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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