BON APPETIT FOSTERING

 I had to drop into our local wholefood shop yesterday.

Not a place I visit much, perhaps I should go more often, after all; good food is obviously better than ultra-processed.

When I say that I "had" to go, what I mean is; the visit was fostering-related so it was duty.

See, middle foster child has started to cook for himself.

This, as any parent will testify, is a milestone.

Why? Because this young man has always harboured self-doubts about himself. Like so many childrren taken into care he believes deep-down that his family break-up was his fault. That nobody really wants him. That he's not worth bothering with.

When he arrived he barely bothered with himself.

In fostering we work our socks off trying to improve each young person's self-esteem. 

We tape all their drawings to the fridge door, praise them for finishing in the first half of the school egg-and-spoon race, video their performance in the second row of the Nativity choir.

We try to be real, but at the same time often over-egg the pudding and get told "Stoppit please, it's no big deal".

Up to now middle foster child has always been fine with my food. I do spag boll, pasta (with Dolmio, sometimes pesto), pizza (weekend treat). Sausages always get eaten, as does chicken anything. Green veg I hide in soups. Salad bits get eaten unnoticed in a burger.

Then suddenly, without warning; bombshell.

He was having a friend visit for Saturday tea and asked if he could cook their meal.

"Hans Christian Anderson!" I exalted (my mum's way of joyful swearing without crossing boundaries). Huge.

I asked him what ingredients he needed; he dictated a list. He was planning a Thai green chicken curry and needed items that we do not have in our sorry larder of lost ambition.

But purchase them I did.

Into the Tesco trolley went; Thai green curry paste, chicken breasts, coconut milk. Nix on lime leaves but I did track down a sachet of lemongrass.

Foster child cooked while his pal sat at the kitchen table dealing from his pack of Tarot cards and telling our kid how his life would unfold. The aroma-rich atmosphere was idylic.

Obs, mum did the washing up.

Here's the thing; did his interest in cooking end there?

No. 

It gathers apace!

He still eats with us, but he and I share the cooker/oven. 

And now; he's gearing up to cook for the whole family.

I got given a shopping list. 

Spooling down it I realised there was no way it was a Tesco job.

Hence I'm in our wholefood shop.

Organic paprika, organic garam masala, cayenne, Himalayan pink salt (seriously), Sushi rice, Nori, wasabi paste, white Miso, and…(don't laugh) beetroot powder.

The lady on the till said:

"Someone's going to be cooking tonight."

I replied "My son. Tonight and most nights. He's discovered he loves cooking."

"That's lovely!" she said.

"Yes" I replied, "It's great if they begin taking care over their food, and celebrating eating. Means they are developing respect for themselves."

The lady went a bit rheumy-eyed.

"Yes…" she said quietly. Then;

"I must admit that now that I'm alone in the house I don't always bother to cook. Thanks. You've made me think."

One day I'll tell middle foster child he made a difference to someone he'll never meet.

Not today. Today there are other fish to fry.

Or to be precise; other fish to slice raw and roll in sushi rice before binding in dried seaweed, served with a steaming bowl of deep red miso soup.

Restaurant quality fostering!

Read More

FOSTERING AND GHOSTS

 Middle foster child is off out tonight.

Off to our local youth club.

This is HUGE.

Going on his own, meeting a bunch of mates there.

Came out of the blue, he appeared downstairs looking well kempt, whiffing of after-shave and the quiff moussed into a peak.

HUGE

Wait 'til I tell our Blue Sky social worker, she'll go;

"NOOOO! FANTAAASTIC! ANOTHER MILESTONE!"

And it is a milestone. 

You get milestones cropping up in fostering, it's important to register them alongside the challenges.

Without betraying his identity, the young man is at war with the ghosts of his former family. To be precise, the ghost of his late grandfather. What's more, he's beating the ghost.

It's a dynasty thing I've noticed often with children coming into care.

They have troubled home lives, but the troubles often began before the child's parents were born. The trouble begins with the parents' parents. 

In this case a grandfather called "Wullie".

The lad's name is something like "Cairngorm". That's not it; I'm respecting his privacy, but it gives you an idea of the millstone round his neck. His name is that of a hallowed nook of Scotland. Hallowed because grandfather Wullie claimed he hailed from  there. And Cairngorm's father - I'll call him Alan - tried everything he could to pay homage to his father Wullie, tried everything to placate Wullie's rage and anger. Even tried naming his son after the place Wullie claimed to worship as some sort of magical kingdom from which he was wrenched.

Our Blue Sky social worker and I gleaned Cairngorm's backstory gently over a period of months. His mum had often opened up to him.

Grandfather Wullie was an alcoholic. Jobless (unemployable) itinerant (a pioneer sofa-surfer), father of innumerable 'bairns'.

Violent. Imprisoned for attacks on women, including Cairngorm's grandmother, the mother of Alan. Alan knew Wullie, but had no clue that his father's behaviour was criminally wrong. Like so many youngsters, Alan assumed his father's atrocities were somehow the norm, and it fell to Alan to sooth his father's savage brow.

But Cairngorm's dad, Alan, ended up fighting Wullie, his own father. Regularly.

Then Alan started drinking, like Wullie.

Then he started meeting girls, who exasperated him just as Alan's mother exhasperated Wullie.

It seems some sort of pact between the Magistrates and the military got Wullie enlisted, but it didn't help much. Wullie got billeted south of the border and ended up remaining in England. He sowed his seed, Alan was born. Alan sowed his seed and Cairngorm was born to a young woman best described as limited. But Cairngorm loved his mum; loves her still.

Wullie dedicated himself to drinking and fighting and claiming to be a victim, which he probably was, but we can't go back that far...

Cairngorm's mother had a succession of failed relationships, with Alan often showing up demanding money, booze and somewhere to doss.

Eventually she went under and social services stepped in.

Cairngorm came to us shy and frightened, as if everything was his fault. He had no friends, no social life, no family…no nothing. A closed book. We fostered him, us and Blue Sky.

He goes out tonight starting on his way.

Where that way takes him is his choice and privilege, but I genuinely believe that our fostering system means that another child will turn his life around and be some kind of ok.

ps: I'm only reporting facts about "Cairngorm'; please don't misconstrue I'm somehow down on the Scots. Guess what; they have reprobates in England, well, everywhere come to it.

Hey, my paternal grandad was a Glaswegan and a more noble man you could never dream up. Love us Scots!

Read More

CAN COOL PEOPLE FOSTER?

 When one becomes a foster mum or dad there's a moment which reminds me of when I passed my driving test. My driving instructor drove me back to my parent's house - he said the L-plated car wasn't insured to for a qualified driver other than himself. I thanked him for helping me learn to drive and opened the passenger door. As I got out he called after me;

"Now go and learn to drive properly."

Great advice.

Similar to fostering, because no amount of theoretical prepping gets one fully geared up for doing the job properly.

Don't get me wrong, Blue Sky cover all the bases and couldn't do more to tool us newbies up for the gig. The sense that they're always there is, well, always there.

But when your front door closes as the social workers say their goodbyes having dropped off your first ever foster child, you're doing it for real.

Like most new foster parents I experienced a rush of several feelings; elation, trepidation, the joy/burden of responsibility, the rush of empowerment that the happiness of somebody else's dear child depended deeply on little old me…

And the emotions continue unabated, to this day.

What happened was this; during the holidays our middle foster child had some friends come for tea. By 'tea' I mean sitting around watching superheroes movies and playing computer games in the TV room off the kitchen. Oh yes, and eating and guzzling junk. But after all it's the holidays and it's what everyone else who had the chance was doing.

Our downstairs configures nicely for fostering. Our kitchen has a room adjoining with a big screen TV, a games console, an old sofa and a couple of armchairs that have seen better days. Perfect for 14-year olds to chillax. No connecting door. Open plan.

Perfect for me to keep tabs on everything while going about the catering; chucking fries in the air fryer, knocking out bowls of Jalapino crisps and so on.

One of foster child's mates appeared in the kitchen and asked' "Please can I go to the toilet?" I directed him to our downstairs loo. Two minutes later he came back via the kitchen. I was drying dishes while half-watching through to the TV, at a distance. Batman was having a pop at the Joker.

The youngster asked, out of politeness;

"Do you like Batman?"

Thing is, in fostering one to be on one's toes with the likes of Batman; some of the movies can be dark. This one was officially ok for people aged 13 and over, so got the green light.

One thing to remember with young people's culture is; it belongs to them.  Old fogies like me are not supposed to get it. If we do we're invading their territory. So I said something like: "Well we had a version of Batman when I was your age, but they've taken it to a new level these days."

Spot on, though I say so myself.

The young man and I had a brief chat. I asked him who was Batman's most dangerous enemy and if Alfred the butler was still solid.

He went back to slobbing out and I went back to hospitality.

A bit later on there was a lull in the noise of car chases and fighting.

I heard a small voice say to my foster child;

"Your mum's cool."

"Cool?" Me?

A thousand violins began to play.

First up; it meant that posssibly, somewhere along the way, my foster son had referred to me as "my mum". Confirmation of trust? Hope so.

 Whatever, maybe the friend simply assumed I was his mum,  but our kid didn't naysay him. This sense of belonging is mega if the child has any degree of permanence, and he looks like being long-term.

But, on top of that, our foster son's mate called me "cool".

This meant that, if I read it correctly, my foster son might have felt a tiny glow of pride in his "mum".

Our relationship may have ramped up a notch. But steady on; don't milk it. No, you act as if you never heard it. If anything, to keep onside, to retain one's core image of being no threat, you call through to the TV room "Is that policeman Officer Gordon?"

And what came back?

"Commissioner Gordon mum!"

"Mum"!

A shaking of heads all round; mum's cool, but only kinda... coolish.

Perfect. No toes trodden on.

A key role in parenting, letting them have their domains. Key in foster parenting too.

And a foster parent who's whistling off key. Whistling an out-of-date Johnny Mathis tune while emptying the bin...

A cool foster parent mind...

Read More

FOSTERING INCOME

 Myself and my partner were talking about our impending income tax bill.

Both of us aren't accountants.

By a considerable distance, neither of us are accountants.

We use a small family-type firm of accountants whose office is about 300 miles away from where we live.

Sounds a bit odd, but when we joined Blue Sky they recommended them to us as a trustworthy and knowledgable firm of accountants who a) understand the particulars of the tax breaks that come with the fostering allowance b) know how to explain it to foster carers c) are accesible and d) are nice.

We've been with them for over two decades.

What I'm saying is that the things I can tell you about the income from fostering and how it's taxed is merely my own experience and a layperson's understanding of how it works.

The reason I'm willing to try to explain, for the benefit of people who are considering getting in to fostering, and maybe people who are already foster carers but a bit hesitant about how it works, is because I find we foster carers are often a bit embarrased abourt the money side of doing something that is basically a calling.

Everyone has to eat.

In a nutshell it seems that the tax collectors have been instructed by 11 Downing Street (the Chancellor of the Exchequer) to treat the money that foster parents are paid as an "allowance".

Not a payment.

Not a salary or a standard form of income that's subject to what the public know as "Income Tax".

An "Allowance" seems to be taxed differently from an "Income".

The reason me and my other half were discussing it is that a letter dropped onto our doormat from HMRC (His Majesty's Revenue and Customs) telling us how much tax we owed for the last 12 months in question.

The amount struck me as too small.

I phoned our accountants and they assured me the bill matched our accounts they sent to the Inland Revenue.

In plain English, succesive governments are so much in need of foster carers they all but waive income tax from the allowance.

My own personal theory as to how this comes about is tied up in this simple notion. Foster parents have a foster child in their home, if fostering were classed as a job of work, the foster parents would be 'working' 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We don't clock off at 5.00pm and chill. We're on call. It's rare but if there's a need for support in the night you do it.

So if fostering was classed as 'employment' we'd be doing a 168 hour week. Of course, it's nowhere near like that, but if you argued it in a court or a tribunal, you waltz it.

So if our remuneration from fostering for a 12 month period is £20,000 and our hours are (technically) 24/7 every week, our hourly 'pay' would be approximately £3 per hour.

A long shortfall on the national living wage...

The National Fostering Group offers this advice:

In general, foster carers’ pay isn’t subject to income tax. This is because the Qualifying Care Relief tax scheme is quite generous, so you won’t normally have any taxable profit. However, you will still need to do a simple calculation at the end of each tax year to see what your tax threshold is for that tax year and whether or not you have gone over it. If you have, this is called taxable profit and you may have to pay tax.

Read More

FORGETTING OLD ACQUAINTANCES

December in the UK means, for many; Christmas. And for many others, Hanukker).

I don't know about Hanukker, but i know Christmas inside out. It's no cakewalk. Families are getting more and more complicated.

It can be an even trickier time for families who foster because we need to juggle things that ordinary families don't.

We fostering folk have the back-up of social workers, in my case Blue Sky, to help shape the way we deal with issues.

Issues such as;

How to advise a child who wants give a gift to an adult who may or not have neglected her (or worse)?

How to manage a Contact meeting between a child and real parent. A real parent who routinely bad-mouths the fostering system.

Not easy, but do-able thanks to the support network available plus one's own native life-skills.

Here's my thing though.

Hard on the heels of Christmas and Hanukkah, tailgating in fact, comes…

New Years Eve!

Oh Lordy; the logjam of Winter 'celebrations'.

For kids up to the age of about eleven, New Years Eve is a doddle; a chance to stay up very late. 

But I've noticed something different in the teenagers we've cared for when the clock ticks around to midnight.

They've twigged that the whole New Year thing is about fresh beginnings.

A new start.

Hope.

I've seen teenagers give really meaningful midnight hugs to whoever is wearing a party hat and say (and mean it);

"Happy New Year!"

They hold each others gaze and wish it in earnest sincerity.

They mean;

"May it please be better than last year…"

Sometimes they join in a chorus of Auld Lang Syne with gusto. The line about forgetting old acquantiances seems tinged with particular significance.

The bottomless yearning of their hope is as hearfelt as it's forlorn. We all know - and they do too - that each year brings more challenges. Every year brings rewards aplenty, but ups are harder to spot than downs. 

Their problems "sit like a toad on a merangue" as someone memorably put it.

Regardless, I enjoy watching the optimism of their "Happy New Year" to each other.

And, as a foster mum, each year I resolve to do everything I can to help their coming year be as good as it can be.

Happy New Year to you, whatever time of year you find yourself reading this.

Read More

IT'S ALL ABOUT LISTENING

One of the most rewarding experiences in fostering is when a child in your care opens up.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does it's magic.

Children coming into foster care are almost always tight-lipped about their past experiences, and keep their feelings about being in fostering to themselves. It's a shame because the more you know about a child the more you can tailor your care to fit their needs.

One child aged six who ended up being with us for a long time didn't want to tell anyone about their past horrors mainly, it turned out, because the child had blanked them out of their memory. So what happened with that child was that once they felt secure and at ease with their new foster home they began asking questions about how their early life turned out the way it did.

The child would collar me alone and ask for information about the people in their real home and the things that took place. The child would then ask the $64,000 dollar questions such as "Why would they do that to a kid?" or "Why didn't somebody stop them?" 

Wrost of all for me to hear was when the child asked "Why didn't you come and save me?"

It was most harrowing for the child, who I'm relieved to report, is now recovering; and stands as good a chance of being ok as any other of today's children. I have an admiration for this young person that inspires me in many ways.

You can get this if you foster.

Which brings me to today; an incredible moment. 

Well, to be precise; an incredible couple of hours.

It came from our eldest foster child. I've mentioned them before several times. The child is transitioning and doing so with commendable dignity, goodwill and above all sincerity.

The youngster is off school at the moment with flu.

This young person is a credit to humanity, I wish I could say the same about many of the people who condemn trans people, but hey ho.

The youngster cleared out their bedroom early this morning. Two bulging bin liners of cans and wrappers. 

The recycle bin was already full so I advised putting the bagss next to it and said I'd sort it later.

I was sitting in the living room with a morning cup of tea. Normally the child would wish me a polite "See you!" and scuttle back to the safe haven of the bedroom.

This morning the youngster lingered. 

Lingered at the living room door.

Talking.

The youngster ended up chatting to me for nigh on two hours. When I say "chatting" I really mean opening up. Telling me about the things that had gone on in their early life, the confusions of their feelings, the reactions and interactions of friends and family, their hopes and dreams and more.

"More" such as relationships and friendships.

Love, even.

And yet more.

"More" such as; their fears for themself if unhappiness kicks in, their fears about the world, about war, about their prospects. 

Eventually the kid yawned and said "I better get up and get some sleep."

Then uttred a small but genuine "Thanks".

And went.

Leaving me with a dancing heart and only one regret namely I had no-one to share it with. But wait...

The countdown is on for my next visit from our Blue Sky Social worker.

Drink will be taken in celebration!

Builders tea mind...

Read More

'GIMME A BELL"

 One of the biggest changes I've seen in fostering is mobile phones.

Put simply, they didn't used to be an issue when I started fostering because they didn't exist.

Today; they exist alright, and are almost at the very centre of the lives of every youngster, and from a very early age.

It begins with babes in arms noticing that their parent cherishes their phone almost as much as their baby. "Hmmm..." thinks the wee one, before they have developed logical thought; 'These little metal bricks must be important the way mummy plays with one all day. Then there's those plastic bricks they point at the TV to make Peppa Pig appear; they're important too. And fun."

The babe learns that they've got to get their hands on phones and remote controls, just like mum and dad do.

Mobile phones are children's gateway into the world of social media. And that's where they become a challenge for foster parents.

When it's your own children you travel alongside them on their journey into social media, right from day one. You share the decisions about when to get their first phone, what sort of deal it's on, and what controls you put on it. 

Children coming into care have all sorts of different history with their mobile phone, and for the foster mum or dad, managing their usage becomes a big part of the overall job.

I've never met a single foster parent who didn't have a stack of stories about kids and their phones.

Is social media a big problem? Gee, go ask the Australians. As I expect you know, their government is attempting to ban the use of social media for all children under the age of 16.

As my eldest put it when he saw it on the news feed (on his mobile phone…)

"Good luck with that one then."

And that young person is absolutely spot on.

Here's my favourite tale about mobile phone challenges in fostering; I love it - it tells you what people who are trying to help their young stay safe are up against.

So... this foster mum had a teenager in her care who wanted total freedom on her mobile. The youngster liked to disappear into the bedroom and tap away on forums, chat rooms, Facebook and the rest. This would very much not do. The teenager had mild vulnerabilities (bullying, peer rivalry, jealousy - the usual suspects) so mum got together with Blue Sky and they worked out a strategy for helping the young person reduce their phone activity and that way limit their exposure to negative social media.

It was agreed that there would be a large empty fruit bowl placed on the telephone table next to the front door. Every family member would drop their phone into the bowl on returning home, so it was out of use for all to see.

The foster mum expected resistance from the child, but to her surprise she got total compliance.

Every afternoon after school the bowl proved the child's mobile phone was sitting harmlessly in the hallway.

The mum reported this wonderful upturn to her local authority social worker…who was suspicious.

The next time the social worker visited it was a school holiday, so the child was upstairs in the bedroom - without her phone.

The social worker said "Right. I want to try something".

She fetched the child's mobile phone and opened the back of it.

I know this sounds a bit intrusive to some; private property and all that. But the social worker reminded the foster mum that the Local Authority had guardianship of the child while in care and that meant duty of care.

So she opened the phone and sure enough…the Sim card slot was empty.

Turned out the youngster had bought a second phone and kept its existence from everyone. All you do is remove the Sim card from your known phone, put the known phone in the bowl, buzz up to your room and insert your card into your secret phone.

And off you go into the ether of social media.

Clever.

Apparently it's a well-known trick and social workers are tooled up on it.

Short story long, they effected a clampdown by turning off the home wifi at 6.00pm; the children all used the wifi so as not to use up expensive airtime on their phones.

On top of that they maintained the reminders about the dangers of social media and the importance of staying safe.

Meanwhile, back in Australia the kids are sharing tricks to get around the government ban. They're way ahead of the AI the Aussies are using to block under 16s. One girl got approved by a robot by offering a picture of her mum.

Another got allowed usage by offering a photo image of…Beyonce.

Beating the block has become part of the game.

Kids of today 1, Artificial Intelligence 0.

In a way it's frustrating. In another way it's a tad inspirational...

Read More