WHY IS CONTACT LIKE A TORCH?

 There are things to moan about in fostering but I try not to.

From time to time fostering is taxing, but you knuckle down and sort it.

There's always a Blue Sky social worker behind you.

On the whole fostering is grand.

Probably the one thing in fostering I'd change is "Contact".

I'd make Contact more elexible than the "once a week" dictat that almost always is a bit of a spanner in the works.

Not so much for me, but more importantly, the child. Children in care are, more often than not; mucked up by Contact, especially in the first weeks. Having to be taken to meet up with their 'significant others" is upsetting. By the time we get them back to our home they're edgy at best, often thoroughly mixed up.

"Contact", I looked it up, is enshrined in UK law as a well-meaning clause in the Childrens Act. It's perfectly well intened;d to help maintain a relationship between the child and the parents that we're supposed to be aiming to re-connect.

I can imagine the MPs and civil servants sitting in Committee nodding the idea through because it's seems to make sense. A good idea idea in principle. I'm sure they consulted social workers, maybe even fostering agencies. I'm equally sure they didn't listen to foster carers much, if at all. The Comntact law needs to be made more flexible, to freflect the needs of the individual child and their family.

Going back a few years I was required to take a child to have Contact with a family member who'd abused the child. The adult insisted and the lawyers agreed there was no getting away from it. I had to take the poor kid to sit with the adult for an hour, once every week. Then the Contact stopped. Why? Becaiuse tyhe adult went to prison for what they'd inflicted on the poor kid. The Contact law hads to be followed while the police and Crown Prosecution investagted allegations and set up a trial. It took a whole year.

Imagine any other victim (ok, in the eyes of the law 'alleged' victim) being forced to sit with the alleged perpetrator for an hour once a week? All the while trying to get their life on track? Madness.

I'm adamanent that the first few weeks in fostering are a bit raw for every child and the "significant others".  Contact was devised before mobile phones and Zoom which would do the job just as well and allow discreet supervision no problem.

Mind, I'm the last one to advocate technology because I'm a bit of a dinosaur myself when it comes to gizmos.

Example; I keep an old-fashioned torch (flashlight if you're American) in the drawer next to the bed. Why? In case of a power cut.

I lent the torch to one of our foster children who was going out Trick or Treating and it never came back.

So I bought a new one on Amazon.

I didn't expect what I got.

I got a torch, yes, but one that works like this:

You click the "On" button and it flashes. On/off, on/off…and so on until you click the button a second time. When you click the second time it starts to strobe. Like in an old-fashioned disco. The sort of strobing that has newsreaders warning people vulnerable to fits that "the following report contains flash photography."

Click the button a third time and you get what you want, namely a beam of light.

My kids tell me I don't need a torch as there's one on every mobile phone. But if there was a power cut I'd want to maintain as much battery life in my phone as possible. That's my argument anyway.

Why am I telling you this? And what's it got to do with Contact?

It's this; somewhere in China is a gigantic factory that makes torches. The people at the top sit around making decisions about what facilities their next brand of torch will have.

They probably decide that the harder they try to make the torch have all sorts of features, the more thay can justify pushing the price up.

So the customer has to buy a strobing, flashing torch.

Who ever in the whole wide world needed a torch that strobes?

Nobody.

Nobody ever.

Ever.

But, every torch you can buy will make you click it several times before you get to the only thing you want, which is a beam of light.

The guys who sat around deciding how their next torch should work probsably never needed to use one. Or else they'd know that you never need a torch that strobes.

These strobing torches (by the way, my new bike lights have the same 'feature' - they strobe) are madness.

So, my bedside torch is inconvenient, annoying and arguably dangerous, because I have to fiddle with it to make it work.

And when I get off my bike I have to switch the lights through the complete cycle of options.

Designed by people who have no experience with torch use, and who probably don't ride bikes after dark.

Exactly like how Contact came about...

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BEST THING EVER

Foster parents get asked; 

How do I get into fostering?

What sort of person volunteers?

I can only speak on behalf of me and the many fostering folk I've met in my time.

We meet at training sessions, support meetings, supervision events, coffee mornings, social things, anniversary do's. Christmas dinners.

Sometimes, when chatting you find yourself asking other carers; "What did you do before fostering?"

It's not a question I like to ask or be asked, because there's so much more to people than their jobs.

But it occurs to me that potential carers might find my story helps them pick up the stick and run.

My story is thatb I think I'd always liked young people. After all, I used to be one.

I remember being misunderstood and neglected by so many adults. Teachers, bus conductors, shop assistants… they all seemed think I was just a kid so why bother?

When I was old enough I volunteered at my local youth club to be a helper, and got hooked.

But volunteer youth work doesn't pay the rent. Once married we needed a second income. I landed a job running a desk at an Estate Agents. I used to have to write 'copy' for each new house they put on the market; "A delightful ground floor two bedroom apartment with a modern kitchen/diner". You get the picture.

I got to know the local newspaper sub editor who I sent the 'copy' to.

He ended up asking me for a drink, and we ended up an item.

Then… recession...

Made redundant I did some shelf stacking at Tesco and was about to start a car valetting business when the sub editor of that local paper got in touch. Said he needed someone to write lots of words in return for very little money.

A contact, it's how the world works.

Obs I agreed, so now I'm a 'journalist'. And just about making ends meet.

And partnered to a good guy and happy.

But. There was a bit missing.

I kept stirring my pot about fostering.

So, one afternoon, in between writing up "Faulty Iron Started Blaze" and "Residents Fury about Dog Waste", I Googled "Fostering near me" and Blue Sky came up top of the list.

I phoned. We talked.

And here I am, happy, years on.

The fostering "allowance" - the money one you get for fostering - covers the expense of a child in your home plus a bit more for your time and effort. It's not a life changing payment but it's a big help with family expenses.

But there;s more to fostering than the fortnightly cheque.

Nothing, besides my own family, has made me anywhere near as happy as fostering.

If you're giving it some thought, take it a bit further and make the call.

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FOSTERING AND FOOD

 Food, as I often say, is SO important to most foster children.

This truth was one of the first things I learned when I began fostering.

The importance of food begins with finding out what's the favourite food of a new child who's on their way to you. If you are able, you cook that meal on day one.

Blue Sky always try to get this information to the carer because they too know what a bridge-builder it can be.

I always keep a bag of dry pasta and a jar of Dolmio on standby, because from time to time I've been asked to take in a child for a night or two, and one time this happened after the shops were shut.

Pasta is a universal favourite. Why? Probably because there are no green bits…

I use lollies and ice cream medicinally; that is to say I raise the possibility of a cornetto at the right moment if a child is working their way out of a bout of sadness. Change the topic to something delightful.

Until this week, my crowning contribution to the world of fostering/food has been to put a bowl of fruit in the child's bedroom and tell them it's theirs. They can eat as much as they want, whenever they want. They OWN it.

But this week saw a new weapon arrive in the ongoing war of the joy of food versus the occassional melancholy of the average looked-after child.

What happened was this;

I'd agreed that the son of a former foster child of mine could come over to us for the whole of a Saturday. The boy is very at home here, he loves our dog, loves the fact that I know his favourite nibbles are Fanta and chocolate buttons, and loves that he can watch movies which the whole family gather for.

Our current eldest foster child is Alicia. Alicia is transing and doing very well, if only the media would leave them to sort; it's their lives, their choice, if they don't interfere with anyone else, end of.

So. I'd explained to Alicia there's be a young guest at our house all day.

She (Alicia identifies as female and that's all I need to know) came down after a think and said;

"I'll cook if you like…"

Words do not fail me but I can't use the ones I used in my head to express to myself my excitement and…joy!

This was a massive step. A bold bid towards adulthood and acceptance.

I didn't make a fuss, merely said "That'd be great. Tell me what you need."

The list was sent to me by phone.

Chicken fillets.

Chicken stock.

Egg noodles.

Free range eggs.

Carrots.

Spring onions.

Garlic.

Dark soy sauce.

Paprika.

Chilli sauce (or powder).

Coriander.

Parsely.

    

Blimey. Game on.

The day arrives. The guest lad had; a) walked the dog, b) chilled on his phone, c) raided the larder for chocolate buttons and d) raided the fridge for Fanta. Most of all he was chilled, which was the idea of the visit. To give him a break, and his mum. 

Around 5.00pm the time-honoured household discussion of which film to watch began, and as it did, so Alicia made her way into her kitchen. HER kitchen.

We settled for Top Gun Maverick, the follow up to Tom Cruise's Top Gun.

"He's 62 and still does his own dangerwork." My other half observed as the opening titles rolled.

"No big deal, so do I." I replied, with one eye on the kitchen and Alicia chopping and slicing using the big knife.

Halfway through the movie Alicia shuffled into the dark room carrying bowls, one for each of us.

Each bowl was beautifully presented, identical. No matter who you were or how old, you got 3 fried chicken pieces and 2 hard boiled egg halves nestling side-by-side. You got noodles, glazed carrot strips and diced spring onion, all swimming in an amazing aromatic broth, topped with chopped fresh herbs.

TV xchef Rick Stein would charge £29.00 per plate, and if he was around, bore you with pontification.

Not Alicia. She took her bowl upstairs.

Then, half and hour later, Alicia came downstairs to "put her bowl in the sink".

Nah sister. I got why she came down. Wanted to know the meal was okay.

Well, she got bombarded with compliments.

Resulting in me shouting over Tom Cruise's mac 3 jets;

"So leave the washing up to me."

And so she did.

As I heard her going upstairs I tried to imagine how she was feeling.

Competent, capable, appreciated. Skilled. Skilled in one of life's key skills, namely cooking. Not merely cooking, but cooking for other people. For guests.

Getting on.

Growing up.

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HARD TO BELIEVE. BUT 100% TRUE.

 In fostering you can sometimes forget that you're in fostering.

And that's a splendid state of affairs.

Because it means one thing and one thing only;

It means that your ship is steady despite there being an unusual load on one side of the boat.

But if you can absorb the special stuff that fostering brings to your home, and notice that you're going along on the straight and narrow, you're doing something right.

"Becks" was eight when she came to us. Her first name was Rebecca, which she hated.

Her dad had chosen it because before he met Beck's mum he'd had a fling with a woman called Rebecca, who he continued to pursue.

Wrong, on so many levels. A child shouldn't learn of such things.

She told us she didn't like "Becks" either, which her stepdad coined as he was a Man U fan.

But we agreed on "Becks" and she answered to it.

Becks had the usual amount of baggage.

Every happy child is identical in their happiness, every foster child is identical in the amount of sadness in them, but unique in the specifics that have made them unhappy.

Becks was quite a long term placement. The longer they're in your care the more they grow into being a member of the family.

Then all of a sudden you find yourself half-forgetting they are fostered.

It's a mind-set that doesn't last long because the reminders of the child's fostering status come thick and fast. Ordinary kids don't get visits from social workers, special care at school, supervised meetings with family members.

The latter of those unusual events - "Contact" it's called - didn't happen much for Becks. Her real parents didn't want to know, and her stepdad probably knew nothing because he'd vanished the night the police were called and social services took Becks into Care.

However she had an aunt who, out of the blue, asked to meet up with Becks, so I got to meet the aunt. She was lovely. 

Long story short; the aunt ended up asking social sevices if she could take Becks in. 

Take her off our hands.

Social services did the necessaries. Becks would need a new school, and while that was being sorted Beck's wishes were heard and explored.

The move was on!

To me it felt a bit of a blow, but it was going to be good for Becks so I was happy. It was good for the lovely aunt too because her kids were grown up and being a natural parent she had so much love left over.

Brilliant.

For me, the kicker was Becks' parting gift to me.

She had already said that she and her aunt had agreed she could ditch the hated name of Rebecca and the shortened version "Becks".

Her new school had agreed to respect her wish to be called something different from her official name.

Then, one moment, when she and I were alone together, she said;

"From now on," she said, "Me and aunty have agreed on a new name for me."

I asked her what her new name was.

Her reply was yet another reminder that she was my foster child, not my real child. Real children couldn't do really say what she was about to say.

She whispered my name.

So I replied; "Yes?"

"No," she said.

"That's my new name…"

Dammit I'm filling up again…

Ain't fostering grand!

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I'M WITH THE AGENCY...

 In the UK there are basically two ways to get into fostering.

I have a quirky little quirk that'll amuse you in a moment…

One way to get involved is to contact your local authority social services department directly. There's such a crying need for more foster parents that it's likely you'll see their advertsements for people to come forward.  If you follow that route the local authority will help guide you through the process of getting approved. They advise and support you through the various checks and requirements you need to become a foster parent. 

If and when you get approved you'll be allocated a local authority social worker who'll represent the children who come into care with you. The local authority, have overall responsibility for the child and the child's wellbeing. 

I wouldn't dream of putting anyone off fostering no matter what method they choose. 

But, hand on heart, in my view there is a better way than going direct to your local authority.

The better way, for me is to go to a fostering agency.

I switched to Blue Sky as my fostering agency about 12 years ago, and obviously I'm happy because I'm still here.

There are lots of reasons why an agency is best, but one reason is standout, namely this;

If you're with a local authourity you're allocated a single social worker to support your placement, and their priority is the child.

If you're with an agency such as Blue Sky you're allocated a single local authority social worker whose priority is the child AND a Blue Sky social worker who's priority is YOU.

Obviously the local authority social worker cares about the carers as well as the child, and ditto your Blue Sky social worker cares about the child as well as you. But with Blue Sky YOU get five star treatement from your Blue Sky social worker.

In my case we're visited once a month by each child's LA social worker, and once a month by our Blue Sky social worker.

In my experience neither LA or Blue Sky social workers gave off that they were checking up on me or our household, they visit to help. Not just to help, support, and advise; they do things that reduce the burden. They'll speak to the child's school on our behalf if there's an attendance problem. They'll talk to the child's parents to help the child - and me - cope with the child wondering if their parents are ok.

I can honestly say that every single visit from a Blue Sky social worker has left me uplifted, galvanised and ready to more and better.

Here's a quick taster of Blue Sky going the extra mile.

Every year they throw a shindig for all their foster carers who've been doing it for ten years or more. They call the Ten Year Club. 

It's not a hullabaloo at Stringfellows or anything like that. It's a pleasant civilised lunchtime meal at a swish location. You get to have a fruit juice-fuelled craik with people who have similar staying power as yourselves.  

Blue Sky make you feel valued. And proud.

So here's my little quirk…

This year I couldn't attend. There was an impending birth in my own family around the same date. I opted out and Blue Sky said how much I'd be missed but understood.

The next visit I had from our Blue Sky social worker started and finished like this:

Social worker; "So. Where are you guys going for your Ten Year dinner?"

Me; "Eh?"

Social Worker; "You shouldn't miss out on a slap-up meal just because of a baby on the way…how is she by the way?"

Me; "She's well. Seven pounds three which for three weeks premature is pretty robust. Er…a dinner?"

Social Worker; "Yes. Choose your venue. It's Blue Sky's 'Thank you' for everything you do."

Me; "It's on you?"

Social Worker; "Of course!"

So. I sat at the kitchen table with my Blue Sky social worker narrowing the options. I could take my other half uptown to a five star hotel piano bar. Or a quirky shack that does foraged food then the owner, a reformed City trader who now has hair down his back, plays accordian.

Our conversation segwayed into fostering; we talked about the child, our wellbeing, did a few bits of paperwork.

A Blue Sky visit is usually two hours. No fly-by-night thing. With twenty minutes left on the clock she suddenly said;

"So. Come on! The Ritz or the Shack?"

And we got back on track. It went to and fro about our best and worst ever restaurant meals, why you don't see dessert trolleys anymore.

She got up to go, saying;

"We're not going to let this go. We're buying you a meal for two at the venue of your choice, whatever you want. It's to say thank you."

So. There's a snapshot of why fostering in partnership with an agency can be the best way.

Whatever new people choose, good luck.

And welcome to the best thing anyone can do.

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FOSTER KIDS WARM TO OTHER FOSTER KIDS

 We've been fostering with Blue Sky for fifteen years now.

So something must be going right…

We'd originally started fostering twenty years before, but then our own children came along and we put fostering on hold.

Thinking back to then, what we thought was that we needed to put all our time and effort into out own kids.

On balance, we got that wrong.

A family can benefit from welcoming a foster child. An agency like Blue Sky works hard to find the right match, and supports the family. Big time.

Abigail is a child who was taken into care and Blue Sky were asked to help find her a foster home.

Abigail was taken in by a fostering family who had become friends of ours.

Friendship happens in fostering, you make new pals for life. We foster carers meet up in training sessions and coffee mornings and support groups and connect.

The family who took Abigail in had become friends of ours, as in curry evenings and days out.

Abigail turned out to be a child who wouldn't come out of her room.

Her carers had hard work to get her to school. She wouldn't go most mornings. There's not a lot one can do when the child simply digs in. You try all sorts of strategies, the social workers pitch in, but if a child won't get in the car what are you going to do?

Don't get the wrong impression, Abigail was unusual in her resistence. Look, no child really wants to go to school. I didn't. Did you? But I didn't stay up in my room refusing to budge. I knew there'd be consequences for me if I did, and anyway, I wasn't hugely anti-school, I simply felt that sometimes I'd sooner stay in bed…

Abigail would have none of it.

It began to become a defining issue. Local Authorities have ultimate duty of care for looked-after children and they have a zero-tolerance policy on looked after children and their schooling, namely; they have to go to school.

So. Abigail's foster parents, Ylena and Petre, had it all to do. They'd tried everything, but their Blue Sky social worker persevered with ever more strategies.

And eventually, one worked.

Their social worker asked the school Senco how many other children at the school were looked-after children. The answer was surprising. No less than seven!

Abigail had let it be known that one of her reasons for refusing school was her phobia about being singled out as a foster child. Her resistance was not to the book-learning, but to the chaos and anarchy of the playground.

The Blue Sky social worker and the Senco came up with a brainwave. They started a lunchtime club. For guys in care. It was done sensitively and with discretion, but the core credential was key.

They'd get together in a room that had previously been for spillover staff to drink coffee during breaks. It was personable; comfy armchairs, light and airy. The club members were politely requested not to use their phones. The Senco rigged a TV to show You Tube clips of moments from Toy Story, Shrek, and superheroes. She laid on a plate of biscuits (Hobnobs, obs) and there was juice.

The 'club' broached all age groups. The older pupils became parental about the younger ones. There's be informal competitions about whose background was worst. Club members started to go round to eavch others houses or meet up in town.

Bottom line; when those guys were in their 'club' they were all normal, for want of a better way of putting it. They had a common ground, namely that, through no fault of their own, they had a vulnerability and trepidation about those youngsters who like to poke fun.

To be fair, Abigail didn't turn around straight away, fostering isn't like that. You have to plug away.

But her resistance to going to school receded.

Job well done.

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HOW TO CONNECT

 One of the things you often have to do with a foster child is to help them get used to other people.

Shyness is one thing - it's normal. But foster children sometimes have something different; almost a phobia about people.

Often they've been deprived of normal company.

Katie came to us aged 8. Katie was nigh on incapable of interacting with anybody. She was bright and articulate, mainly because she watched telly a lot. Telly was her window on the world. But telly is one-way traffic; the viewer is sedentary, not interactive.

Katie had no idea how to interact with people. She struggled to connect with her social workers and would try to hide or pretend she was 'busy' when they called.

She was ok with me and our other family members, because she'd learned things about connecting with people she shared a house with.

But she'd hardly ever attended school, and her home life was isolated. Her significant others had no extended family or friendship groups because for one thing they had none of the skills, for another they were fearful there'd be trouble if anyone found out what a strange household they'd created.

So they shut up shop.

Katie was overawed in the supermarket, she'd never been in such a teeming environment. She resisted school, and got angsty during the car journey every morning. If I had a friend over for coffee Katie would shut herself in her room. 

What to do?

I managed to make some progress with Katie using that regular standby; food.

As far as schoool went, I took to making an elaborate lunch boxful of her favourites which I'd give her in the car on the school run. She'd open the tupperware to check out;

a) the sandwich filling, which was usually a cheese slice and ham, on buttered white, crusts off. Not a mere peanut butter/marmite jobby which her classmates were stuck with.

b) a bag of smoky bacon ridgecut crisps. Not Walkers. McCoys. Top of the pile.

c) a tube of fruit yoghurt.

d) 8-10 seedless grapes.

e) 3 biscuits. Oreos, hobnobs or milk chocolate digestive, nothing less.

f) optional mini banana.

Plus; plastic bottle of water.

And…no messing… every day… a paper napkin folded into a triangle.

This operation got her to school, and, I suspected, helped her status with her fellow pupils because most of the rest of them had barely such a dandy lunchbox. Her food gave her status and hopefully some confidence to interact.

I'll never know though; because what goes on the the playground stays in the playground.

The supermarket was a challenge. 

Foster parents have no choice but to take foster children shopping because you can't leave them home alone.

They don't want to be out and about with a fosrer parent and are generally ultra self-conscious that other shoppers are staring at them and somehow aware that they are in care and that they come from 'broken' homes.

I do this trick; I gave Katie a wire basket and said gently; "Go do a wee shop for yourself."

After a couple of nervous goes she came to love the supermarket run.

Katie got cute at sneaking her luxury goods underneath healthy staples, for example;

a tray of grapes and a bag of organic lentil crisps would sit on top of a doughnut.

a bunch of mini-bananas would camouflage a bag of chocolate raisins.

I didn't say a word, the point of the exercise was that Katie was out and about and mingling.

My mount Everest with Katie was helping her get comfy with strangers visiting our house.

I had to remember that often, in chaotic homes, no-one visits for a chat and coffee. And the strangers who do show up are often trouble one way or another.

I have a good friend called Shirley.

At first Katie would flee to the hills and not come down for the rest of the day. 

So I said to Shirley "Next time you come I'm gong to give you a sachet of Revels. Pop them into your bag and I'll tell Katie that you've brought her a present.

Worked a treat. As the weeks went by Katie began asking;

"When's Shirley coming again?"

What we did was this; Katie knew that Shirley had a 'present' for her, so she'd come downstairs and lurk.

Shirley would ask Katie politenesses such as;

"How are you Katie?"

"Did you have a nice weekend?"

"How's school?"

And Katie would respond, because there was a bag of Revels in it for her to do so.

Katie and Shirley became buddies. They'd natter and laugh, it was a joy to see.

By the tiime Katie's family were ready to offer her a good enough home Katie was…

…ok at school …consumate with being a member of the public out shopping, and a hospitality superstar whenever Shirley showed up.

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