Sunday, November 12, 2017


The emergency placements, which I've talked about on the last few posts, were found a home the following afternoon.

Amazing really; social services managed to find a foster parent who could take all three. 

We weren't told much about where they were going, that's normal. I'll come back to that aspect of fostering.

Their new and permanent foster home wasn't perfect; they were a bit too far from their old home but social workers like to keep children who come into care at their regular school for continuity so the school run was going to be a long round trip every day. The family were dog-lovers, big time. Four apparently - too many in my book, the dogs could get the idea the place belongs to them -  but the kids all voiced enthusiasm about dogs (I've always found pets and foster children are a good mix), so good luck to all who sail...etc.

Come about five o'clock in the afternoon a social worker arrived at our house and the business of collecting up their stuff (not very much) and getting them ready for a longish drive went fairly smoothly.

Except for the littlest one who started crying, then sobbing, then wailing. It was one of those cryings where the child is as taken aback by her own tears as everyone else. She was simply sitting bolt upright on a kitchen chair, not rubbing her eyes or holding her face, just crying. Loudly. Staring at the air in front of her face.

Any child crying is awfully hard on the heart; I've been known to leave the supermarket if a child won't stop, it's such a soul-destroying sound. 

It's worst of all for the child of course. And in this case the child was wailing at her plight, railing against the whole world. There was despair in her weeping, it was the stuff of hopelessness, fear and loss.  The little mite had nothing, only the hand-me-downs she was wearing. No parents, no home, no love. No granny and grandad to suddenly show up with mischief and gifts, no pals next door to play with. No corner of a family home to call her own. No toys, no bedtime teddy. 

No nothing.

She was in a strange house surrounded by strangers, about to be shipped across the county by another stranger to another strange house occupied by strangers.

It's witnessing moments like this that leave you in no confusion why there are so many mixed up youngsters (and adults). Why there are so many mental health problems, so much anger and sadness in the world.

And the more I said to her; "There, there. It'll be alright..", the louder she wailed.

All three of them straightened up when the social worker started loading them into the car. The littlest one, bottom lip all atremble managed a look in my direction and returned half a wave, but I knew enough not to be making a meal of it. I resisted the temptation to blow a tiny kiss, instead I came inside and shut the front door.

I made a cup of tea (I always say I spell 'fostering' with a capital Tea) and savoured a momentary relaxation in responsibility and workload. I cupped both hands round the mug and sat at the table. I find that whenever a foster child leaves I start picturing a happy ending for them. It's probably way off the mark, but I imagine them in the sunshine, all grown-up and smiling with a happy family of their own. They have worthwhile jobs and troops of friends, a shiny new car and two holidays a year.

I'm not religious, I haven't got the time, but maybe it's my way of praying.

As I said earlier, we weren't told much about the new home where they were being taken. This is normal and at the same time you never quite get used to it. Foster children you've had in your home and are long-gone suddenly pop into your mind and you float off wondering about them.

Older foster children, nowadays, thanks to Facebook and the rest, often stay in touch, or at least let you see how they're doing. Which is fine as long as you don't interfere. I had a call once from a child who'd returned to her real home (she had my number on her phone from when that was a necessity) to complain about social services not providing her with something or other "that I'd been promised."

I phoned the social worker, meaning well, just to let them know the child had contacted me (and, I hope, get the promised deal). And got slightly short shrift. Which was fair enough. 

Fostering is a professional job, and I'd been behaving like a member of the public.


  1. I look at it from the kids point of view. Id be terrified taken away from my home to live with strangers. It woukd be hard enough once, let alone more than once. Lets hope and pray that they thrive in their next foster home.

  2. Thank you Ally. I agree with your thoughts, and share your hopes.

  3. Wow this one touched a nerve. Totally understand the need for getting things from social workers and seeing it from the child's perspective

  4. Cheers Anon. Happy we are on the same page