

He would take a packed lunch to school, and was allowed a banana, or sometimes a bag of crisps, when he got home to hold him until tea-time. Tea was served at the table with everyone allowed to load up their plates as they wished from the bowls of food laid out.

Many things about fostering make you happy; Angelo's "Wo!" at the sight of a tub of spaghetti and another tub of sauce, a plate of garlic bread, a bowl of grated parmesan and a salad (lettuce tomato cucumber) still lives with me.

Angelo spent the whole summer with us, we had regular updates that his mother - with whom he had contact every week - was "sorting herself out".

Then this happened.

Angelo came to me in the kitchen and said; "Would it be okay if I cooked for myself from now on?"

What?!

Of course I didn't go "What?!", I said something like "Sure. You might need a bit of help at first."

He replied "I can make my own toast already."

I talked it over with our ever-fantastic Blue Sky Social Worker, who shone some light.  I told her I felt a bit miffed, but she told me to take it as a compliment. She said that Angelo had seen the beauty of a kitchen being used properly and wanted a piece of it. Also; he wanted to know that if he found himself fending for himself, he could manage. His request was all about independence.

Can you imagine? At age 10? To fear you might be all alone?

So. Project "Chef Angelo" began.

Safety first; no frying or boiling saucepans. Plus me at his side throughout. Angelo learned how to make beans on toast using the micro, but that wasn't enough for him.

Next, he covered a cup of instant noodles with hot water from the kettle.

He was tall for his age, and well co-ordinated. So, under my scrupulous supervision he cooked some pasta and heated some Dolmio.

He asked if he could eat privately in his room, which was clearly another signal that he was looking forward to being independent. And that FOOD was the starting point for his journey into freedom.

Angelo's bid to become the next Jamie Oliver fizzled out after about 3 weeks. He re-joined us for family meals.

But in that time he'd learned a few basics about cooking and providing his own food.

And Food is number one on Maslow's heirarchy of needs.

He'd also begun his journey towards fulfilling his potenital, which is the ultimate need on the heirarchy.

So; all bases covered.

He returned to his mother after 5 months with us, and I just hope, with his new-found confidence, he put himself in charge of catering…

Even better, that he's fulfilling his potential.

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FOSTERING AND PHONES

 Children in care need their phones.

Look, I know all about the potential pitfalls, I've attended more Blue Sky training sessions on IT and mobile phones than you can shake a stick at.

On top of what I've learned I use my own native intelligence to keep our foster children safe.

But; make no mistake. They NEED their phones.

They need them big time.

So as foster parents, working with our Social Workers, we have to find what the professionals call a pathway to what they call best practice.

Gary is eleven, and when he came to us the had his own phone. Younger children sometimes have teddy bears. Older children have phones and skateboards, stereo keyboards and alleged boyfriends in Thailand.

I'll elaborate another time.

Gary had his phone, an oldish one, heavy to look at but it connected him beyond his life to a wider world.

His phone needed topping up, which we paid for, then talked to him about getting a deal that would be cheaper.

Gary was not a talker, you often get this in foster children. One Saturday I asked him;

Me: "We're thinking of upgrading your phone to a deal which would give you more airtime at a lower cost."

Gary; "Whatever".

Me: "Would you be okay to come into town on Saturday and go to a phone shop and see what they can do?"

Gary; "Nah."

The following Monday Gary had a tricky day at school, at 9.30am he was due to be assessed.

Knowing that playtime was 10.30am I pulled a trick I've used plenty of times; I started a mobile phone text dialogue with him. I typed;

Me: "How'd it go?'

Gary typed back; "Better than I thought. The whole thing was sicky, Asked me a bunch of questions which were a piece of p**s, it was sick"

Me; "Sick!?"

Gary; "Yeh.'Sick' 

Me; "Sick"

Gary; "FCS… 'sick' means good".

Best chat I ever had with Gary, top kid. OK he spoke using the language of the day, used the tech of the day.

Gary repaired in his time with us. His phone helped.

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KIDS AND SPIDERS

Fostering is wonderful in many ways, but it does make you softer, I think.

You give a bit more to the poor homeless person in the shop doorway, buy a spongee you don't need from the lad who rings your doorbell saying he's just out of remand and trying to go straight.

A while ago we took in a tiny little dog that no-one wanted. She's dying, basically. But we're all comforting her and trying to make her last months here not too bad. Blue Sky waived their normal dog vetting procedures, the little mutt has no teeth left. BS have a heart too.

Our foster kids are, I think, touchen bu this basic humanity.

What happened was this.

I sit at our kitchen table to do the family paperwork. In use a PC and a wee angle poise lamp to light up the keyboard. My laptop keyboard lights itself, but the PC one is an add-on, no back-lights. Sorry, going off on a tangent.

A couple of nights ago  I was doing our accounts spreadsheet (foster carers get preferred rates of income tax, more of that another time, yawn - but good yawn). When I noticed a tiny amber coloured spider hanging from the lamp by a single thread.

When I say tiny, I mean smaller than a pinhead.

Next morning I sat down at the same place, and lo and behold she had spun the most delicate little web between the bottom of the lamp and the top of my mouse mat.

I was intoxicated by her. A web, so delicate, about the size of a palm print, so gossamer it was almost invisible.

One of our foster children (we've 2 at the moment) showed themselves for breakfast.

I said "Look what Elizabeth's done."

Child came in close and muttered "So?"

Fair enough. Children coming into care have so much work to do to care about themselves, they're often not going to care about other people much. Or spiders.

Then he asked; "What do you mean "Elizabeth?"

I said that I'd decided to call her Elizabeth.

This changed things. 

Child came in closer and could see the amazing web. We wondered how the heck she could have done it without the skills of …Spiderman.

He asked what I was going to do about her and I said I was going to look after her.

He went off and made his usual bowl of cereal.

Next morning he came down and asked, as casually as he could fake;

"What's with Elizabeth?"

I replied;

"Not good I'm afraid, one of her strands has come away and the web is much smaller."

Child reacted;

"You need to turn off the light, it gets hot and that's what ruined the web!"

Child might have a point.

So here's my thing.

Tomorrow the spider might have spun another web, in which case me and foster child will have learned something about persevering. 

Or not, in which case the child and me will be reminded that life is hard, often unfair, but it has its moments.

Which is probably what I try to instill into many of our foster kids.

As I sit here looking up from my PC, I see Elizabeth looking.. er at me...I dunno…can spiders be thoughtful?

Kids in care can, for sure.

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GETTING REJECTED

 It's been an interesting couple of days.

Mind, I could probably describe any 'couple of days' in fostering as 'interesting'.

You don't get bored when you foster. No siree.

What happened was this;

My phone rang and I could see from the screen it was Blue Sky.

Joy of joys it was their Placement people calling to ask the golden question:

"Would you consider taking a child who…"

I've had my phone light up with Blue Sky asking this question countless times (a hundred maybe..) and it never ceases to quicken the pulse.

During the quick call - and it's quick - the potential foster parent is given a pen picture of the child including any details that might make it a no-no for the potential foster parent. Blue Sky never pressure anyone, fosterng requires absolute concensus, the prize is too precious for anyone to gamble.

That said, I have always replied "Yes" to the question.

What happens next is that the Placement team provide every scrap of information they have about the child, the history and problems with the child's family. It arrives electronically provided you have the technology (I know a very good foster perent who doesn't do email).

And you sit at your kitchen table sifting through the notes.

The child is called Destiny, age nine. Destiny is, in the new parlance, a designated male.

Destiny, the eldest of four children, lives with his mother. The father is absent, and Destiny appears to be the father-figure in their home. 

Destiny's mother is in police custody after a drug squad smashed a gang who were using what's called County Lines to sell cocaine and other stuff to kids.

County Lines is a criminal practice aimed at making police investigation almost impossible. It must have been invented by a drug dealer who knew how police forces are set up. The phrase "County Lines" is based on the simple fact that if a criminal crosses the boundaries between two separate police forces, the responsibility for investigating the crime comes under dispute. So all a drug runner needs to do is collect the package in one area, get on a train and cross county lines, pass the package on in a different area, and if intercepted leave the police to worry where the crime occurred.

The gang leaders groom youngsters to carry out the drug runs because they are cheap (a pair of trainers or a video game would be payment) and they're easy to boss.

Destiny was one of the gang's runners.

And, almost certainly; a user. 

Aged nine.

So; as a foster parent one reads the information and forms a picture of the child you're being asked to come live with you.

The optimist in you imagines, in the case of Destiny, an innocent victim who longs for a normal home with a family that cares. The pessimist sees a child who sells and uses hard drugs and is maybe more street smart than the average foster parent could ever be.

In the words of a former Prime Minister, I'm an optimist who carries a raincoat. I'd kept my partner informed all along the way, he was at work, he agreed. I said "Yes" to Destiny.

And began preparing in case we got the green light.

The file on Destiny had touching details. His favourite TV programme was "The Magic Garden". Favourite takeaway KFC. He liked gaming (they all do), his ambition was to create internet content.

After saying yes one simply sits and waits. The child's Local Authority, who from the point that they intervene seek parental rights over the child (but it's a process - a quick one but not instant), are sat in a room sifting through the offers to take the child.

My phone rang about an hour after I'd said yes, it usually takes them about that long to decide.

It was a young person with a heavy accent offering to upgrade our washing machine insurance.

About half-an-hour after that I was becoming hopeful. I've always figured the Local Authority assess the potential foster homes and knock out the ones that they think wouldn't work. Often geography is the key, it's best to be nearby the child's real home but not too nearby.

The longer it takes for the verdict to come through, the more you start to believe it's going to be you.

So by this point I'm wondering if we'll be ordering a KFC delivery that evening, and checking Destiny's bedroom to ensure it's acceptably grown-up for a person aged nine, going on twenty-nine.

The phone rang again. Blue Sky Placement Team...

So sorry, they said, but Destiny wouldn't be coming to us.

Some sort of red tape mix-up meant that although Destiny was with the police, he hadn't been arrested; (you have to be 10 years old or older) and the legal paperwork that give the Local Authority parental rights over the child hadn't yet gone through.

Or something like that, I'm not a lawyer.

A youngish man had turned up at the police station saying he was Destiny's uncle and had arrived to look after Destiny. The police did their job and checked out the person's credentials. They asked Destiny about the 'uncle', and he seems to have satisfied them; apparently Destiny knew a lot about the guy.

My guess. Your guess too I guess; Destiny is out there crossing County Lines, snorting stuff and day-dreaming.

Dear Lord, I wish I could have got him to our house…

Good luck Destiny.

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