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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