AREN'T BEDTIMES TRICKY?

 Why foster? 

Because, generally speaking, it's the about the best thing you can do in life. At least, that's my view.

You get to take a vulnerable, innocent child under your wing and help them on their way.

The children don't always understand what you're doing for them, no matter. You do it.

They certainly don't understand two big things that are new to them when they come into your care.

They don't understand Contact or bedtimes.

"Contact" is where a child in care is taken to spend time with a significant family member, almost always a parent, usually once a week. The child doesn't understand why, if the parent has loused up their parenting, the child has to spend time with them in a neutral location, but then the child has to go home with the foster parent.

Contact is usually once a week.

Bedtime is every night…

Children coming into fostering often have had no experience of bedtime routines, so they struggle.

Avril came to us aged eleven, we'd not been fostering long so were on a steep learning curve.

We'd had children of our own and had experience of their resitance to getting ready for bed. The sequance of going upstairs, putting on pyjamas, staying upstairs and everything in between.

Avril opened our eyes. I've talked to a lot of foster parents who say the same; you have to learn to enjoy a new set of ideas about bedtime, but once you do it's happy days.

We tried to give Avril the same routine as our own children. So, at a set time it would be bathtime followed by pyjamas then a story then lights down.

With Avril that sequence always ended in tears at some point.

Together with our Blue Sky social worker we began to piece together the experience Avril had endured at 'bedtime'.

We talked to Avril about her previous 'bedtimes'.

Turned out that 'bedtime' in her house of chaos was fraught, frantic and frightening.

It was often preceded by the doorbell and her mother saying "There's a bloke I'm expecting, so get upstairs and put yourself to bed, and I don't want to hear a peep out of you unless I need you down here. Scram!"

We filed what she told us in our regular reports, and Blue Sky alerted the police that two things she told us amounted to disclosures of possible criminal acts that had not previously been picked up and required investigation.

Criminal.

And there we were saying "Hey ho, eight o'clock time to hop into the tub then snuggle down for a story."

Nightly bathtimes were ditched, as was any mention of 'bedtime'.

Avril now stayed fully clothed and lay next to me on the sofa while Eastenders eventually became News At Ten. She'd doze, in and out, but try to stay awake. Stay awake for historic reasons I can't betray.

My other half would ask every half hour "Is she gone?" By "gone" he meant solidly asleep.

Her house-clothes were pretty much approximately pyjamas, so I'd carry her up and lay her in bed. New underwear in the morning. 

In fostering one's encouraged to talk - discreetly - about fostering to close and trusted friends. I'm afraid my gang were unanimous that I was relinquishing control, failing to meet her sleep needs, and the rest.

But Blue Sky got what we were doing; soothing Avril's savage brow.

Avril was with us for 7 months, and we helped her on her way.

Our next placement had problems with…

Contact and bedtimes.

His problem with Contact was exactly like all the others.

His problems with bedtimes, like every foster child, were unique to him.

Game on all over again.

You're never bored in fostering...

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WHY DO WE END UP FOSTERING?

 How do people discover fostering? What do people who start to wonder if fostering might be for them, do next?

It's a question I need to start asking fellow foster parents, strangely I don't think I ever have. Yet.

So at the moment I've only got my own experience.

Way back I saw a TV programme, I was about 14 years old. A family were talking about their having a foster child. I'd never heard of "fostering" before. The family seemed pleasant and happy. I maybe made a mental note.

When I left school I was a bit aimless. Normal.

I caught a small ad in a newspaper inviting volunteers to go to the USA and work with kids in their Summer Camps. I applied, was accepted, and suddenly there I was on a Boeing jet heading for New York. 

The plane was full of students, all about to be dispersed to different camps, but none of us knew our ultimate destination, we were going to be told when we landed. I stayed in touch with one girl who ended up in a top-of-the-range camp where the kids did water ski-ing, horse riding and use the camp's helicopter to get to town to post cards.

I wasn't so lucky. Wait, I'm going to re-phrase that; I was even luckier. I got a charity camp.

Camp Caribou it was called. 90 miles north of New York, in the middle of proper nowhere. Forest for 100 miles in every direction.

It was owned and run by a decent, wealthy New York family who saw charity as their duty and did their bit.

The Camp cost them time and money. The money came from the father. His children and their friends did the day-to-day work, lived in the camp, never stopped smiling and supporting the kids.

The kids! 

They were all homeless one way or another. Some came from homes for "social orphans" (kids whose parents are alive but unable to function as parents). Many were living on wasteland, in disused factories, abandoned tenements, shop doorways; all that. 

The idea was to give the children a couple of weeks in the great outdoors. Each of us councillors had a wooden cabin out in the forest (yep, snakes and wolves) with 6 very basic beds; one for the councillor, the other for 5 kids. From day one, aged 18, I became a start-up "foster mum" of 5.

One of my many, many standout memories is that the entire camp sat down to eat together three times a day in the main building. Different cabins took their turn to lay the tables. The staff were really hot that every child's place had to be layed exactly right; a clean plate in the middle, cutlery exactamundo. Clean water jugs and sparkling glasses for all.

And a napkin. Each place had a neatly folded paper napkin, for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Everone had to wash first, in the open air latrines.

One of the family said to me;

"It's important we respect them and encourage them to respect themselves."

Brilliant.

Then, I guess, is maybe when the seed of fostering was sown.

Fostering is a valuable career for almost anyone. The inkling to foster might suddenly blindside a person almost when they're thinking about something else.

BTW America was a fantastic life experience for myself. I'll never forget that the older kids were respectfully frisked when their rusty old bus brought them in. Knives and drugs were collected.

The councillors returned the weapons when they left, but kept the weed.

I often wondered how they disposed of it...

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FOSTER PARENT'S SECRET TRICK 2

 Quick recap; Alicia, newest foster child, is home from school, "unwell". She's 14 and is transitioning. I'm secretly looking forward to spending the day at home with her, a great opportunity to get to know her better.

It's 9.30am, I'm knocking up two full English's, one for Alicia, the other for me. Eating together is a bonding thing, and foster kids often feel more secure with a full tummy. Plus, the smell of bacon and baked beans is almost medicinal.

I call out things such as;

"Do you like fried bread?"

"Dunno."

Hmmm…whether to serve breakfast at the kitchen table or eat off laps. She looks so secure curled up in the kids room under her duvet. I take her breakfast to her, then bring mine and sit on the armchair beside her while we eat.

She's found a TV recording of a Harry Potter, which is good because I know enough about HP to make occassional remarks aimed at getting her to see me as a house-mate and a friend rather than some kind of warden, or worse, a threat to her real mother.

As a general rule, never try to replace their real mum. Sacrilege. 

Slowly, we begin chatting. I keep it superficial, avoiding interrogation.

Thing is; I know exactly what I wanted to know, partly because the info could help me help her better, but also ouit of downright human curiosity. 

I wanted to know about her journey into transitioning. 

But how to start that conversation?

I had one way in; it's known to social services that there's a number of other pupils at her school who are also trans.

Alicia and I had touched base about one of her fellow transers, so I felt entitled to ask:

"How's Melissa?"

There was a silence while Alicia computed. She twigged what I was up to. She also knew that if she threw me a bone I'd be all the more accomodating next time she pitched for a day off school. 

Game on.

She replied that Melissa was being a pain.  I asked how come; and we were off. I got a controlled trickle of info about Melissa and the other trans pupils; their tight, courageous, sometimes squabbly community.

Alicia trusted me with some useful titbits, which drew us together and gave new insights. They'll go into her fortnightly record for Blue Sky and our fantastic social worker to pore over, which they really do.

Then, the usual thing happened. Alicia suddenly felt exposed, as though she'd given away too much, as if the intimacy was somehow robbing her of the only thing she truly owned; herself.

All of a sudden she got up and said she was going upstairs. Stalked out dragging her duvet like a cloak.

I said;

"OK."

And that was it for the day.

Did I get any closer to how she came to transitioning? 

Yes. A bit...

A good start.

For Alicia, was it a better day than a day at school? In fostering it's all about repair. If they won't or can't go to school, sieze the day.

That's the "trick", iof you ccan describe it as a "trick". If they need a day off school, put it to good use.

But, I now have to let Blue Sky know. If you're with another agency, or your local authority, ensure they know about no-school days and that they understand that you tried your darndest to get them to go, which one does.

Blue Sky know the challenges of fostering and are right beside their carers every step of the way.

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FOSTER PARENT'S SECRET TRICK

 We've had Alicia with us now for the best part of 2 months. She's a charming person. She identifies as female and her preferences are good enough for me. She's given to occassional wobblies. such as a couple of nights ago.

She'd been off school that day. Her ailment was nothing straighforward such as a sore throat or a tummy ache. 

Foster parents often, I'd go as far as to say almost always, have particular challenges when it comes to trying to pursuade someone else's child to get up and go to school, especially if they're new.

When the child is your own child it's easier. Still diffficult, but not so difficult. For one; you know the child inside out. Most children try to be a bit of a closed book, especially as they enter the teens. They try to keep to themselves things such as feelings about peer pressures, being bullied, disliking a particular teacher or lesson, fears about flunking, or simply finding school a bit of a scary waste of time.

If you can second-guess the problem thanks to having insight you're on the road to some sort of solution to the problem.

But with a child you've only know for 8 weeks it's hard to read the runes.  There's not much point asking the daft old question "What's the matter?" because a) they won't say or b) they don't really know or understand their problem themselves.

Alicia is transitioning. Alicia has recently been removed from an abusive, chaotic family home and placed with a strange family; us. We're only just getting a picture of what life was like for her first 14 years. The feeling among ourselves (me and the social workers on her case) is that she's carrying quite a few horrors. 

The priority is Alicia. School or a day off. The blunt fact is that there's nothing in the day of a massive school that's likely to ease the mind of an upset teenager.

So. It's a schoolday. Alicia is a no-show for breakfast. I go up and knock on her door. I get the reply;

"Not going in."

All you can do is interpret the 3 words. They were said with certainty, with a layer of emotion, which meant that…she was not going in. But as her foster mum, it's right to try to get the child in. You have to, it's borderline the law.

"Are you OK? It's Art today. You like Art, Miss Pettifer says your paintings are brilliant."

No response. 

"It's spag boll tonight, your favourite."

If you're a foster parent you'll recognise the valiant effort on my part, and know it's 90% doomed.

Here's the thing - and I can barely admit it, but it's a big truth - a piece of me wanted to keep Alicia home for the day.

Why? Because I've almost always found that having your foster child take the occassional day off school and being alone with their foster parent, is golden. No-one else in the house to distract. If you get it right it's a fantastic opportunity to strengthen the bond between yourself and the child.

I phoned the school and told them Alicia was unwell. I shouted up to her that I'd done that, which I know she found a release because it meant the deal was done. However, it wasn't plain sailing…I couldn't leave her in the house alone so she had to accompany me on the school run with the my other 2 kids, so we invented a game where Alicia would duck down if she thought she saw a fellow schoolmate at a bus stop or crossing the road. Quality hi-jinks.

When a foster child take a day off school you need your cupboard meals because there's no nipping out to the shops. So it would be penne and Dolmio that night, spag boll could wait. When we got back from the school run I suggested Alicia brought her duvet downstairs and snuggle up in the back room and I'd make a nice breakfast. I knew I was in for an interesting day, and Alicia, being bright as a button, knew she was in for some quality TLC, and a bit of mild grilling.

It was a healthy bi-partisan arrangement.

Game on!

To be continued...

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THE CURIOUS PERFECTION OF NOT BEING PERFECT

 Is there trouble in fostering? Challenges?

Of course, from time to time. "Expect the unexpected" I often say, but only now and then.

Look, there's trouble in every family no matter how conventionally blessed. Ask the Windsors. Ask the Von Trapps.

Blue Sky is often approached by people wondering about fostering who are thinking; "Would they want me? Would I be any good? Me with a messy divorce and a son who hasn't spoken to his father for ten years?"

Our social workers reply; "We need people who've had life experience."

I know it sounds glib but it's the honest truth. The normal messy things in life that we deal with before fostering help people be an informed foster parent.

Wrapped in cotton wool? No thanks.

This episode stays with me from a while back;

I'd been asked by Blue Sky to be at meeting of people who'd expressed an interest in becoming foster parents. My role would be to tell it how it is, no sugaring of the pill, but at the same time tell my personal truth, namely that fostering is the best thing ever.

The Blue Sky person asked the room of about 30 people to introduce themselves and say a few words about why they were interested in fostering.

The room was mostly female, and mostly aged about 30-50. There were some younger people, some older ones, and a couple of couples. Most were dressed casually: hoodies, supermarket jeans.

Obviously, like everone else, I was intrigued as to who we all were.

First to introduce herself was a cheery lady and her partner. He had recently left his job as a driver due to what he called nighmare EU red tape. 

Next was a young woman from the Ivory Coast whose husband was a retired architect.

Then came a woman aged about the same as me who said she wanted to foster because she'd had a wretched childhood and had been fostered, and wanted to give something back.

The next person was a woman who had worked in offices all her life and wanted to break out.

We then heard from a charming young Muslim couple.

The next lady to speak seemed a bit of a fish-out-of-water. She wore a pearlised necklace and a pastal blouse that picked out the cream in her trousers. Her patent handbag matched her patent shoes. Her hair was fresh from the hairdressers and her eye make-up was what she thought was too subtle for anyone to notice.

At least, that's how I remember her. But I remember with total clarity her first words:

"I would hope," she began by saying "That I won't be hearing any bad language."

I was gobsmacked. The best I could do was; "Er…well…"

She: "I won't have swearing in my house".

It was the first thing she said!

What could one say? The room went quiet. Stunned, actually.

The fact is that fostering is like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get.

Get offered, that is. No foster parent is required to take a child whose profile they have concerns about. And if your first question is going to be "Does he/she ever swear?" You're never, ever going to hear the reply "Apparently not. He/she is a devout non-swearer".

It's the only time I've ever met a would-be foster parent to whom I'd consider showing the door. Fostering needs every foster parent we can get. Blue Sky works tirelessly with every new recruit to line us up for fostering, but I suspect they put a line through her for plenty of other reasons.

One reason though, might have been that the lady simply hadn't been exposed to the outside world and the chaos of life. Or, if she had, she was determined to pretend she hadn't, and was above what she saw as that sort of emotional squalor.

Of the other people at the event? To the best of my knowledge all were accepted on to the next round of approval, and, again to my knowledge, all are flourishing in fostering.

Bl**dy good job too!

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RUDDY KEYS, AND FOSTERING

 It's sometimes a bit frustrating having to write up little mini-episodes of "A Day In The Life Of A Foster Mum".

Why, because life - especially fostering life - doesn't happen in neatly boxed-up vignettes, with a beginning, a middle and a neat ending.

I try to make my experiences bite-size because you're busy, I'm busy…who wants War and Peace?

The door keys saga from my last post is a case in point. I wrote up "Close Encounters" about how an older foster child benefited by being given a set of house keys. He then enhanced his bond with me late one night by talking about how he lost them, leading onto him talking about his life and hopes and dreams.

I signed off the triumph with a homily, as if it was over. Never tempt fate…

He and I had chatted into the night and all seemed well.

However, check this out.

We had another set of keys cut, a front door one and a back door one. Put them on a keyring and gave them to him.

Last night he came home and said; "Er..I don't know what happened here but I've lost the front door key. Again."

Sure enough, the back door key was on his keyring, but no Yale-type for the front door. The keyring was a pretty heavy-duty job, the ring was solid.

I had to decide how to react. 

 Fly off the handle? NEVER!

Act disappointed? Well a little bit, but with the emphasis on sympathy.  Must be upsetting for him to have to own up.

I quickly let my curiosity bubble up. "I don't get it," I said with my famous gentle smile "The key was hung on the keyring same as the back door key."

I fell short of saying; "The front door key couldn't fall off. Someone must have worked it off…"

True.

So I let it go. I was looking out for the moment to bring it up again, and while waiting I started to get a picture of events in the park - where he spent most of his leisure time.

That first time it happened, he lost his whole set of keys.

So I reckon this is what happened the afternoon of the first loss.

He'd told his group of friends that he'd been given house keys, all proud and enjoying a bit of one-upmanship. One of his mates, jealous, disputed the keys so our boy got them out, showed them round. Then there was a bit of a melee, at the end of which no-one knew who had the keys, and whoever had the keys felt that he'd won.

No wonder he was distraught when he got home, he'd not only lost a set of keys, one of his gang had bested him.

If only ordinary kids had some inkling of what foster children have been through, they'd (hopefully) rally round.

So. Onto the loss of the second front door key. I reckon this:

He showed up in the park wanting to demonstrate he was still out in front on the house-key stakes. He wanted to rub it in that, although he didn't have a real family, he had a family that trusted him more than the families of his park mates.

One or two of his mates were disbelieving  and asked to see the main key. He took it off the keyring and proudly handed it over. And never saw it again. Same "Jape".

Some friends...

He feels foolish, defeated and diminshed.

Got to pick him up.

So. Go on…what would you do?

I went on Amazon and bought a "screwlock" carabina for his belt loop, and had another key cut. And gave it to him.

Our foster boy - still ahead.

Oh, and don't get me started on our front door security. I gave thought to the fact that our front door keys are out there somewhere. Luckily there's a big second lock which has been on the door since we moved in. We never use it, but it's back in action.

Blimey; a new lock and set of new keys must be £150 and upwards so I'm settling for bolt-locking the door day and night, for the time being.

As for eldest foster child…they hardly ever show it, but I sense he feels even more supported and trusted than ever.

Job well done.

And let that be the end of the housekeys saga.

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CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

 Getting close to your foster child is hard graft. Earning trust isn't easy, and frankly, it happens few and far between, although you get flashes.

So; Terry (aka "Tezza", "T" and "T Man") reached an age where he could go into town by himself. He then reached an age where he didn't want to say what time he'd be back. So we talked to Blue Sky and it was agreed. 

Terry could have his own keys. Front door and kitchen. Blue Sky are SO good at advising. We went through all the possible pitfalls, the pros and cons.Then it was agreed, based on that Terry is trustworthy and old anough. All the security angles got discussion and boxes got ticked. Terry could have a set of keys.

This is a big day for any young person, but for foster children it's huge. It's a medal, a certificate of belief, a path to adulthood. It's not just keys to the doors, it's keys to the road to independence.

Naturally we made no big deal about it. I handed them to him with a matter-of-factness, as if to underline how appropriate it was for him to have keys, a kind of understated; "This is who you are now".

A couple of Saturdays later he called to say;

"I've lost my keys."

He'd sat on the grass in the park with friends and the keys probably slipped out of his pocket.

No problem as far as we were concerned, but Terry was in bits. 

The keys were his passport to a new life. Terry making his way. And he'd lost them. He was almost in tears.

Part of his angst was that he might be in trouble. In his past, being in trouble with adults in the house was horrible for him, and though he knew we were different, it never stops demons from the past showing up.

I heard Terry downstairs very late at night the day after he lost his keys. It was 1.00am. In fostering I sleep in a day-clothes outfit of trackie bottoms and T shirt, ready to do my job, but I slipped on my DG anyway and went down. His emotions were raw and his privacy settings were low. He actually wanted to talk about himself. And the world.

I let him talk, didn't interrupt. Didn't offer grown-up "wisdom", or allow my face to hint any judgement.

He talked on and on.

Talked about his sad and tragic childhood and things that had happened that social services probably hadn't heard about. Talked about lonliness and fear, being bruised physically and emotionally. I made mental notes to include in my next report. 

He told me nothing that had the status of a disclosure (where a child reveals something possibly criminal and the carer needs to refer it to their social worker) but painful listening.

Then Terry got energised. He intended, he said, to live off-grid. He would buy a piece of land and build a shelter-home from timber he'd collect. He'd drink rainwater and forage for food. He said he'd done the research.

Terry wanted to turn his back on the world, humanity, and all us people.

Terry and I got close in the middle of that night, thanks to lost keys.

He calmed down a lot too, let stuff out.

By this time it's 4.00am. I'm not as good at 4.00am as I was once. We adjourned. For both of us, a good day (night) at the office of fostering.

A couple of days later I mentioned to Terry that I'd seen an advert from a farmer who was selling parcels of woodland not far from us. Terry barely registered. Perhaps he'd shelved the whole idea.

Or, just as likely, if he was holding onto his dream as his personal, private quest - so it would be his achievement, no-one else's -  his thing was he didn't want help.

Cool.

Whichever; what changed for the good was that during that wee-small-hours chat he and I were closer, and both of us happier for that.

We replaced his set of keys. Even got him a keyring in his favourite colour; black.

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