D DAY FOR OUR CURRENT FOSTER CHILD

 Looking after an older foster child can be rewarding in all sorts of ways.

They're often able to tell you about how you've helped them, which younger ones can't.

Teenagers who've been presented with the almighty challenge of being removed from their family home and placed with a strange family are weighed down by having to make sense of what's happened to them.

For younger ones, it's just simply beyond them, so they simply get on with life.

The young mum we have staying at the moment (with her baby) is gradually starting to feel at home here. Or so it seems. The professionals (social workers, guardians, solicitors etc) seem agreed that she and her son are largely on top of things. The baby is a lovely young fellow. He's stable, contented and up for the world.

The young mum has her sadnesses but in general is making a good job of a difficult lot.

See…in a couple of days a court will decide if she's a good enough mother for her to be allowed to keep her baby, or have the infant taken away and put up for adoption.

In all my years fostering I've never had to help a child (the mum) deal with such a particular prospect. I've watched and made records of the mum's dedication to her baby. I've also listened to her when on several occasions the whole thing threw her off balance and she quietly wept; "I can't do this..."

What did I say on those occasions? Only that in my own experience the shock of becoming a mother to a newborn baby hits almost every mum just as hard. I told her "I had my moments of fear and confusion too.. who wouldn't?"

We've got through those moments. The court has to decide if she could deal with those moments without a foster parent on hand.

Me? I've found it tough but rewarding. The toughest bit is remembering that my job in fostering these two is to collect cold, hard information about the mother's mothering. If, for example, she were to have a meltdown and run up to her bedroom in distress leaving her baby on the floor on his change-mat, something like that would have to be recorded and would weigh on the court's decision on whether she can be trusted with her baby.

The young mum hasn't got any blots of that magnitude on her copybook, the most challenging shortfalls she's made have been minor. But; I'm still required to note them, and write them up in my daily report.  And (this has been hard) read out loud to her my daily report every day so she knows what I see and hear of her mothering.

In two days time the court will decide.

The young mum's solicitor (an amazing fiesty young woman, so bright and kind) is driving down to be with the young mum throughout the day. The latest word is that the case has been given a new judge; a woman alledgedly very empathetic.

Talking to my Blue Sky social worker we end up agreeing that the foster parent in me is doing a professional job. I shall respect the court's decision as based on the baby's welfare.

And the human in me is doing a human job. In other words, my heart cries out for mum and baby to be confirmed as mum and baby.

Two days to Decision Day. The young mum couldn't eat a bite of her evening meal, not a morsel. That's no problem, she'll probably snaffle something from her shelf of the larder later.

I cannot but wonder eternally how young people who we foster parents are entrusted with pull it off.  And on the whole, they do.

Stars, some of them...

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HOW TO GET A GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP? FOSTER!

 Yo! I just had a sweet fostering moment.

Our eldest foster child is still with us despite reaching adulthood.

He's a 'permanent'. He has no home to return to, and he continues to need us to give him a home.

He's making slow but sure progress towards independence, which is the aim. He might be eligible for accomodation elsewhere in a time to come, but at the moment he needs our home.

Needs me.

He and I have a well-established relationship. I've been managing his foibles for a good few years now. If you knew what happened to him as a child, knew the things he's suffered, knew any of the horrors and agony of his early life, you'd wonder how he manages to walk and talk in a straight line.

Between the two of us we've rolled up our sleeves and got him aimed in the right direction. There've been times when it's been nothing but blood sweat and tears for the both of us.

Sorry, that's a bit of an exageration; there's been no blood. Well, no literal blood, maybe a few gallons of it metaphorically.

He'd been so cruelly abused by 'parents' that anyone who steps into the role of 'parent' to him is automatically the enemy. And, from the moment he arrived, that became me.

My Blue Sky social worker kept reminding me it's not unique for a foster child to begin by resenting their foster parents a little.

I wasn't phased by the young man's opposition, been there before, I have the T shirt.

One doesn't go into fostering to be loved and revered. 

The joy lies in mentoring progress towards a better place.

And this young fellow had a long and troubled journey to undertake. 

So. He and I embarked together, an odd couple because he had resentments towards his guide. I symbolised something he'd come to fear and hate; the parent.

We bumbled along though, with him challenging me every chance he got, refusing even casual niceties such as "good morning" or a friendly pat on the head for a good joke or for him doing the washing up halfway well enough.

He wanted no intimacy or engagement with anyone even slightly parental. The school said the same. He even had trouble with friends if he saw them acting as if above him.

We had a fascinating Blue Sky training session on it.

Transactional Analysis it's called. Psychologists agree that there are countless occasions where a person unconsciously adopts the role of parent over someone else who is made to feel like the child.

My young foster person was deeply cautious of offering any engagement with anyone of the parent class. Consequently I got no direct reward for my fostering of him, but was easily sustained by his growing success at school, at sports, at art and music.

He was getting somewhere.

But he still cut me out, pretty much.

Of course I coped! For one thing I had a tireless Blue Sky social worker to help me, and so she did, throughout.

I say 'throughout' not because the resentment has ended. It hasn't.

Although…

Earlier this morning (ie 4.00am) my phone tinkled. You never turn off your phone in fostering, I don't care what they say about radiation.

It was my grown-up foster boy.

He'd spent the evening in a bar watching England versus Mexico.

He was mellow, kind of…happy.

He's old enough to have a beer, all his mates do, we keep an eye. He's sensible.

Would I possibly drive down and pick him up?

Obs, yes.

He got in beside me and immediately started criticising my driving (normal). "Too slow."

I wove around a pothole.

"No point!"

etc.

I told him there were cold roast potatoes left over from Sunday lunch.

He curled his lip;

"Nah"

We pulled onto our driveway.

He sat still for a moment then went;

"Gimme your hand."

I gave him my hand.

He embraced it in a way I'll remember if I live to be a thousand.

And took himself off to bed with a huge bowl of cold roast spuds, and the last beer from us watching the game.

He had no work later that day, his boss had closed the business knowing no-one would be any good. Made them come in on the Sunday before to square things.

Eldest said he needed one last beer to make sure he nodded off. Planned to sleep til mid-afternoon.

Not me. 

My sleeping draught is this wonderful fostering thing.

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JARGON IN FOSTERING

 I've talked about this before, but it doesn't go away.

Children coming into care will often be carrying emotional baggage.

It's to be expected that at some point they'll become emotional.

We foster parents come to anticipate that initially a new child will present themselves as 99% at first; but are brewing up their fears and anxieties and all we have to do when the moment arrives is allow them to let off some steam.

It doesn't last long, and when they've let it out they generally repair quickly and it's business as usual.

The thing that irks me, and has down my many years in fostering, is that there's no structured set of terms that we can use to describe a foster child's distress when they hit a bump in the road.

Or a pushback.

The main reason that there needs to be a glossary of terms is because we foster parents are required to write a record of events, and I've never come across a definitive term for a wobbly.

When a foster child finds things all too much - and how could any child fail to be affected by being taken into care? - they get upset. However the desciption "the child became upset" is usually too vague to depict the child's discomfort.

Some years ago a child came to us who was being examined by an eminent clinical psychiatrist (a £600 a day man, so someone told me). He visited our home several times to asses the child and, I suspected, to assess if I was up to fostering a particularly interesting child.

The psychiatrist and I got on like a house on fire. Mind, if you think about it, if a top psychiatrist doesn't know how to click with a fellow human being there's no logic.

The thing I'm on about came up between the psychiatrist and myself one afternoon in my kitchen. We started listing all the words that are used when a foster child finds everything too much.

Such as:

"An episode"

"A tantrum"

"A meltdown"

Being Irish, the psychiatrist threw in a few of his own such as;

"A hooly"

"A bogchroich"

I came back with a couple of English ones such as;

"Threw the toys out of the pram"

The psych rejoined with some medical ones;

"An emotional event"

I countered with;

"Went up the wall"

"Flipped their lid"

We laughed a lot….

The reason I'm bringing this up at this moment is that a new term has surfaced which has the blessing of the professionals. They've embraced it as modern, colourful and a tad medical...

I'll tell it in a moment.

Last evening the young mother of the baby who are with us as a Parent and Child couple found everything a bit much.

She went temporarily elected mute, weeping, and sitting on her bed rocking back and forth.

I knew that her condition would blow over, but it was a situation that dear old Blue Sky are geared up for.

I called their 24-hr Out of Hours service.

Brilliant.

My phone got hot as concerned professionals honed in on events and poured out help, advice and support. You're never alone in fostering.

See, I'd used the new magic word.

When Blue Sky asked me what the problem was I was able to conjure…

"Well, the mother is…overwhelmed."

And everyone got it in one.

Just to round this off; the mother was 100% in the morning and has been more than fine all day. Bought me a bunch of roses and my other half a tub of mixed nuts (his joke is that he likes mixed nuts). 

Moreover her parenting skills continue to develop apace. She Blu-Tacked a weaning chart she'd bought onto the fridge door and is counting down to the day the baby takes his first food.

Thing is; the word "overwhelmed" has different shades of meaning. And what with the roses, the nuts, and the mother's excitement about her baby's impending milestone I felt a bit…

…overwhelmed.

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YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR OWN FAMILY - IN FOSTERING

Just when you think you've experienced all the joys of fostering, along comes a new one.

This is about a piece of wisdom you hear from time to time.

"You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family".

You've heard it too, or some variation - sometimes people say; "You can choose your friends but you can't choose your colleagues". Same ballgown, diffferent ball.

This last weekend delivered a triumphant discovery, namely this;

IN FOSTERING YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR FAMILY, FRIENDS AND COLLEAGUES ALL IN ONE!!!

What happened was this (and I'm able to tell this one near enough like it is).

About 14 years ago we helped with the fostering of a newborn boy. We supported the baby's single mother, and the mother's younger sibling. The fathers were unknown and the mother ended up in prison. The sibling joined us as our foster child and became permanent (Chosen Family). The mother and baby stayed close to us; we'd look after the baby every other weekend to give the mother some time (Chosen Family).

The boy grew up without a father; bonded instead with my other half (Chosen Family).

One of my husband's hobbies is cricket, and at the start of this summer (2026) the boy caught the bug. Out of the blue he independently joined a local cricket club who were in need of young blood and they pitched him straight in at the deep end. 

He was not only named in the starting eleven for the first team…he was down to open the bowling. I know enough about cricket to know that opening the bowling is a singular honour…and they'd never even seen the boy play.

Hardly anyone had seen him play. He only had his first ever game for his school a few weeks ago. Word had spread that he could bowl like the wind. He's only 14 years but getting on six foot, anyone can see he's a whirlwind.

Such excitement! 

There was only one snag; no kit. No bat, no pads, no gloves, no helmet (compulsory these days). And his dear mother (Chosen Family) is on universal credit, struggling to make ends meet, but proud.

The situation called for a massive pull-together.

(Remember, this little piece is all about being able to choose family, friends, and colleagues, and how fostering gives us the opportunity).

My husband called a friend (Friend), an  ex-colleague of his (Colleague), someone he's worked alongside for years who is a cricket nut.

The ex-colleague phoned a bloke he knew (Friend) who had a big bunch of cricket gear in store. It happened that my husband also knew the self-same friend of his ex-colleague because they'd played cricket against each other donkey's years ago and got on (Friends). But hadn't spoken for decades.

Back came the answer "Yes". The bloke could - and would - provide all the gubbins required, packed into a tip-top cricket bag absolutley free, he was glad it was going to a good cause.

We arranged the transport.

The equipment arrived in time, my husband went across the county to watch the boy's debut. The boy proudly showed husband his Newberry bat (apparently the bees knees), the second-hand but top-end gloves, and a helmet that had clearly seen action.

Then came the stinger.

The cricket equipment was personal.

It had belonged to the bloke's son (Family).

My husband sat in the sunshine drinking in the experience. His fostering son (Chosen Family) playing cricket among men wearing cricket stuff blagged from a dear colleague's dear friend who wanted a deserving owner of his son's old kit.

The bloke (200 miles away) spent the afternoon texting my husband at the match to see how the boy was going along.

Friends. Colleagues. Family (fostering family).

The Holy Trinity surely.

Only, I think, in fostering.

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WHEN THE FOSTER CHILD "GETS" THEIR NEW FAMILY'S DYNAMICS

 In fostering, if you stick at it with your foster child you always get somewhere. It can be slow progress, sometimes it takes your Blue Sky social worker to help the foster parent understand that progress is happening.

Occasionally the foster parent doesn't need nudging. It jumps out and bites you.

What happened was this…

Hang on.

A quick bit of background to set the scene.

If you're new to fostering or maybe thinking about signing up it's worth me mentioning that when a child arrives they're a fish out of water. Think about it. New place to live, new home, new people, maybe new school…blimey…who could cope?

Well they do, (mostly). But it must be unimaginably hard. They've not only been abandoned of the familiar things in their lives, but the familiar people. Their mum and dad. Or stepmum or stepdad. Or mum's latest boyfriend and the older sister who does the actual caring (aged eleven). Nightmare stuff, but the nightmare is familiar to them, and nine times out of ten, they long to go back to it.

Instead, without them grasping it, the fact is that they're taken into care for their own safety.

What happened was this…

No, hang on, one extra bit of background. My other half and I have mock arguments for fun, one of which is about the dishwasher. I love the dishwasher, he doesn't. He prefers to wash up after a meal and get the things dried and put away. He says he doesn't like coming down in the morning and have to empty the dishwasher.

My retort is that when he does the washing up there's often smudges on the plates and cutlery.

He comes back that the dishwasher often bakes food bits onto things and they have to be re-washed by hand. 

He says dishwashers are bad for the environment, I say they use less hot water.

We spar about it twice a week. For fun.

What happened was this…

Our latest "placement" ("placement" is fostering-speak for foster kids), have been with us about 8 weeks. A teenage mother and her baby. She's still shy, unsure of herself around a new household, and acts like she thinks she's the cuckoo in the nest.

She's heard our dishwasher 'argument' a good few times.

So. Last Sunday we cooked and ate a traditional Sunday roast, which finished with husband starting to wash up and me starting to load the dishwasher. I told him to sit down and take his turn filling out the spreadsheet for our accounts. (NB, foster parents get reasonable tax breaks on the allowances we recieve, but the Revenue folks still want to make sure we're not Mexican money launderers, so there's paperwork).

He started making ha-ha complaints about how difficult the spreadsheet was.

I called back that if he wanted I could show him how to do a spreadsheet.

He muttered under his breathe that if I wanted he could show me how to wash up.

It was typical banter.

But guess what?

The young mum, readying to take her baby upstairs for bath, heard his mutter and got it. And spluttered a fake suppressed laugh, and went upstairs giggling.

She was in on the family.

When she'd gone out of earshot I said to other half;

"Starting to feel at home isn't she?"

"Yep" he replied, then he went;

"I often wonder what that must feel like…"

Me: "ha ha"

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SQUABBLES BETWEEN CHILDREN

 Settling squabbles between real brothers and sisters is one of parenting's dark arts.

I bet every parent who's had more than one child knows this for a serious fact of life.

When I say it's a 'dark art', what I mean is that the schisms between real siblings run deep and run complicated.

We parents do our best to settle disputes fairly and with justice and kindness;

"After giving this disagreement careful thought I have come to the conclusion that…"

Then there are the occasions when only one phrase will do:

"Because I say so!"

And this is how tricky it can be even when, as a real parent, you know the combatents inside out and understand all the subtleties and nuance.

Now imagine what it's like to be judge and jury of a couple of foster children you scarcely (by comparison) know!

What happened was this;

We've been joined by a Parent and Child; a teenage mother of a baby who's a few months old.

The mother is learning to parent the baby hands-on, all day and night. And doing it well. Her social worker has asked me to free up an hour and a half every day of "me time", for the mother so she can get her breathe. The mother opted to have from 7.30pm until 9.00pm in front of the telly with a can of Cherry Coke and biscuits.

Fine.

But.

We have 2 telly's downstairs; a big one off the kitchen, and a medium one in the living room.

Our eldest foster child has always had first dibs on the big telly after dark because he likes to cook himself fancy late night snacks while watching stuff.

But, in her early days with us, the young mother begged the big telly for herself citing a bunch of complicated reasons including the fact that there are gaps in the living room curtains that made her feel vulnerable.

We fixed the gaps and asked her to use the living room and give the kitchen area back to our eldest foster child.

The first night, the young mum folded, saying that she'd needed to use the kitchen to prepare some formula milk, but had felt scared to ask our eldest foster child if she could come into the kitchen.

A seriously shy young person.

I'd noticed they'd been a bit standoff-ish with each other, daft of me not to clock there was the germ of a rivalry.

I called the two of them together, but, as is so often the case with today's young, they found it hard to talk.

Then…brainwave!

I got them to exchange phone numbers and agree to message each other about comings and goings in the downstairs when they're both downstairs.

So far it's working even better than I imagined. They are tapping away to each other ten to the dozen.  Engaging. Chatting.

I meet countless older people who don't understand what a fantastic tool text messaging and the internet is for empathy and embrace.

They're wrong.

Our kids are right.

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FOSTERING AND…SPIDERS…!

 Boredom is never a problem in fostering. Because you never get any.

I've always hated being bored. I think people should hate being bored. If you're bored it means life is slipping through your fingers, like Abba said.

I love my fostering because it's always interesting, and I sometimes get an unexpected pat on the back.

So, today was a delight.

As I've mentioned previously, we're hosting a Parent and Child placement right now, and as ever in fostering, I'm finding out more and more about the mum and her baby with every passing day.

Every passing night come to think of it, but we'll talk about night feeds another time…

No, see, what's gone down over the last 24 hours is this;

The mother is a mid-teenager, the baby is now 5 months old. They've been with us nearly 3 months. In that time we've learned that the mother has a 'thing' about cleanliness and tidyness - which is cool in the parent of a baby (unless it goes too far, which she doesn't).

She also has a thing about…

SPIDERS!

Oh goodness, does she have a thing about spiders.  For example; she keeps 3 lights on in her bedroom and a torch by the bedside so she can watch out for a spider. Most nights she thinks she sees one and texts me to come deal with it.

What she calls a 'spider' is what we used to call a 'money spider', as in:  if you're visited by one of those microscopic babies money will come your way. They're not even big enough to be called tiny. In fact I doubt they're spiders at all.

We've had a long spell of hot weather and bugs tend to come out, so we get the odd little ladybird and such. But our Parent is beside herself when one appears.

Problem.

Now, in fostering, problems are what it's all about. Or to be precise, solving problems is what it's all about.

I'm a bit squeamish about spiders myself, but I don't let on because that might validate her anguish and make things worse.

So we bought some "Spideraway", a spray to use in your room to keep them out. We checked and double checked that it was safe, and it was. So safe a baby 'spider' came out to stretch it's legs the same night.

Not just spiders BTW, no. Flies, moths, bugs of all types.

Then…brainwave.

We bought her a mosquito net.

It came the same day (Jeff Bezos goes from strength to strength yes?).

And we set it up over her bed.

It's a flimsy structure but it KEEPS BUGS OUT.

So she's happy. 

If nothing else she feels looked-after.

Her solicitor visted and said out loud "We're all enjoying this placement.." (The "we" being the dozen or so professionals entwined in this case).

Know what she said then?

"We don't have too many success stories…"

Our mum and her babs is a "Success".

Result.

A good day in fostering. I felt like rewarding myself. 

With my own mosquito net…!

Seriously, it looks so good, it does what it says on the tin and it only cost thirty quid, there's nothing more annoying in the middle of a summer night than a mozzy buzzing in your ear...

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