A BREAKTHROUGH IS A BREAKTHROUGH

 I'm told there are several categories of foster parents.

Actually there are probably thousands, as in everyone is unique, and there are thousands of fostering folk.

Not enough fostering folk to deal with the demand sadly, but that's another thing.

Each category of foster parents have a lot in common. Resilience, for example. Common sense. Pride in the job.

However there are differences that divvy us up a bit, and, such is human nature, each category feels protective and supportive of their own.

For exampe, carers who deal mainly in respite, or emergency care are drawn to each other at meetings and social events.

My schtick is treating each child as if they're my own, and therefore I'm always on the lookout for encouraging little developments.

When a child comes to me and our family, they are family until they go. 

It doesn't work for other carers, and that's to be respected. We all do a difficult job, and can only use the tools that life has given us.

Example;

One of our current brood of foster kids has a hard time engaging. It's as though she knows she's not much good at empathy, small talk and joshing, all the stuff many take for granted.

It leaves her sad, and us sad too. We know why she feels excluded, it's down to her rotten early homelife,

Anyway, this happened, the kind of breakthrough you live for.

One of our family's friends came for a cup of tea and a chat. She's younger than me, and has a 15 month old baby girl. She brought a wee Christmas present for each of our kids, a nice touch.

So, our hard-to-engage foster child shyly showed up and clearly planned to stay only long enough to be polite, then shoot off back to the safety of her bedroom.

But something happened between the toddler and the foster kid.

The toddler picked up a little plastic ball that had been lying on the floor and threw it across the room. Then the toddler pointed to foster child.

Foster child seemed to feel at ease with the toddler, who wasn't going to try to involve her in an intrusive conversation or patronise her in any way.

Foster child took the cue and went and fetched the ball, then gave it to the toddler. Who promptly threw it across the room then pointed at the foster child again.

This 'game' went on for 20 minutes, unti it was time for my friends to leave.

Foster child followed us out to their car.

When the toddler was strapped into her car seat she could just about reach the side window, and she pressed her hand against it looking for foster child. Who reciprocated, pressing a hand against the outside of the glass.

I remarked, as casually as I could;

"Looks like you've made a friend there."

Foster child said nothing, which is par for the course generally.

Obviously I'm doing cartwheels inside.

Then, to make matters even greater, as the friends drove away, foster child said to me, very softly;

"When are they coming again?"

It's now several days on from this fantastic moment and foster child has clearly made a leap forward, not that most people would notice, but fostering sharpens the senses alright.

I made a note of the event in my record book, as always a tad understated;

"Child X is starting to head in the right direction with social engagement."

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CONTACT - THE TRICKY BIT

 A reader contacted the blog a while back to agree that mealtimes, eating, and food in general seem to be pretty much the constant headache with most children coming into care.

But I find myself right now enmired in the other big one; Contact.

Contact, if you don't know, is a legal requirement. It's a perfectly well-meaning requirement too. 

It's just SO hard to make it work.

And tagged on to the end of every single Contact I've been involved in, is the TRICKY BIT.

Fostering folk, and in our case Blue Sky, beaver away to get the best from it for our children, but it ain't easy.

In a nutshell; a child in care must have contact with a significant other once a week.

Obviously parents head the list, but brothers and sisters are put forward too. Step-parents as well sometimes.

So; the idea is that chidren don't lose touch with their family, because one day, it's always hoped, they can be re-united with them and the bonds won't have been damaged too much.

In practice, Contact throws the child off balance. For a bunch of reasons;

Maybe their parents weren't very nice to them. Maybe the child was left believing that the break-up of the family was her fault. Maybe they're scared to go back at all. Maybe they don't understand why they can't go home with their parents and instead have to go back to a strange house.

Whatever the reasons, I find too often that the child makes progress during the week, then gets taken to Contact and ends up upset, confused and frightened, and the foster parents have to start all over again.

So, here I am now with a child who is transitioning from female to male, and making a damn good job of it. He's sensible, intelligent, self-aware and courageous.

But his father views his son's decision as a personal afront and continues to call him by the female name he was given (by the father), and refer to him as "she".

Nor surprisingly the child (late teens) is upset and hurt. I've heard raised voices (the foster parent is not permitted to be in the room when Contact happens).

Parents and children are often at loggerheads, nothing new there.

But in my view, in this case, the levels of anger and belligerance involved are unacceptable. There is a mediator present, my understanding is that they try to keep things civil, but when I drive him back to our house afterwards he's distraught.

If it was a workplace situation the father would be interviewed about his conduct, perhaps sent for guidance training. But parents and their children aren't colleagues of each other; parents have historically had almost absolute autonomy over their children, and for many it's a heady experience; to have near total control of another.

All the humble foster parent can do is help and support the child, in every way we can.

The TRICKY BIT?

Children coming into care always have issues with their parents, how could they not?

They often aren't aware of half of the issues they have, especially the younger ones.

They might be frightened of their parents, they might be angry with them. They might resent one or other of them. They might even dislike them.

But. And here's the tricky bit. As a foster parent, you have to skirt around being critical of the child's parents.

You can extend every bit of support you can to the child, but you stop short of dissing their mum or dad.

What do you say?

As little as possible.

If you say anything at all, it's usually best to hint at a bit of sympathy for the parents. Maybe "they're going through a rough time" - that sometimes works.

And then get the conversation back to distraction. Put the radio on and let them choose the music. Pull into a petrol station and let them choose a bag of sweets. Ask what movie they want to watch on Saturday, and whether they want pizza or a Maccy D.

Distraction. The foster parent's best friend.

For the record I learned it as a kid getting an injection for something or other. The doctor told me to look away, then she said "I'm going to count to three then I'll put the needle in. Okay?' I nodded. Then she said "All done!" She'd got me so focussed on hearing "One, two three" that she put the needle in and gave me the injection while I was busy steeling myself. I didn't feel a thing.

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WHAT DO FOSTER KIDS MAKE OF US?

 So, gentle reader, how's the housekeeping going?

If you're reading this a hundred years from now (that's one of the many strange things about the internet) you'll need reminding that the end of 2022 was the beginning of an austerity that might end up the worst since the depression of a hundred years before.

No point going over how come, but it's the reason I'm asking the reader of 2022 how their housekeeping is going, what with rocketing prices and declining incomes.

Blue Sky has made a cost-of-living payment to each and every one of their registered foster carers. It's a help, not only with the bills, but also to know that someone out there cares.

In our house yesterday one of our foster children finished an end-of-year exam and was let out early so brought a classmate home to revise. The two of them sat in the little room off the kitchen working on their laptops.

In their coats. 

The heating doesn't come on in our house until 4.00pm. I swear I thought I saw the mist of their breathe. No-one complained. They were revising.

What we foster carers need to be watchful of is the effect of the wider world on our foster kids, all of whom are already bruised and battered by their own smaller world.

Are they aware of the economic crisis, and does it worry them? Our young people know a thing or three about the world we adults have created and are going to bequeath them. They see their inheritance as a dying planet choking itself to death. Dreadful diseases cover the globe, families imprisoned in their own homes. War raging. Not just war; politicians and protesters raging. Workers raging. 

When I go shopping I often look out at people's faces. Dear God, we've become a grim and grizzly lot.

Surely it must get to the young, especially our foster kids, who deserve a bit of peace, and even a bit of hope for a better future?

We're having a chicken for Christmas lunch (if there are any left). First time in my lifetime we're swerving the turkey.

Instead of a pile of presents, we're doing a Secret Santa thing, with a max of two gifts per recipient. The recipient nominates what they want and stick to a budget.

Thankfully we've got a decent plastic tree and aren't topping up the box of decorations like we did previously, every year.

Our smart meter showed £21.87 for the 24 hours of last Saturday, when we have the heating on all day because everyone's in. 

In the UK there are tens of millions of households that have to choose; heat or eat. Households that can only pay the rent or pay their monthly mortgage fee by going without. Food banks are proliferating. 

We watched a perfectly well presented woman in our supermarket buy her shopping, then on her way out go to the tub where people can donate food for food banks. She picked up some tins from it, put them in her bag and shot off. The self-checkout tills are now festooned with cameras and individual TVs above every till so you can watch yourself being recorded and sense you're being scrutinised ed by security. This, I'm told, is because of the sharp incfease in shoplifting. But the thieves aren't crooks, they're people who can't afford food.

So, if you're reading this a hundred years from now let me ask you if the world has learned yet how to balance the books?

Here in 2022 there are over 108,000 children in care.

Do families in 2122 still rip themselves apart (the polite term is they are "chaotic")?

And if they do, does the country rescue the children still?

There's not going to be plenty of plenty in many homes over the coming winter of 2022. By plenty I mean extravagancy and waste; gaudy unecessaries, meaningless trinkets.

Maybe our hearts are better off when we're pitching in together struggling to make ends meet!

The two youngsters sitting together in our back room, revising for their future, buttoned up in their coats, touched my heart.

Their togetherness in austerity as they both strove for a better future was inspirational.

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THE WILD BLUE YONDER

 Ok, there's a lot wrong with this country.

But there's a lot more that's right with the UK, only it doesn't make the headlines.

Take, for example, the way the state cares for looked after children when their time in fostering comes to an end.

18 years of age is not grown-up enough to head out and try for a job, accomodation, and all the paraphanalia that amounts to independence.

No matter how a looked-after child has matured in fostering, it would be a disaster to send them on their way.

So. We don't. Not here anyway, I don't know what they do in other countries, but in the UK the young person is coached through the various processes such as job-seeking, flat finding, and all the paperwork that needs attending to in order for them not to end up in a shop doorway.

One fostering friend of mine has a child coming up to 18. She's been telling me about the fantastic things that are in place to help and support the young child.

First off; he doesn't have to leave fostering. His status changes slightly, but if he wants to stay, and the family want him; he does. His call.

If he stays he'll have access to some savings that have been made for him by the local authority, Blue Sky and us. It's not huge, but it's not chickenfeed either, maybe around £5,000.

The local authority step back from their role as the ultimate guardians of the child, and are replaced by a Personal Associate. My friend has met her, and she's perfect; she knows all about the system, and got the young person's confidence instantly.

If the young person makes it to Uni, his PA stays in touch. He'll still have a bedroom in his foster home he can fall back on. If and when he leaves education he'll be entitled to an LA flat at a good rent (£400-£600 pm).

He stays under the wing of the LA  until he's 25. 

And on his 25th birthday, if he wants, he'll have the right to buy his flat.

This young person is a gem. He's recovered from a really unpleasant early childhood, and is determined to make the best of the rest of his life.

But, my friend says, when the local authority and Blue Sky got together around her kitchen table to lay out the plans for him, she says he was absolutely made up.

The sense that one is not alone, and that a whole bunch of good people are on your side takes a lot of beating.

Good for them, and here's to fostering the UK way.

Nobody does it better.

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THE INSPECTOR CALLS

 When caring for a youngster with a standout issue it's easy to forget the whole person.

I've found that fostering a young man who is transitioning is demanding, but not so demanding as I would have imagined prior to taking it on.

The whole business is inspiring and enlightening.

The biggest downside is, and I'm being absolutley honest here; the mountain of paperwordk and bureaucratic hokum that stands in the way.

I KNOW that people create fake identities to commit scams, I KNOW that false passports are worth their weight in heroin. I know safeguards have to be in place against those crimes.

But I'm getting the impression that big organisations such as the NHS wish transitioning would go away. Many in doctoring resist the idea of a person having the right to be who THEY want to be. Many in the medical profession would prefer to stick to the system devised back when we lived in caves with the midwife having a peek down below within seconds of a person being born and making the decision for them that they'll be stuck with for life; "It's a girl!" 

Hey, it worked  just fine for thousands of years!

Did it though? Did it?

Our kid is great, he's just fantastic.

In fostering there are countless ways and means for the foster parents to get onside with the child. We have to remember we'll never replace the real parents in the chid's life, we don't want that anyway. But we have the obligation to act as a full-on suurrogate parent and that can lead us to hope, somewhere in our heart, that they regard us as proper stand-in 'mum' and/or 'dad'. They don't. Ever. At least not fully. It's a physical impossibility.

But. If we stay alert there are loads of ways into their heart. Reference; the skateboarding ad for John Lewis.

In the case of our tranitionsing boy, it's his very tranitioning that's bringing us close.

Teenagers don't chat much except to each other. They keep their own council from their own parents, never mind foster parents. But our lad enjoys frequent unschduled natters, mainly with me. 

And it's his transitoning that's the glue that bonds us. He is quietly made up that not only do I get it, I'm right there fighting for him every inch of the way.

However my fantastic Blue Sky social worker shows up for our regular supervision sessions and reminds me there's more to everybody than one issue, even if that issue is huge.

So I'm asked about his diet, his sleeping and his friends. We talk about his general moods and school life. We   duscuss his favourite bands, what TV he watches, how much time he's on his phone, and how we monitor his social life to ensure his safety without imposing unwanted  intrusion.

After each session I'm refreshed, and go looking for opportunities to broaden my lovely chats with him into other areas - being carful not to seem to be snooping.

Earlier this week we were talking about his thoughts on surgery. He wears a special piece of clothing across his chest which is obviously uncomfortable, and was a right problem during the hottest days of summer. As we chatted he was messaging somebody on his phone. When he finished and put his phone down I asked;

"How your phone holding up? They don't last forever."

He naturally warmed to this subject, in  no small part because he could sense the slenderest of chances he might end up with a Galaxy Supernova or whatever the latest gung ho phone is called.

As we discussed the various problems with his current phone I dropped the subject of Twitter in, by asking if  he thought Elon Musk would be good for it. He replied that he didn't know, or care. Reason being that he didn't bother with Twitter any more, Twitter is for old people. Nor did he bother with Facebook; same reason.

I was nosing around using the tectic those black and white TV detectives used to quiz people. Act like you're only vaguely interested but keep the conversation connected to what you need to discover.

I told him I guessed that Instagram was behind the times as well. I was correct.

Next bit; how to ask what social media he uses? One way or another I got out of him that What's App is still fairly cool ( I suspect because it's encrypted at both ends), but that the new kid on the block is Mastodon (I think that's the name). It's not only new and growing, it's got a number of features that Twitter doesn't. For one it's not owned by anybody. Second you can pick groups that are properly moderated, and inevitably it starts to build a picture of your likes and dislikes and starts recommending groups you might like. Lastly, and most importantly, he said, it's not stuffed with naff ads. To pay for the servers some groups ask for small donations.

I got the lowdown I needed as his carer, plus we bonded as two equals discussing an issue. An issue other than transitioning. A discussion which left him feeling empowered and appreciated because he was the authority.

I didn't do what Colombo used to do which was to head for the door then turn and go;

"Oh, there was just one little thing…"

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FOOD PROBLEM SOLVING

 The reason food is a big deal for children coming into care is pretty simple.

After the basics of air and water, food is the next most important thing.

Children of all shapes and sizes are brought into care for all manner of reasons, but there are some common factors.

We had a girl stay with us, her father was starting a ten-year prison sentence for what he did to the girl's older sister. The father and the mother were both profoundly deaf and had learning difficulties. Social workers discovered that they had a cooker in the kitchen with four hobs, an oven and an overhead grill, which had never been used, not once in 10 years. They only ate take-away, which they sometimes re-heated in the microwave.

We had another girl, a mother and baby (it's now called parent and child). This girl was a sofa-surfer. Thrown out by her mother on her 16th birthday (her child benefit was stopped so she was no use to the mother). She had only ever been served deep fried food. The mother had a deep fat fryer in the kitchen and everything - every single meal - was dropped into this vat of oil for 5 minutes. Since being chucked out of her own home the girl had come to rely on what she called 'ding meals'. A ding meal is a readymade meal or a pasty or a suasage roll, cooked in the microwave.

An eight-year-old boy was expected to cater for himself, so he lived on biscuits and crisps. But he'd creep downstairs early in the morning if his mother had used takeaways the night before because she always left the boxes and wrappers scattered around when she went to bed, and he might find some leftover chips or a half eaten burger. Pizza crusts were his favourite food.

And on I could go.

The only chid we ever had who was used to a proper diet was a lad who had been in foster care for several years. There'd been some sort of incident at his foster home, caused by a jealous relative of the carer, meaning he had to come stay with us while it was investigated. His carer was a wonderful ex-army officer, who knew how to serve up meat and two veg.

So the job is to wean them off bad practice, and feed their body and soul.

You have to work out ways to get them to like three cooked sit-down meals at weekends and a pre-packed lunch or school meal on weekdays, bookended by a sit-down breakfast and tea.

Luckily, the first few weeks after they arrive is the traditional 'honeymoon' period where they lack the confidence and trust in our response to rebel.

I find pasta and Dolmio a godsend, to them it's almost a fast food. I serve home-made pizza and bear the inevitable unfavourable comparisons to Dominos. My pizza's have hidden vegetables beneath the cheese. Sausages and chips work well, the vegetable needs to be baked beans, but you can try sweetcorn or a wee side salad.

I never dish up their plate for them. I put the food on the table in bowls and they're free to spoon whichever ingredients they want onto their plate. This goes down really well.All foster chidren, and I do mean all, love a bit of control.

My proudest trick is to put a bowl of fruit in their room and tell them it's theirs. The banana and handful of grapes go first then the apple. I don't put an orange in any more; they often don't know what it is or how to eat it.

Do I ever serve them rubbish? Of course! That what weekends are for. Depending on the age of the child, fish and chips or sausage and chips is the regular Friday night treat, and if Saturday night is a Disney animation it's Dominos.

Sunday lunch is Sunday lunch. A roast, green beans and carrots and of course roast potatoes. As long as there's a bucket of Bisto gravy it gets eaten, especially as it's the one meal where I serve a dessert. Nothing fancier than a big spoonful of vanilla or cholcolate ice cream, and there's never EVER any threat of "Finish your main plate or there's no pudding."

Snacks between meals need thought. I keep cans of diet coke at the back of the top shelf in the fridge, and they're for earned treats and emergencies. There are also crisps and biscuits, but I try to steer them onto rice cakes and a banana. The snack urge is most prevalent on coming home from school. I get my retaliation in first "Tea is at  half past five, would you like me to make you something to hold you?" If I get a yes, it's marmite or peanut butter toast.

At weekends they'll often try for a biscuit or crisps out of sheer boredom, I find that keeping them busy helps with those hunger pains.

If the foster mum or dad gets the battle of wits right, the child feels a) a new confidence that food is not being controlled by someone unreliable or sudden b) their sugar and carb intakes level out c) their growing bodies breathe a sigh of relief.

One thing worth adding; the fostering food bill is on the up. What with the economic situation we're all facing we're using up every scrap of food. Leftover meals and mysterious soups are regulars on our menu and we're hunting the best deals for takeaways, while also reducing the number of them. One last thing; we're cutting down on meat. We've found that by varying the pasta shapes and sauces it can be served three or four times a week. My current lot prefer green pesto to Dolmio, and are happy with spaghetti and grated cheese plus an egg stirred in so long as you announce its "Spaghetti Carbonara".

And let them skip washing-up duties, especially if it's 'spaghetti carbonara'. No-one wants to wash up a cheese grater clogged full of cheddar.

Next time; budgeting Christmas in fostering.

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THAT JOHN LEWIS CHRISTMAS AD

 Congratulations to the big shops that decided to hold back on the usual Christmas ads featuring vast banquets of luxury food. 

Not all did, and the ones that went the traditional way have ended up with egg on their face. Or maybe egg nog.

This Christmas is going to be an exercise in careful budgeting for millions.

We had a tight Christmas one year a while back. Other half had worked for a firm for a year on a promise of a share in the big payday they were planning. It didn't happen. We ended up raiding the coin pot in the kitchen to do our Christmas supermarket run.

Plus, we decided against stockings for the kids. But one lunchtime I weakened and went to one of our high street charity shops to see if I could get some decent knick-knacks for 50p. True story; guess who was in the same shop with the same idea; aforementioned other half.

So well done the likes of Tesco, toning down the notion of a ten-day blow-out and hang the expense.

Especially well done to John Lewis.

Now, I don't shop much in John Lewis. I find it a bit upmarket for my needs in there; all fancy linens and glassware. Not the stuff of foster homes. But they've absolutely nailed it with their fostering-themed Christmas ad.

I won't spoil it. But I cried out loud even before I'd seen it when I read a review of the thing.

It's about putting kindness above everything else at Christmas. 

It's 90 seconds long, and the first minute is a mystery. You wonder; "Why is this middle aged bloke doing what he's doing, out in the street, 'til it gets dark?"

Then you get the answer. 

It's a proper tear-jerker, a credit to the job of work they're applauding.

Us fostering bods.

Also a credit to John Lewis, who've led the way in Christmas ads for decades.

This one's their best.

Almost enought to tempt me to nip into a JL and pick up a couple of champagne flutes to toast their health. But not quite, not yet, not 'til the boat comes in.

Meantime everyone in fostering; the colleagues, the carers and the kids, we wish John Lewis a Happy Christmas.

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GAMES PEOPLE PLAY

Forgive me, I'm having a bit of a rant.

 Transitioning from female to male is challenging enough, our newest and eldest foster child is doing it, and he (he chooses to identify as 'he') is a hero. His heroism includes his courage in the face of politicians and newspapers who are whipping up protest about the process, all for their personal gain.

Twas ever thus…

I'm forever shaking my head about pople who know less than nothing (by which I mean the things that they think they know are untrue), and enjoy using them to stop other people, who they've never met, doing what they choose to do with their own lives.

They keep banging on that they're "Only trying to help"

At one Blue Sky training session we talked about people's behaviour towards others. We heard about a psychologist called Eric Berne who'd spent much of his time researching why people behave towards others in ways they themselves don't understand. 

He called his book "Transactional Analysis". It sold 3000 copies. A few years later he tweaked the writing and called it "Games People Play" and it sold 300,000 copies.

That's what you call a good psychologist.

His basic belief is that people spend most of their time trying to get the better of others. It sounds rotten of us, but he points out that way back in history early men and women needed to be top dog to get the mate they wanted. So there'd be lots of squabbling and fighting going on.

Now that we're civilised we have to find other ways to feel we've bested someone, but the behaviour is just as persistent as when we lived in caves.

What Eric Berne did was to identify different ways in which people go about besting others, and put them into categories. You'll recognise people you know in a minute.

Might even spot yourself…

One category - and I had a colleague who did this all the time - is called "Why Don't You? Yes but.."

What she would do is tell colleagues about a problem she had and ask for their help/advice. But she always had an answer for why none of the suggestions could work. Example;

Her: "I'm going to struggle to get in for 9.30 tomorrow. My car has to go in for new brakes and the garage doesn't open until 9.00"

Us: "Could you leave your car outside the garage and put the keys through the letter box?"

Her; "Yes, but there's no parking in the street"

Us: "Could you drop your car off at the garage tonight on your way home?"

Her; "Yes but I don't finish here until 5.00 and the garage closes at 4.30"

It would go until we ran out of ideas, then we'd say;

Us: "Gosh, you really do have a problem."

And she'd smile a triumphant grin and say;

Her; "Yes!" and go happily on her way, having bested us.

Eric Berne identified about a dozen common strategies that people use day in, day out, to feel on top.

Others include "Wooden Leg". In Wooden Leg the person habitually says to their family, friends and colleagues "What do you expect from someone with a wooden leg/unhappy childhood/dependent mother/eating disorder etc". Sometimes children in care play this one.

The game that's being played by politicians and press who are making capital denouncing trans people is called "I'm Only Trying To Help You".

In this game the player pretends they're being helpful while they're actually doing the opposite. They know deep down that if they persist in giving bad 'help' the victim's situation will deteriorate and they'll need more 'help'. Appearing 'helpful' makes the player look good and caring. The more 'help' the victim needs the worse their situation becomes.

If and when a trans person comes a cropper 'helpers' can single that person out and claim it as a victory for those who tried to 'help' and weren't heeded.

Oh and by the way…

The Game played by good foster carers is called "Busman's Holiday". An example of Busman's Holiday is the ear-nose and throat doctor who spends his two week holiday doing voluntary work in a Rwandan hospital. He returns to work more refreshed and with better stories than if he'd hung out on a beach in the Maldives.

We're friends with a couple who have several holidays a year. They're always playing golf, spending the weekend in the Cotswolds, throwing dinner parties. And are, to be honest, a bit lost in life, and miserable. I don't go any further than our front gate any more, I've nothing to 'get away from'.

I'm happy with my lot.

I foster.

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GO FIGURE

 Yes, there is quite a bit of paperwork involved in fostering.

And yes, fostering folk have to attend quite a lot of training sessions.

Home visits by social workers, though always enjoyable, are nevertheless time-consuming and demanding. When I say 'demanding' I guess I mean you have to keep your concentration up for the entire 2 or 3 hours. Yup, they don't show up for a five minute cup of tea,

I'm flagging this up mainly for anyone thinking of becoming a foster parent. 

Fostering is a fantastic vocation; there's nothing like it - but you have to be realistic about it. Fostering is hard graft, and fostering folk need to be at the top of their game 24/7.

Then there is the child.

Or in our case, children (we have multiple placements at this time).

Don't be under any illusions, children who are taken into care and need a foster home have all got harrowing stories, and are almost all affected by the things that have happened around them before they were removed from their real parents.

If it weren't for the intervention of social services who knows how screwed up the children might become, or how much of a drain on others and society in general.

And yet…

Today I visited a neighbour and shared a cup of tea, He's aged 89 and almost blind, plus his left knee is permanently painful and gives out without warning so he's borderline housebound. He lost his wife some nine or ten years ago. 

He doesn't care much for talking about himself, he prefers talking about his children and grandchildren and the world in general. This is always a sign of a well arranged mind.

And he is more than just well organised mentally; he's not merely bright he's loving and kind, generous to a T, and always ultra-courteous.

In fact, I don't think I've ever known a more exemplary person.

But today I found out more about his early years which left me agog as to how he turned out to be such a fine man, a pillar of society, a wonderful husband and father. A model human being.

His childhood was a catalogue of neglect and abuse.

When he was a small boy the war was on. His mother had left his father, who he never met, and was shacked up with a waster; a savage drinker and flake. 

She was a two-bit actress, touring the UK with a flea-circus theatre troupe putting on tacky plays up and down the country. Her partner was a musician who was attached to the cortege largely to facilitate a supply of booze. This bloke and my friend's mother lived life zig-zagging the country in a haze of fantasy in which they were glorious stars of the stage. They would dress up in stage clothes to go out the shop and pick up fags and gin and lord it over the provincial oiks. 

Madness.

My neighbour/friend from his earliest age had to tag along. Throughout the war he never went to school, or was in any place long enough to make one single friend. He'd be on a stern warning not to talk to anyone or reveal anything of his life. The travelling actors would perform at night, then go back to their digs and drink and delude themselves they were stars and that Hollywood was about to beckon. They'd sleep away the daytime, and he'd be kicked out into the street to wander around and entertain himself. Whether he was in Rochdale or Glasgow, Southport or Chatham, he'd skulk around trying not to look like catnip for the truant-catcher (yes, they existed!). He was on a big warning not to alert the authorities about his circumstances.

His tale gets worse.

Over our second cup of tea he told me about the other half of his life as a child, the half that was even worse than his solitary life on the road.

His mother was always trying to dump him and go off.

When she got fed up with his presence she'd put the word out around town to find a family who'd take a boy in. There were plenty of takers back then. She'd pay them a small fee for 'looking after' her child so she could swan around the country unencumbered. And the people who took him in could treat him however they liked.

He was never sent to school because of the danger that the authorities might wonder who he was and that the game would be up. Instead the families put him to work.

Aged eight his day job was to scour the beach looking for driftwood to fuel the family fire. His evening work included walking right across town to make the payment for the family's pools coupon.

He found himself derided by the family's real children for being a skiver and a waste of food.

Not that there was much food; provisions were rationed and he generally ate leftovers, of which sometimes there were none.

His mother abandoned him six times in this way. He might be an old man now, but he remembers each abandonment with heart-rending clarity.

On one occasion she left him with a family she'd stayed with for just one night - the night before - and he didn't see her again for a whole year.

My tea got cold and went off, his story was so compelling.

And when he was done telling it, he apologised for hogging the conversation and asked me if I wanted a piece of cake then asked me how my curious family were doing. What's more, he really wanted to know. He's frail now, but still generous and kind, and caring about everyone, even people he's not met.

I told him that if he had been a child living now he'd have been taken into care like a shot.

And yet; would he have been a better person for it? How could he be a better person? He's close to perfection.

I guess if there's a point to my thinking about him a lot this evening it's that fostering helps kids, but if the basic building blocks of a decent human being are in there all you have to do is gently fan the flame.

Almost every kid we've had come and stay under our roof has been a hero one way or another.

But the question of what makes a person entire is beyond me, so I decided a while back not to spend too much time trying to understand the matter when there are potatoes to peel and beds to change.

Spuds and duvets; the grit of fostering. Yet something else is afoot and amen to whatever it is.

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MIND YOUR LANGUAGE

 Ok so the complexities of fostering a transitioning child.

Try this one.

Before you do, can I make one thing crystal clear. I love this work to bits and am uplifted each and every day by the fun and joy of helping these kids on their way.

So;

He wanted a lift to school, which he didn't need as he has a bus pass, but he gets nervous if the bus driver says or does anything with him he might interpret wrong, as he's highly sensitive about being misconcieved as female. Doesn't want to hear 'Luv' or 'Darlin', things people say innocently but unthinkingly.

No problem, I drive him in.

Happy to enjoy his company.

Only this particular morning he's fuming. We set off and he's straight into his anger;

"Why did you call me 'her' just now?"

Me; "What? I never did!"

"You friggin' did! I hate it when you do that. Don't you realise what I'm going through?"

"What are you on about? I never called you 'her'"

"Yes you did. I heard you. You said to dad 'I'm going to take Tyler down to school and then go on to Tesco and get her some tea."

"I never said that!"

"Yes you did. I heard you. You didn't know I was in the hall. So yeah, you still think I'm a girl."

OK I could spin the argument out as long as it took, but it boiled down to this;

I'd said to my other half, standing in the kitchen;

"I'll take Tyler to school and then go to Tesco and get us some tea."

Say it to yourself.

If the 's' sounds of 'us' and 'some' fuse together, like they can do when we speak, it could easily sound like "get her some tea."

I had to fight my corner all the way to the school gates.

I argued that I've never had to go to the supermarket for one individual family member so the words "he" or "she" have never featured; only "us".

No dice Chicago.

All I could do was implore that I only, ever, totally, saw him and see him as who he knows he is.

He got out of the car crying quietly.

I sent him a text from the fruit aisle saying sorry I got upset.

I got a reply over by the wine section saying he was sorry too. 

Come tea time all forgotten, that is, no further argument.

Going to be watching and listening for other difficulties.

And going to be careful with words in future. 

No, going to be ultra-careful.

If a job's worth doing it's worth doing well.

There's no job more worth doing than fostering.

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IT'S THE MOST COMPLICATED TIME OF THEY YEAR...

 In fostering it's never too early to start thinking about Christmas.

It's eleven weeks away, but Sky have already got their Christmas Movies channel up and running.

We fostering folk have to start thinking about how it's going to work for us because, unless you have the same children as the Christmas before, every Christmas is very different.

And Blue Sky have kicked the conversation off with their Carers, asking if the looked-after children have talked about it to them, and if they haven't we should maybe start getting some information. We could try asking questions such as;

"What was your last Christmas like?"

Unless you know otherwise it's best not to ask questions such as;

"What did you get for Christmas last year?", because some children got nothing. Unbelievably, one child we had for a Christmas had never recieved a present in their life, and parroted what they had heard as the reason, namely that Christmas is "Too expensive."

So, first off, you have to tread warily.

The information you need is all about understanding their expectations. For children who have regular contact with their parents/significant others we fosterers have to gather clues as to who they want to spend Christmas with, and for how long. 

Often you get situations where the child's real parents live separately, and you find their preference determined by which of their parents new partners they dislike the least.

The chidren don't get to make the final decisions, because the Social Workers may know more than they do about the domestic scenarios at their home.

I've mentioned it before, but it's more true now than ever; households that are vulnerable to chaos are more likely to have a breakdown over Christmas than at any other time of the year. Families are jammed together, there's booze aplenty and old tensions re-surface.

The children must not get caught in the crossfire.

Then there are other factors, such as the importance that your own family has the Christmas they want too.

Which can mean all sorts of complications, because if you come from a big family the business of who goes to who's for Christmas dinner is often ridiculously over-important to some family members.

Other complications; do you spend the same amount on presents for your foster child as you spent on your own when they were the same age? After all, the foster children will get presents from their own family too (hopefully).

Then there's the simple fact that some families are toning down the whole Christmas hoo-hah, sometimes because it IS too expensive, or else it's just a load of work for next-to-nothing. 

Then there's this; we live in a wonderfully diverse country.

At my first Blue Sky Christmas lunch there we all were sat at long tables. 

I got talking to the young couple oppisite, who I'd pulled crackers with. We'd put on those silly paper hats and told each other the feeble jokes. There was wine, but they didn't touch it. 

I asked them how they'd spend Christmas day and they replied:

"Well, we're Muslim. If we don't have a placement it'll be just another Tuesday in our house. But if we have a placement and they are going to be with us on Christmas Day, and Christmas matters to them, we're going to do all the traditions and trimming. Decorations, tree, presents, turkey."

"Flippin' heck!" I said, "You're going the whole hog?!"

"No." they laughed, "We're Muslim, we will draw the line at hog…"

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SURPRISE!

 I'm not as pre-occupied with out new child's transitioning as might come across, but it's such a huge new thing for me it's in my mind all the time.

But everything else goes on in the fostering world in our house. Some of it like clockwork, most of it not.

If there's one thing that fostering brings to a household for which there's no getting round, it's that the normal rhythm of a house is all to pot.

Normally, one knows everyone in the house, and has done since birth. You know your partner, if you have one, and you have been alongside your own childrem, if you have any, since they popped out.

That's not to say there are no surprises, but the fact that something may come as a surprise is a surprise. But in fostering surprises come along all the time. It would be a surprise if there were no surprises.

I remember the first time a child ran away. He had only been with us two days and we took him into town on a Saturday morning as we were doing some mild shopping. 

On the way back to our car we had to cross a large patch of open green which belonged to the local college who'd layed it out for sport. It was a big bit of territory; three or four rugby pitches. We'd used the park and ride facility on arrival, but decided to walk back to the car as the queue for the bus was long.

We got to the field and started to walk across, but almost immediately the lad started to get fidgety.

He was aged eight and had been taken into care because his mum couldn't handle him, and a large part of his problem was that she didn't try. She simply locked him up. She'd bolted a hasp onto the outside of his bedroom door and padlocked him in.

Every evening she'd lock him up and go out hunting for men and fun and booze and whatever. And left him imprisoned.

So, we're not a few yards onto the open space when he ran for it.

Yep, he just raced away. 

What can you do? 

I'm no athlete, nor is my other half. I told him to stay with the other kids, I'd try to keep track of the boy. So, listen, I'm not legging it like Sebastian Coe here, I'm just trotting, trying to keep him in sight.

My mind is teeming with what to do. Do I use my phone to tell Blue Sky I've got a child on the run? Do I call the police? 

The best bit of advice I ever took about fostering came from an old hand at Blue Sky who said "Whatever, just use your common sense."

Obviously there are times when you have to do what the handbook says you have to do. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred it's not clear cut. That's when it's down to you to decide.

So, I figured, no-one was in any danger. He hadn't actually gone missing even though it felt like that was beginning to happen. What if he did disappear/ How long should I wait before I called for support?

By this time he's away across the field and gone in among seome outbuildings that turned out to be student accomodation units.

It took me four or five minutes to get there. When I did there was no sign of him, so I prowled around just in case he was lurking. 

In the end I gave up and started to walk back to the others. No sooner did I do that than he appeared.

He'd been shadowing me around the outbuildings. Enjoying his moment.

Of freedom.

I asked him about it and he threw back his head with a massive grin and gurgled "I just felt FREE!!!"

After that I often took him out into the countryside to let him enjoy space.

And freedom.

He brought several surprises, this lad.

For one, he brought on one of my earliest connections between the damage done to children and the outcomes in their behaviour.

For two he helped me position my fostering so that I worried the right amount. I began understanding that mostly things work out okay if you allow kids to explore as they feel impelled to, and discover things for themselves rather than be told.

For three I bumped into him a while back in the street, pushing a pushchair. 

He'd done alright.

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WHAT'S IN A NAME?

 Much focus in our house at this time remains on the programme of transitioning that our recent arrival is undergoing.

In fostering it's a good idea to expect the unexpected, and for sure things keep coming out of the woodwork that are new to me, and frankly new also to the various professionals connected to the child. 

His school are great; they have a communal bathroom with nothing but cubicles, which he uses. But around town he has to plan his toiletting carefully as he's cautious about using "Gents". Luckily there are some individual cummunal cubicles in the car park behind the high street which are for males, females, wheelchairs and mothers and babies. And him. This problem had never ocurred to me before.

Similarly he tends to avoid school trips in case he's embarrased. He's ok at gatherings and parties because a) people go to the loo alone anyway b) his social circle know about his trans-ing and are cool.

He's opening up more and more with us about his decision. Actually it was no more a 'decision' to transit than any of us make a 'decision' about our height or the colour of our eyes. We're born that way, and he's as much a male rather than female as anyone else is black rather than white, or blonde haired rather than dark. He knows this, he's helped me understand this.

Tell you who struggles with the thing; beaurocracy. He needs all sorts of organisations to recognise his new name and impending new gender. We're having to change his bank account, his NHS details, his passport. We're having to change his school records so that his exam certificates are in his new name.

Then there's the question of who is responsible for overseeing all this paperwork.

It got complicated with lots of to-ing and fro-ing of "We'll contact so-and-so, can someone else write to the other lot?" So I put up my hand and did the dread thing; I volunteered to co-ordinate.

Anyone who's worked for a medium to big employer knows that volunteering to 'co-ordinate' people amounts to volunteering to do the whole lot yourself. And that's pretty much where I am.

I could write a War and Peace length blog on how the passport officeisn't anywhere near up to speed on people who want a new name. I understand that they have to be on the lookout for people wanting false identities for money laundering and all sorts. So they request all sorts of verification and they're not sure what they want or who they want it from. Then there's the problem that they're all working from home these days, and some people use that as an excuse for not getting things done, as in "I have been unable to get this signed off due to Covid restrictions".

Elsewhere I was rebuffed by one civil servant/pen pusher because I "Wasn't a professional". Hah! That one makes me spit blood; I'm professional to my bootstraps. I'm the lad's current parent to boot!

A big part of his needs has to do with how he's percieved. He's petrified that if his name is his old female name on his GP's records when he goes to the doctor they'll call that name out and he'll have to walk through a full waiting room of people wondering why he has short hair and wears trousers. So it's important.

Similarly I had to take issue with his dentist, who, when I accompanied him for a check up, asked me "Are you her grannie?" TWO big no-no's right there in four short words. Shame on them. This kind of jumping to lazy conclusions is thoughtless, stupid, needless and just plain wrong.

Still, that's some professionals for you.

The lad dosen't go out of his way to thank me or anything for my efforts, and I'm not looking for that anyway. It's just a matter of doing the right things for the right reasons, the right reasons being it meets his needs, and fostering is about nothing if it's not about meeting each child's needs.

Whatever those needs are.

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HANDLING DEATH WITH FOSTER CHILDREN

 When you foster you are acting in loco parentis. Looking after someone else's children. Teachers do it all day, but hand the children back to their real parents when the bell goes. We are 24/7.

Latin isn't my strong point, but it's a term that stays in my mind partly because the loco bit hints at the crazyness of fully parenting someone else's child, although that's not the intention in this phrase.

Parenting one's own child can be daunting enough, but at least youknow where your child has come from in kife and where she's got to along the wat, because you've been with them every step.

Not so with a foster child. You've no way of knowing their full set of experiences to date, so you don't know where thet are at with various moral things, or the birds and the bees.

Or issues such as the Royal family.

Or death.

So; it's been an interesting week coping with the various emotions and feelings that the passing of the Queen has generated.

See, I've mentioned this somewhat shocking incident from my childhood before, but it's very relevant so I'll run over it again.

The death of the Queen is the biggest such passing in the UK since the death of Winston Churchill. I remember that Churchill's failing health became the focus of the nation during the final hours of his decline. The country knew what was coming, and the TV channels all had hourly updates on his condidtion. They all ended with the solemn promise that;

"There will be another bulletin in an hour."

These bulletins continued all day.

Eventually my youngest brother, who was about 5 or 6 years old at the time, burst into tears.

"Of course he's dying!" he sobbed "They keep putting another bullet in him every hour!"

I was only 12 or so at the time myself, and I learned a big lesson. Kids misunderstand, they misinterpret.

A public death can lead to all sorts of private turmoil, especially with the English knack of not talking about things.

That knack extends to many children in care. They often prefer not to talk, maybe because they used to have to keep a low profile in the house.

I had one child stay with us who hadn't had a meal prepared by anyone other than herself as far back as she coud remember, that was how invisible she'd learned to make herself. She was eight when social services learned of her.

When such poor interaction is constant, misunderstandings can grow into towering misconceptions. Take conception itself; a parent and child who stayed with us, the parent believed that if you ate ice cream during pregnancy your baby would be born blue. Someone had heard and misunderstood the term 'blue baby' and attached it to something they thought they knew about; ice cream, rather than ask around and find out about low oxygen levels in babies.

So; the death of the monarch provides fostering folk with an opportunity to help children with one of life's big challenges, namely finding a place for death in our lives.

I'm writing during the lull between the Queen's passing and her funeral. Every newspaper front page, every news bulletin, it's everywhere. There was no football last Saturday, ITV took down all comedy programmes, there was no escaping gun salutes, black armbands and black ties.

Hmmm. How to play this one so that it not only doesn't upset the children of other people who we happen to be caring for, but moreover help them find a good place for it.

First off, I tried to identify my own attitude; the Queen was a very decent person, from what one gathers. She worked her socks off. She loved horses and dogs. She had a sense of humour.

Finding my own perspective wasn't going too well to be honest. All the above I believe, but couldn't get a handle on the whole thing.

Then I read a newspaper article in which a celebrity said that meeting the Queen was "like talking to your mum"

And it all fell into place.

I told the children the reason she was loved and will be missed is because she was a mum. We all miss mum when she's not around.

The Queen was mum and gran to a family that were a bit all over the place (to put it mildly). 

You can see how this line chimed with foster children.

The Queen's loved ones had messed-up marriages, squabbled with each other, one even had the police wondering about their behaviour. 

But she never gave up on them, always stood by them, understood their problems even if she coudn't solve them for them.

I hope (but it's early days yet) that this line of explanation as to the affection for the Queen bears fruit in the relationship between the children I'm caring for at the moment, and their loved ones.

No-one is here for ever, enjoy who you have while you can.

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"SOCIAL WORKER"? MORE LIKE "SUPER PAL"

 We've had a change of our Blue Sky social worker, a temporary change, but quite a lengthy one.

Maternity and all that! Congratulations to our regular social worker and her partner, and their new baby.

I struggle to find words that are adequate to praise the people that Blue Sky send out to help and support us.

So; while our regular SW was away we were provided with a new one.

A new SW can be a big change, your lifeline is hugely important. The person you get is a big part of your whole life, not merely your fostering.

There are many people who are 'thinking' about giving fostering a go.

I remember our trepidation about taking the plunge, but, as it was something I'd identified as being kind of on my bucket list, I overcame nerves and doubts and, one morning, sitting at our kitchen table, I googled 'fostering near me' and Blue Sky came up, so I picked up the cordless and dialed.

It was such a moment that I still have a flashbulb memory of all those years ago waiting for someone to pick up.

Now that I'm a grizzled veteran of this amazing profession, I feel the need to toot the horn of the social workers who have become the cornerstone of our lives - all of my family, not just me.

Fostering is, for most of us, a leap into the unknown. Not entirely unknown; most of us have experience of family life (it's not essential; singles are among the best fosterers I  know). Equally most of us  have had children of our own (again, not a deal-breaker; one of the most brilliant foster mums I've ever met had no kids). And on top of those experiences, every single one of us was once a child, and we can draw on that enormous experience to build understanding of the young people who arrive at our door.

But it's still a leap into the unknown.

Mind, so's taking a partner in life, having children of one's own. Buying a home, getting a job, going abroad. So many leaps, yet fostering seems a particularly big leap.

I'm sitting here wondering why?

Perhaps it's the responsibility. Also the fear of failure. Then maybe it's the concern that somebody in your circle will warn you off it, and you don't want to prove them right. Then you realise that there are countless smaller unknowns in fostering and you start wondering if you're stacking up endless problems for yourself and your home life.

Enter your social worker.

They pull no wool over anyone's eyes, they have the facts and the details, they also do one thing that blows all the uncertanties to one side. 

They believe in you.

There's not enough self-belief in many people (mind, there's too much self belief in some).

I've believed for a long time that the best parents are the ones who worry about whether they're any good as parents. The worst ones are the ones who think it's a piece of cake.

Well for what it's worth, I believe it's even more the case with fostering.

The best foster parents are the ones who worry if they're good enough.

And that's where your social worker steps in.

So; was our stand-in social worker up to it?

When it came to her last day with us, there were almost tears.

Delighted to get our long-standing person back - she's almost family, but never withour her understated professionalism.

But saying goodbye to yet another person we'd long for as a friend, a mentor, a guide, was borderline heartbreak.

So, what I'm saying is this; to anyone thinking about giving fostering a go, be clear that for all the ups and downs of it, there will always be one enormous up; the ever presence of the sort of person in your life you've only dreamed of.

Until you foster.

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FIRST TRANS PM?

 When you foster a child who has a particular issue you tend to get involved in the issue yourself. 

How could you not?

If, say, your child has problems with authority you find yourself examining the authority, how it functions, and whether the child has a point.

I'll never forget being summoned to a school to discuss the behaviour of a teenager I was looking after.

The meeting was fixed for 9.00am.

On the dot I was sat, along with the girl ('K'), outside the head's office.

At about ten past nine the head showed up, went into her office and shut the door behind her. 

Another five minutes passed then she asked us in. She said that we were waiting for the head of department in charge of the girl, who'd been delayed.

Just before 9.30am the second staff member showed up and sat down.

"Now," began the head, "The first problem we must discuss is K's punctuality…"

I kid you not.

So, now that I have a child in my care who is transitioning from female to male, my learning curve is steep. My antenna are constantly twiching.

I'm not hugely political, except when it comes to fostering.

When I say "when it comes to fostering" I guess I mean that I look at the lives of the children in my care at any one time and compare their needs with what's on offer from politicians. Every little helps, and if policies and public opinion can help or hinder my children I'm interested.

I have a new child who is transitioning.

To be blunt, conservatism is hurting him, so because I'm for my boy, I'm against it.

I'm against the politics that instincively fights against any change without giving it the hard work of investigation and understanding. The type that bangs on about freedom and reducing the size of the state, but want to restrict the freedom to choose who you are, and if necessary send in the state to intervene.

I'm old enough and wise enought to have seen this conservatism over a couple of generations.

This is what my fine teenage foster son has in store;

Not long ago, women were absent from front line politics, conservatism quietly enshrined a men-only policy. Spool forward and conservatism now champions women leaders,

Not long ago sons and daughters of immigrants were sidelined by conservatives. Now they take their place on conservatism's front benches aplenty.

Not long ago the thing they called 'homosexuality' was illegal, and conservatism, standing for what they saw as 'common decency' and 'God's word' stood foresquare opposed to it. Now it has become a mere detail on the CV of many a right-minded thinker.

So.

It will be EXACTLY the same with trans folk.

Conservative thinking will abhor it as an abhorance, and rail against it, and campaign for legislation against it.

Spool forward a generation.

Britain's first trans Prime Minister is elected.

A conservative.

Go figure.

NB I'm deliberately avoiding labelling Conservatives as conservative on this issue. I'm agin the conservatism that makes my foster son despair. There are probably plenty of Conservatives who are as open minded, even more open-minded than most, after all we hear of plenty who have first hand experience of confusion over gender issues and matters of the heart too...

Meantime my boy is one of many in for a rocky ride, just like women, immigrants and gay people before them. 

Then maybe my boy'll choose a career in politics and go on to become the first...

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BROTHERLY LOVE

 Our latest new foster child is in an okay place, and okay is great in fostering.

Apparently the Buddha said everyone who's ever lived has always had 83 problems apart from the person who tries to get rid of them all.

They have 84.

Latest addition is transitioning and going along well. It's his decision, his life. Maybe it's a mistake, maybe it isn't. People who get paid for their opinion, such as pundits and politicians, are piling in on the issue, often for their own benefit.

He gets on with the one thing everyone owns in a free country; being who he is.

When a foster child arrives the balance of the family home changes more than the average event, except obviously a birth or a death. Or redundancy. Or bankrupcy. Or prison. Or illness. Or mental health or dementia.

Come to think of it, fostering is barely a wrinkle.

And none of the aforementioned shock-horrors come with a guarenteed Social Worker at your side. 

On your case.

Someone who's got your back, someone who's (to use an Eastenders perennial) "Always there for you."

So; middle foster child has been in a grotty mood on and off since school broke up.

We ask if child is okay and just get grunts.

We're used to grunts. Our own kids could grunt for England.

Blue Sky's SW shows up regularly to make sure everything's okay.

The SW had a 10 minute chat alone with child.

Reported back to us what the child said, with professional discretion as ever.

So: child lent a friend £8 and is having trouble getting it back.

Child was not explicitly invited to a gathering at a house the child had previously been invited to for a previous gathering, but if, the child learned, IF they are invited they'd need to be able to offer transport (me) and give a car-load of others a ride there and a ride home - at midnight.

BTW, 'midnight' to teenagers translates as 1.45am.

Child is feeling not sufficiently loved.

The SW was brilliant. Told child it wasn't fair, that child deserved better, but hey; life's not fair and people let you down.

Told US we were doing a fantastic job.

I wondered out loud if the child was feeling sidelined by the new child who has just arrived and has high-profile needs. Social worker thought there was maybe something in that, but generally, the child told the SW, they had clicked and were feeling brotherly.

Wow.

Onwards and upwards!

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YES, WOMEN HAVE TESTOSTERONE TOO

 When a new placement (the technical term for a child in care) is settling in it's important to make sure everyone else feels loved and wanted just as much as before, because a new placement (it's such a barren term isn't it?) can take up a disproportionate amount of your attention.

The foster mum or dad is busy trying to get handles on the new arrival. Trying to find out who they are, what makes them tick. What their flashpoints are. 

What they're like when their flashpoint is reached.

At the same time it's important to help them ease into a hugely challenging situation; they're in a stranger's house, they are suddenly part of a new family. They don't know anything about the parents or the other youngsters or how the home works. New place, new routines, new rules.

Yike.

As I've been explaining in the last few posts, our new placement - oh heck with that word - our new child is transitioning. As his foster mum I need to come up to speed not only on what he needs, but on the whole landscape of what's become a big issue worldwide.

The more I learn about him and what he's chosen to do, the more I'm saddened by the hostility he reads about every day on his phone. 

He's not being perstered or trolled by schoolmates or anything. The hostility towards him is in the news feeds he clicks on.

I'm not going to join up the dots on this young man, he deserves his privacy. But I can share some aspects of his situation which are common to most people who choose to transition.

First, and this is the biggest deal of all, he is male. But when he was born, as is the case worldwide and from the dawn of time, when he came out of the womb they took a quick glance between his legs and a decision was made for him; "It's a girl".

Not long ago, maybe three or four decades, being designated a girl meant that he would have to go through life wearing what he was supposed to wear, not what he wanted. He would have to wear his hair how he was expected to, not how he wanted. Play girl's games - which largely means staying away from the centre of the playground where the boys were crashing about and playing football. 

He'd feel sidelined, as a girl and later as a woman, for the rest of his life.

He may have found he liked girls in the same way many boys do. But girls having girlfriends and boys having boyfriends was simply not done. Adults who chose to make love to people of their choice used to be sent to prison, and in some countries still are. Or worse.

But the whole matter of love and romance and making love and making babies is, as far as the boy now in my care is concerned, peripheral.

He is an intelligent young man. He is well read and informed - believe me, he's researched the matter very thoroughly. He is a kind and gentle person, but immensely strong and courageous.

He has no side to him; he cares about everybody. He says he understands why some people are confused and even angry about transitioning, but saddened they don't mind causing him pain.

In a netshell; he's a good person. 

We need more people like the one I've just described.

We need fewer people who have more strident opinions than they have knowledge.

I realise now that only a few weeks ago, when this young person arrived, I had a hotch-potch of views about transitioning, even though I knew virtually nothing.

For example, he's been walking me through the effects of testosterone treatment which he hopes to undertake when he's old enough. I have to say I had almost no idea what the hormone was about, But I do now. 

I've met and known and worked with plenty of men. I was brought up among boys and men. I fell in love with, and married, a man. I've brought up boys, a couple of my own, the rest belonged to other people.

I know for an absolute fact, something I'm certainshaw burtonshaw about, that not a single one of them had or have the slightest clue about their testosterone. Ask them about it and they'll reel off a couple of sound bites they picked up in the playground or playing sport. They'll have an opinion too. Several even. Loud if necessary. Unshakable too, generally. Worth standing up for, maybe even fighting for.

Testosterone doesn't make people angry, it amplifies. I watched a lecture by a Harvard behavioural neurologist on how our behaviour is affected by our bodies, in particular neurotransmissions and hormones. It's a new field bringing science into understanding the human condition. 

I didn't know there was so much I didn't know. Now that I know more, I know I still need to know even more before I have a right to an opinion about somebody I'm not. 

(BTW I'm feeling a bat's sqeak of testosterone in my veins right now as I enjoy a flash of superiority over those who know less than me…there's a lot to be said for self-awareness).

See, it's the same with every other aspect of transitioning.

Everyone needs to know more.

But, bringing this back to fostering, I have a strategy in place to help him with the fact that half the world is going rabid about him and his fellow transitioners; I keep him away from news feeds, we don't watch the TV news and definitely not the opinion channels that call themselves news.

On a positive note, I gently probed as to whether he felt bullied or ridiculed at school. He said not. He added that if anything he's respected for standing up for himself. 

I worry about the adults of today. The youth of today are dandy.

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