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.