THE WAY THEY BLOOM

All parenting is fraught with endless fears and trepidations.

It's not until you look back that you can separate the many joys from the many mini-traumas that beset our most important role in life, namely trying to be a good parent.

If you can do it halfway well with your own children you can pull it off for other people's children. 

BTW, you don't need to have had children of your own to foster well. My best friend in fostering is a mother who never had any children of her own and she is more than mustard.

But. If you had your own children, there are experiences you can bring to bear.

I often ask future foster parents about their recollections of childhood. We've all had a childhood.

One thing I sometimes ask about is their first memory of being allowed out of the house on their own.

Go ahead and take a moment to remember your own memory of that great day in your life. 

I remember the first day I got to cross a MAIN road. We lived on a backroad avenue with almost no traffic  except the people who lived there, most of whom didn't have a car. 

But. At the end of the road was a MAIN road which was used not just by cars but DOUBLE DECKER BUSES. I remember, when I prompt myself, the terror I felt when I found myself at the traffic lights at the top of our road awaiting to cross the MAIN ROAD for the first time.

Spool forward 20 years and my own children are getting old enough to go to the shop by themselves. Put into words I dare you, how harrowing the parent finds this moment.

 Remember? We've all done it.

Terrifying.

The parent feels the need to be casual but meticulous. Your kid has witnessed yourself buying plenty of Haribo, all they need to do is to do what you always did; pick the packet up from the shelf and go to the till.

But you find yourself treading the minefield of what if it goes wrong for them?

So it was the day that foster child Abraham got to go to the sweetshop alone.

It was aways back, there were no tracking devices available then. But I gave him my mobile phone and said; "If you have a problem call home".

And off he cycled. On the pavement. Our nearest One Stop /7/11/ Co-op happens to be a short trip with no road to cross - a happy accident he didn't miss;

"It's not like I'm crossing a road!"

So. Off he bicyled. I watched him stand on the pedals, feeling free as a bird on the wind.

Me, tethered to the tree of uncertainty.

Short story long; he returned, of course, intact and alive.

I had to do another gala performance of normalancy:

"Yeah, well done. Er can you put your bike on the garage."

In life we count these triumphs as triumphs. 

I fostering they are more than that.

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FAST FOOD JUST GETS BETTER

 The Covid pandemic was a challenge to all, and presented fostering with some unique issues.

It seemed obvious at the time that Covid would be followed by a pandemic of mental health problems, and sadly that does seem to be happening, with more and more children needing a foster home. 

And I'm not pretending Covid is over, it's going on still in so many ways, as is the spread of anxieties and bad decision-making. But let's steer clear of that one at this moment.

Us humans do try to make the best of everything, and without underplaying the horror of Covid or its aftermath, we've more than soldiered on. We've worked on necessities and actually found a few ways to better ourselves.

For example we're becoming a cashless economy. Yes, it must be a struggle for many people who don't have a cashcard and can't use their phone to pay for things. But it's helped us in more ways than keeping us safer from infection. Our high-street busker takes payment by card or phone. He prefers it. Our foster kids prefer not having money, makes them feel grown-up and they don't have to engage with shop staff and bus drivers as much, which they often find intimidating.

Another big change is fast food. Every foster parent knows the hugely disproportionate importance that fast food occupies in the lives of children in care.

It's their oxygen.

They positively adore the whole process of deciding what they want, surfing their phone or whatever, mulling over the huge range of options. If it's a weekend lunch do they go with a Subway sandwich or something else with a snack-like feel to it so as to make room for a pizza tonight? Or if they can find someone else in the house to share a pizza for lunch they can go the whole hog for dinner and have a Chinese. Or Korean. Or shushi, Indian, fish n'chips.

It's expensive though, we have to help them budget. The last time we ordered fish and chips for all it came out at £45. We use fast-food deliveries as a treat, not a staple, and that's fair. We should also remember that we foster parents get a generous allowance to cover the cost of having a foster child in the house, and believe me the allowance more than covers the cost.

Fast food delivery has to be controlled in fostering, but it's a spectacular device to win co-operation. And I just love the frisson that runs through the whole house when the doorbell rings and someone shouts "Deliveroo!"

When I began fostering everyone was very keen on fostering folk providing home cooked meals eaten together at the table, and that regime still works. We do that weekdays, but hey, my cooking is nothing more than safe and basic. If I had a penny for every fish-finger or skinless sausage I've knocked out with beans and oven fries I could afford to have fish n' chips delivered more often…

Can't get your foster child to eat salad? When the bits of lettuce and tomato is dressed up in a carton with a lid and Thousand Island dressing, or hidden in a Subway baguette it takes on a whole new identity. And down the hatch it goes.

Fast-food deliveries are a boon at weekends and special ocassions. When people eat, we don't just nourish the body. The sheer joy kids get from the whole delivery experience brings a huge sense of well-being to the house. We must never forget that children coming into care have often experienced hunger as well as other heartaches. Food is big.

Our middle foster child used to be very shy, and would hide when the doorbell rang with a delivery. The child didn't want to be glimpsed by the person. Gradually we worked on his confidence with adults. Now, he's happy to answer the door, give the code and say "Thanks". And when the delivery person says "Enjoy your evening." he replies "You too".

And now that he has a debit card he's confident enough to catch a bus, by himself, which is huge. Paying money and getting change was scary for him, but thanks to the changes in the economy he's on track.

Covid gave the world 3 years of hell on earth, let's hope we can avoid another pandemic, or at least if one comes along we're better prepared.

But despite everything, we humans seem determined to do more than merely stay alive.

We'll go through a lot to make ourselves happy.

And in fostering nothing makes us happier than the kids being happy.

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CHAOS

 I'm in danger of losing count of the number of social workers we've had guiding and supporting us in our fostering. Not because they come and go, but because I've been fostering longer than I care to remember, and social workers, like everybody else, move on, move up or sideways, pause to start a family.

They've almost all been brilliant, we had one way back who wasn't quite the ticket. She was local authority, told us she'd been a tennis prodigy who got let down by the LTA and was frankly not really cut out for social work. She got by, did no-one any harm, it was just a shame her heart wasn't quite in it. A rarity in my experience, but Blue Sky as ever were fantastic. I do understand that social work can be gruelling, but the vast majority of this noble profession are massively dedicated to the people they care for.

And by mentioning tennis girl I'm certainly not disparaging local authourity social workers compared to agency ones; we've had some mighty great LA ones.

Social workers sometimes say to me "I couldn't do what you do." To which I always reply, with absolute honesty; "Well I couldn't do what you do, so we're quits."

If you're someone wondering about becoming a foster parent let me give you a quick sketch of the superb support you get from your social workers.

Our current permanent Blue Sky social worker is away from her desk for wonderful personal reasons which I'd love to blab about but won't for reasons of privacy. She's the bee's knees, been attached to us for nearly a decade! We had a stand-in social worker for several months on the first occasion our permanent SW had to stay home, and the stand-in was stand-out.

Both of them are a joy to have in the house. They showed up, in our case once a month (it can be more, or even less depending) and lit up our kitchen. They stayed for about 2 hours, sometimes 3.

It's a heck of a good back-up; these are highly professional people whose job is to come to your home and check out that you, the foster parent, are OK and continuing to be up to the job. 

They tweak up your self-confidence, yet find ways to suggest new strategies. The new strategies don't mean you're getting anything wrong, it's just that they have the benefit of an outside eye. A trained outside eye.

So. When we were informed that the previous stand-out stand-in for our regular SW was unavailable for another stint we were intrigued about the new SW we'd be allocated.

Did we worry? Nah.

Should we have worried? Double nah.

Our new Blue Sky SW is mustard.

Warm and witty, wise and armed with all the tools of fostering. Actually 'tools' isn't right, more like….versed in the music of social work.

Social workers have to play jazz piano all day long. They can never predict where each of their days are going, but know that they have to bring the melody back to some kind of script with each foster carer, each foster child, each local authority, each legal team, each police department.. you get my point.

So. This new Blue Sky SW and I were sipping coffee (she's shrewd enough to know I'm proud of our new Nespresso machine and gushes the right amount when I make her a hit of caffiene), when something came up.

I raised something from 10 years ago that had intrigued me back then but I never mentioned it to anybody.

We'd had a teenage girl stay with us who came from a family who were frankly bizarre. I wish I could tell you more, but a key part of my remit is that no-one should recognise themselves from reading these words. 

The girl's local authority social worker was a 50-something year old Eastern European, who, after the girl had been with us for a couple of months said this;

"Your problem in dealing with her is that your house is not chaotic enough."

Eh?

"She is used to coming in the front door and someone shouts 'Who the f is that? Shut the f up I'm trying to watch Neighbours."

And she would reply; "You shut your own effing mouth, I'm ordering Kentucky."

The SW continued;

"Now, of course, she's nothing like this with you. But she's sad. She's missing the cut and thrust of chaos.

And that was spot on. Foster children - especially in the first few weeks and months - are on their best behaviour, and it's up to us to nurture that behavior and install it as the norm.

"But.." he went on; "The child is dealing with withdrawal from chaos."

Ah.

So back to my schtick about our new current Blue Sky SW. 

I said to her; "What if, when the case calls for it, we re-create a chaotic household for the first few weeks of a child's stay, then gradually replace the chaos with peace and harmony?"

Perhaps the most ridiculous idea I've ever had, yet I found myself putting it to her.

She was kind enough to pretend to think about it, then mutter something vaguely positive. Allowed me to talk it out and then shrewdly accepted a second cup of caffiene; and on we went elsewhere.

Mustard.

Mind, I've not allowed my brainwave to vacate my head. I keep wondering if there's something in it...

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THE ONLY THING THAT NEVER CHANGES IS THAT EVERYTHING CHANGES

 Dear me, you're always learning in fostering.

My go-to opening line when I get asked to speak to would-be foster carers is; "I've been fostering for 30 years. And I'm going to stick at it until I get it right."

New stuff is taxing.

But if it's new and good… y'gotta do the work.

Sounds like I'm on about something humungous? Well it is... and it isn't.

Every single thing we fostering folk do for the kids who we are entrusted with is big. Some things are bigger than others; diet, education, socialisation, warmth and safety.

There's something I'll call "Personal safety". You could call it "Personal self-regard", or even "Pride in oneself".

Kids coming into care often need to learn about being clean, wearing clean clothes, washing their hair, having fresh sheets. They need to learn about eating the right stuff, some even need to learn about cleaning themselves after a trip to the loo. 

Clipping one's toenails, fresh socks every day, clean ears; all that.

A quick aside; these shortcomings aren't confined to kids who end up in care. Several years ago I was asked to give a talk to the parents of children at a local school. The topics were things like "Your child should know how to use a knife and fork" and "Your child should know how to use a toilet". Does it bug you to learn that the school was a high-end private school stocked with the children of "successful" professionals? One dad, who owned a chain of hair salons (note the subtle use of "salon" where most people call it the "hairdressers"), he told me he blamed the school that his son didn't know what toilet paper was for.

It sure bugs me.

So; yes; foster kids need to know about personal safety...but it's a personal area and we fostering folk tread warily and professionally. This is where conversations with our Blue Sky social worker pays dividends. They know what's what, and know how to advise us on what's what. And how to get what's what across.

If I was you reading this I'd be wondering where we're going here? Personal safety …are we heading into... periods and menstruation? Transitioning and top surgery, testosterone? Drug understanding? Diet and exercise regimes?

Nah.

I'm talking about…

Cleaning one's teeth.

Cleaning one's teeth is important. Not a life-threatening issue but one that plenty of  well-meaning people think of as a ticket to Heaven if you get it right throughout your life.

So here's the thing:

When I was small we were taught that you brush up and down. The reason given was that by brushing up and down you remove any food stuck between your teeth. We were told that the food stuck between our teeth turned to sugar and caused tooth decay.

Several years on we were told that you had to brush your teeth and gums. I can't remember if we were given any science on this, but for donkey's yonks I've brushed my teeth up and down and given my gums a quick zizz too. 

And now, it's changed. Here's how I found out: I had a filling pop out and went to the dentist to have it fixed and she recommended I let their dental hygienist have a look at me and advise me. The hygienist told me I was getting everything wrong, including wrong direction with the brush and wrong use of an electric toothbrush. Wrong type of brush-head (wrong bristles). Wrong brand of toothpaste, wrong pressure on the teeth, and wrong gum care. Wrong use of dental floss too. She said the new thinking had been around for "ages" and maybe I'm out of the loop.

Whatever. I'm stuck with wondering how to advise my kids on how to brush their teeth.

I asked my dear Blue Sky social worker and she replied "As long as they're cleaning their teeth one way of another the technique isn't really something to lie awake fretting about." Then she asked to be reminded how often the children cleaned their teeth and I got a house point (much needed) for my answer "Twice a day, morning and bedtime, sometimes 3 times at the weekend if they have a sweet treat with their lunch."

She replied "Wow, that's great! How do you get them to do it?" Adding "Most kids in care hate brushing their teeth."

So I told her my tactic;

When it's toothbrush time I say "Let's see whose teeth are whitest. I bet mine are." Then after brushing we stand in front of the hall mirror and compare teeth. They always win, I always lose.

Job done.

She complimented me on another of my tricks of the trade. She said she might pass it on to other fostering folk, as Blue Sky are big on many things, including teeth and eyes.

They are also big on keeping their fostering folk positive and proud of the work we do.

Mind, if that hygienist was right, I'm lucky to have any teeth left to enter the competition with…

PS: I now advise my foster children to brush up and down, followed by round and round. Clever cop-out that, maybe I should have been in politics. And tell them that my grandad cleaned his teeth with soot to which they invariably reply "Cool! Can you get some soot in?" and "Does Soot taste like like paprika?"

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ALERT TO THE POSITIVES

 So, this happened, one night a couple of days ago.

In fostering one's sleeping is determined not a little by what sort of a household one has at any given time.

We had a teenager for a whole summer once, a lovely lad, who simply couldn't sleep at night. He was perfectly at ease with staying awake down in our living room. He was ultra considerate, never woke us, tidied the room up as dawn began to break, and slept through the daytime when he could. At weekends he'd take the train to his home patch and see friends after sleeping through the day. On weekdays he'd catch some shuteye around his college commitments, which he honoured pretty much 100%.

We never identified his fear of nightime, it may have been something dark.

But even though he was good as gold, and quiet as a church mouse, I don't think I managed to drift off into the deepest sleep possible, the type of sleep we think does us the most good.

I was always ever-so-slightly alert. 

Then there was the 8 year old who I told on his first night with us that if he awoke in the night and was frightened to knock on our bedroom door and I'd come out and help him. I left his bedroom door slightly open and the landing light on, and on reflection I maybe shouldn't have prompted him. Sure enough at 2.00am came the knock our door. I pulled on my dressing gown and escorted him downstairs where we watched cartoons (what did we do before 24-hour kids TV?) until dawn.

Another one; the child whose night terrors were a proper challenge. For the first couple of weeks I kipped on cushions and pillows outside their bedroom, gently talking as the child slowly tired and finally dropped off. 

So, as I started to say; this happened one night.

I'd had a long day and a succession of long nights. It was getting late, my partner had gone "up the stairs to Bedfordshire" as he annoyingly calls it. Youngest child was long asleep, eldest had retreated to their room to surf (responsibly) their iPad/phone. BTW we're looking into this new WiFi thing whereby you can log off your home's WiFi at say 8.00pm; brilliant.

Middle foster child was downstairs in the little back room off the kitchen which tends to be the childrens' domain. It has a TV, a sofa, and a dog bed because inexplicably the dog loves hanging loose wiv da kids.

I must have nodded off. When I awoke, suddenly, and for some reason guilt-ridden, my first clue that I'd been dozing for a good hour was that the TV was still on and a late-night current affairs discussion was going on. Late night current affairs is Horlicks  to me (Horlicks: a milky bedtime drink which kind of claims to be a soporific, for the info of readers abroad). 

So I went to get up to take stock of the household and, assuming all was well, hit the hay.

Slight panic; I couldn't move my legs.

You know that strange state you are in when you've only been awake for ten seconds?

I went into that state.

Briefly. Because it dawned on me that the reason my legs wouldn't work was that they were  swathed in a blanket. One of the blankets we throw over our careworn living room sofas, both of which have seen better days, but who cares about sofas when there's fostering to be done.

So. I laid back and wondered how come I'd been tucked up after nodding off.

Slowly but surely a model answer emerged and stuck.

Middle foster child had finished chilling in the back room, and turned everything off. The child settled the dog in the kitchen, then on their way up noticed the TV was on in the living room.

Then saw their foster mum akip.

And went and got the blanket off the other sofa and swaddled me, careful not to wake me up.

So; anyone who hears this little episode and doesn't foster won't know why I was doing cartwheels. One of the big things we do in fostering is try to repair the humanity in the poor dear children who come our way, because they've all had suffering of one type or another and need to be ushered back into empathy for others.

And there it was, right there..

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NEVER A DULL MOMENT

 Chris came to us in the middle of the night.

We'd agreed to be emergency carers at the time. We're not on the list of emergency carers right now partly as we used up our last spare bedroom with a 'normal' placement, 'normal' meaning a child who was set to stay with us for a good while.

People don't realise the degree of flexibility a fostering family can have. Each fostering family is unique, and carers are given every opportunity to ensure their fostering is tailored to the family's specifics. Children coming into care are matched to the strengths of the potential carer and the carer's family. When we started we thought we'd be best with teenagers, but pretty quickly we found ourselves in agreement with Blue Sky that we'd consider any child they thought we could help.

Normally, when you're offered a placement you first get a phone call from Blue Sky's placement officers who give you a quick sketch of the child. If you agree they usually email over all available paperwork giving whatever details are known about the child's background. If you agree to accept the child they put your name and profile forward to the Local Authority who make the final pick from the foster carers they're offered.

Emergency placements are different.

The story of us and Chris went like this.

My phone pinged just after midnight.

Blue Sky.

They said the Local Authority had been contacted by the police who had an 8 year-old boy in the back of a police car and that they had judged it was unsafe for him to be allowed back to his actual home.

I was told there had been significant violent abuse at the home and that two adults had been arrested. Two other adults had fled the scene and were on the loose and believed to be a potential danger to each other and the three children in the home. Two of the children had been found an emergency foster home by the LA, but their placememnt used up their emergency facilities so they widened their search, asking Blue Sky if they could help.

I could only picture the state of an 8 year old boy, all alone in the middle of the night in the back of a police car.  How must he feel? What was he thinking?

Then came the bombshell. Chris' "home" wasn't a house or a flat, not bricks and mortar at all.

No, it was a tent. A tent on a patch of council land. The fact that the family were living in a tent was all part of some wider domestic dispute.

Chris didn't go to any school as such, didn't have a regular GP or any of the usual medical documentaion. His state of health had to be taken as sight unseen.

Chris arrived under half-an-hour later. If he was scared or shy he didn't show it, but woofed down a plate of beans on toast. We offered him orange juice but he replied "Got any beer?" and to this day we don't know if he was joking or not.

We showed him to our spare bedroom. He declined a shower or pyjamas, and didn't use the toothbrush we set out for him. The following morning while he was eating breakfast I went up to check the room. It looked to me as though he'd slept in his clothes, on top of the bed. Or maybe even on the floor.

Our Blue Sky social worker was due at 10.00am to support us, but my phone rang ahead of that time.

A member of Chris' wider family was on her way to collect him; his "Aunt". 

I put "aunt" in inverted commas because when I told Chris the news he grinned and asked "An Aunt eh? And which aunt would that be?".

I could only tell him that the decision had been verified and agreed upon by people above my status who knew what they were doing. Normally one would use age-appropriate words and phrases with a vulnerable 8 year-old, but Chris acted and spoke like the man of the world I was rapidly coming to see that he was. More than that I was starting to be quite a fan of this resilient wee fellow.

An LA social worker showed up, the same one who'd accompanied him to our house not 12 hours before. She told us Chris was being taken first to the police station to be interviewed about the previous night, before being handed over to the aunt. My Blue Sky social worker arrived too. Then the police, two officers, a woman and a man.

While we were waiting for the "aunt", whose name I was told was "Aunt Gillie", I prepared a tupperware box with some fruit and snacks for Chris, who asked me on the quiet for ten pounds so he could buy Aunt Gillie a present. I said I didn't have a ten pound note, but I put five pounds in change in an envelope and put the envelope in the tupperware box underneath the banana.

Aunt Gillie arrived in a shiny four-wheeler. She was a robust soul with a big voice and a heck of a lot of confidence which, when we were alone after they left, the social workers and I agreed was partly a defence against any shame she felt of the fact that someone outside her family had been needed to care for Chris in his night of need.

Example: the police officer had said to Gillie "Chris can come in our car to the station. After the interview we'll be free to hand him into your care." She replied "He'll do no such thing, he's coming in my car". 

And so he did.

There was an interesting 'goodbye' with Chris (there'd never really been any 'hello'). He offered me a strong handshake then he said "Come 'ere" and gave me a peck on both cheeks. Then he stood back, held my eye and gave me what will probably turn out to be the last decent wink I'll ever get now winking is out of fashion. It was a wink, I believe, that said "Thanks for being alright, I'm on my way now, don't you worry, look at me, I'll be fine".

He was warmed and relaxed by Gillie's arrival, and she oozed a protectiveness of him and the family unit they seemed part of that I can only describe as powerful. And loving, though not in the way I do loving. But we're all different.

Whenever a child leaves you find yourself worrying they'll be ok. But not Chris, Chris will be fine; he's on top of this world, emotionally strong as an ox, and I suspect surrounded by a group the size of a small village that will be there for him all his life. And he'll be there for them.

And no, I didn't check if any silverware was missing (we don't have any silverware, but you know what I mean). There wasn't, but I knew I didn't need to.

A fortnight later Blue Sky paid our regular allowance into the bank and I noted we'd been renumerated the usual amount for having Chris.

I hadn't asked if I could claim the £5, I took that on the chin. 

And can only hope it went on fags and nothing stronger…

As me, my other half, and our whole family often say with a happy grin; "Never a dull moment".

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LITTLE SHARDS OF BRITTLE

 Talking about fostering to non-fostering folk, I always get the impression they assume that fostering is one long warm glow. 

They also acknowledge that it "must be hard at times", often said as a precursor to "I couldn't do it".

Understandably, they're off the mark in most respects.

For one; if you're fostering properly, it's "hard" all the time, not merely "at times". By "hard" I mean non-stop. Fostering is 24/7. If you're not dealing with the occassional crisis you're managing issues all day. Managing everything from how to get them to eat better through to how to get them to behave better; all the way up to how to get them to feel better.

For two; non-fostering people are 99% wrong when they say they couldn't do it. Almost everyone can do it, but most give up before they've tried. One or two friends who foster have amazed themselves by using skills they didn't know they had.

For three; fostering doesn't deliver a steady warmth in the heart. Most times the foster carer needs to pull themselves into themselves and ask if they are happy in fostering. When they get the moment to do that they realise that they are, then get back on with the job.

However. If the foster parent is alert, fostering gives us little moments of sheer joy, the like of which I don't think any other profession has to offer.

They're similar to the shards of caramel brittle that shatter off the big bits in the baking tray. Barely bite-sized, but sweetly - and surreptitiously - delicious. 

Here's a handful of brittle shard moments in fostering, in no particular order.

When the child tidies their room without being asked. This is a magic moment the first time. Come to think of it it's even better the second time, because they're now doing it for better reasons than the novelty, or in hope of a couple of quid. It means they're going in the right direction with their sense of responsibility and self-care. Mind; they always leave it to you to go through the bin-liner of rubbish sorting recyclables from garbage, but hey ho, it's better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.

When the child thanks you for driving them somewhere. Or making their favourite supper, or suchlike. Their first "Thank you" is nowhere near the words "Thank you." Their first one is a barely audible, single syllable grunt which bears no relation to any English word. It sounds like "Ang…" It's muttered eyes down, with their back to you. Best not to say anything in reply. Definitely not "Pardon?". Not even "My pleasure". Let it go. It will grow. Within a short space of time, say 2 to 3 years, it will have blossomed into a full throated "Thanks" albeit spoken with a hint of "I'm only saying "thanks" out of politeness, don't make any kind of watershed big deal out of it".

When the child chooses to hug. As foster parents we neeed to be sensilble about physical contact with foster children. Usually I go no further than a hand on the shoulder. But I remember vividly a few years ago I had to have a night in hospital after a minor op. Our foster child at the time was a fanatical 'no physical contact' person, for very good reasons, so we all respected that. Not even a high five. When I was brough home I sat in my favourite armchair and the child came downstairs. And walked towards me arms outstretched. Ok, so the child ducked out of going the whole hog and embracing, but the vision of the child mentally hugging me stays with me through stormy weather.

The child looks for you in the audience when they're in the school play/nativity/choir/prizegiving. And when they spot you and see you giving a discreet wave they instantly look away; empowered to know that you're there for them, embarrassed to have let you know how much you mean to them. And that they're no different from all the other kids, whose mums and dads are also there.

They bring home a particular drawing they've crayoned at school. It's maybe a house. If it is, then hopefully the house has curtains at the windows and smoke from the chimney, which means subconscously they regard your house as a home. Or maybe it's a giant dinosaur/dragon chasing a petrified mouse, which means their recollections of life before Care aren't good and there's work ahead. The particular bit is the one where there's a person drawn standing in the bottom corner. The person is smiling and looking kind of...kind. And it's you! I say nothing, but it always gets magnetted to the fridge door, where it may stay for years.

They highlight their love for a family tradition, habit or otherwise repeated event. Perhaps they say out loud that we "Always" put the Christmas decorations up on December 1st. We had one child whose thing was this. One morning we had boiled eggs for breakfast. I finished my first egg, then pointed out the window so dad would turn to look. He was in on the joke, and had placed his second egg in the egg cup waiting to be opened. I switched his egg with my empty one which I turned upside down so it looked unopened and waited for him to open it and be bamboozled by bashing open the empty egg. The child instantly took over my role. Every time we had boiled eggs she would rush to finish her first egg, then point out of the window, and switch eggs. Much laughter at dad's discomfort. This went on right up to the child's last day with us. It doesn't sound much, but in all honesty nothing represented the child's sense of belonging to a family more than the egg routine. Time after time she delighted in getting one over on dad and making the whole family roar with laughter.

The child makes you a cup of tea, or a pot noodle. Nothing tastes better than a beverage made for you by a foster child. It's not just a cup of tea or a mug of noodles, nor merely a simple statement of independence and growing up. It says; "I'm on my way to adulthood thanks to you, and when I'm grown up I'll care for you, if you want, or else I'll care for other people, and look...I'm starting right now."

I saved the best for last.

When the child calls you "mum". This is a biggie, maybe the biggest. It's not one to seek out. I let the child call me as they see fit, usually they go with my first name. If the child is short term or medium-term it generally doesn't happen, but if they've been with you a few months it can happen. Usually like this; first you overhear them say to a friend in the playground "I'll ask my mum".  Don't for one moment think that you're overhearing was an accident. They know what they're doing. If that leaves them feeling ok, it takes a few days or even weeks before an apparently innocuous voice calls down from their room; "Mum! Where are my trainers?". Again, it's a beautifully camouflaged moment of transition. I never react, except inside, where it means all the tea in China. 

Or all the Pot Noodles in Aldi.

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NO FIXED ABODE

 Meeting the birth parents of children who come into our care is always valuable. We fostering folk learn a great deal about the job in hand; it helps us make better day-to-day decisions about our care of the youngster.

Yesterday was a revelation.

I  met for the first time the father of our middle foster child. The child has been with us for several months, but this was his first Contact with his dad. In fact his first Contact of any kind as his mother is apparently not on any radar known to man.

I took the child to a Contact centre in an adjacent town, it was a converted detached house, probably one that had seen servants and maids. The child had come straight from school and was taken to a separate room to change from his school uniform into everyday clothes.

The father and I stood together, alone in the corridor.

He slumped down onto his haunches, back against the wall and began talking:

"I'm sleeping out tonight but I'll be on my feet this time next week, they've found me a one bed flat and ordered a washing machine so I'll have to find out about what tablets it needs and I'm doing alright raising the sixty pounds I need to prove I can manage but the problem is I'm doing so well in the roundabout underpass that other homeless come and hang around me because they know I'm on Facebook and sometimes have enough to spend the night in the Travel Lodge which is good for me because the roundabout's got the fire station on it and they can go off blaring through the night. The woman who leaves her matress next to me all day long is a right pain, she was standing up swearing at me yeseterday so I stood up and I'm six foot three but she wasn't bothered and she's in court today on three charges and I'm sorry but I hope they send her to jail. I'm a qualified painter and decorator and a trained chef, my wife's sectioned under the Mental Health Act. I'm from Yorkshire originally, Huddersfield although I've supported Leeds United all my life, the Howard Wilkinson Leeds, which didn't make me popular as a boy…"

The gentleman said all that in one breath without pausing or having the slightest awareness of the stream of consciousness that was falling from his lips.

So what did I learn?

For one, that my foster child isn't going back to his father (or else they'd have found him a two bedroomed flat). 

For two I learned why the child's mum isn't on the scene, or to be precise I was given a scenario by a possibly unreliable source.

For three I learned that the child's father carries a condition which, Dr Google tells me, is called 'logorrea', which is characterised by "An elated or irritable mood, social or financial recklessness, pressured speech, flight of ideas rapidly jumping between tenuously related topics and auditory hallucinations indicative of an acute manic episode."

Instead of wondering how many politicians have logorrea, I found myself forming a clearer picture of what the child in my care had been through before being placed with us. 

That, plus I was left wondering what happened between father and son in the 50- minute-hour that was the Contact. I didn't ask on the way home, sometimes I do, mostly I don't. Contact can be so stressful for the child they need to move on afterwards and I often find a change of topic helps them. I've mentioned before how my go-to tactic is to tell the child to keep their eyes peeled for a petrol station so we can buy a poundsworth of sweets.

And yes, if you were wondering, we drove around the roundabout which has a big underpass, possibly the current address of his dad.

They say that loneliness and tedium are growing problems in the developed world, but believe me, fostering folk are in danger of neither.

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THE WOMAN IN THE ONE STOP

 So I was walking back from our local One Stop with a loaf of best of both and a tin of beans when I became aware that the woman who'd been behind me in the queue was coming up behind me on the pavement.

I'm not a fast walker.

I moved to one side of the pavement to let her pass, aware that there'd be that awkward moment when we'd be two-abreast and might feel the need to say something like; "It's going to rain any minute isn't it?"

But she glided past. Then slowed. She was about my age and size, but wearing fancy trainers the like of which I couldn't pull off.

"Love your trainers." I said.

"Thank you!" she replied, then;

"How's your eldest son? Only he used to hang around with our Abigail when they were younger."

"Oh," I replied, slightly taken aback that she knew me and I honestly couldn't remember her.

I asked after Abigail, who's doing well, she asked about our dog.

Then she got down to it, asking;

"Are you still in fostering?"

We chatted. About fostering.

It turned out she had retired from teaching, her children had flown the nest, and she was thinking about fostering. But didn't know where to start. Not only that, she was worried whether she'd be up to it.

I assured her that, if she apprached Blue Sky, they'd take it from there. She wouldn't have to worry whether she had what it takes; Blue Sky would know, plus they'd prepare her, and match her strengths to the child they placed with her. 

I also told her it's not a ball and chain, Carers can take a break whenever they need to.

I didn't pressure her, she'd already said she knew where I live, so I suggested she give it some more thought, chat it over with her family, and if she decided to take it a stage further to come round and have a chat.

It seemed to me, at first sight, that she was perfect for fostering.

Shame that someone such as her, with so many obvious credentials for the job, should waver.

She hasn't turned up at our house yet, but then it's only been a couple of days.

As I walked home something struck me.

It was a lucky opportunity for her to have a conversation about fostering, finding herself behind me in the One Stop queue. 

Maybe she'd been itching to talk to me about fostering for a long time, maybe even years and years.

One of the main reasons the UK is short of fostering folk is down to prospective Carers being shy of their skills, modest of their capabilities and in fear of failure. Yes, fostering can be hard at times. But Carers have a huge team of professionals at their back supporting, advising, helping in every way.

And then there's the simple truth that Carers like myself, who love fostering to bits for all its challenges, don't bang the drum often enough. 

If anything I keep my fostering to myself.

But there are so many children right now in need of a safe place where they can repair themselves, I decided there and then I would speak out about the joys and benefits of fostering more often.

Something which will be easy for me to do, as it's truly the best thing I've ever done.

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KEEPING UP

 People coming into fostering for the first time sometimes worry that they don't know enough.

Sure, we fostering folk benefit from training. Blue Sky arrange that.

But I often find myself reminding new Carers; you already know more than you might realise.

Think about it. 

So; you're going to be looking after someone's else's child. A prospect that might seem a bit daunting but never forget that you were a child yourself, so you can imagine yourself in their shoes, and that's a big help. You may have had children of your own, which is another credential - not that it matters if a Carer hasn't had children of their own.

So many things to do with childhood are universal and timeless. 

For example, small children still often have a familiar soft toy. A teddy bear or the equivilant. It's striking that in this day and age of high-tech gizmos and whizzbang cartoons, they'll never be parted from the tattered one-eyed elephant they still call "Leffietant".

But there's a reason why this pops into my head around about Autumn. See, no time quite like Autumn do we foster parents have to stay on their toes watching out for the other side of the coin, namely the things about childhood that change big time, and fast.

I first bumped into this when Kendryke came to stay. He was a sturdy 10 year-old who liked his football, his MacDonalds and his superheroes. He also liked our dog, and it did us all good when he'd join me on the daily dog-walk down to the meadow. On this day the leaves were falling. Suddenly I lit up. I'd seen, lying all by itself, a fat glistening…conker!

"Kendryke! Quick!" I shouted, breaking into a trot in case someone else saw it and got to it ahead of us.

I got there first, picked it up and marvelled. Conkers are at such a premium among kids, to find one glowing and awaiting an owner was a red-letter moment. 

Note for non-UK readers; "Conkers" is a game I won't bore you with. But stumbling on one of these nuts lying waiting to be picked up was unheard of.

Kendryke was non-plussed. He was maybe worried that we were having raw nuts for tea instead of Wednesday pasta…

I looked around. Over the road was another conker. And another. The place was littered with them, and that's what they'd become; litter. They'd gone from being the child's treasure for many generations to nothingness in the blink of an eye.

Kendryke loved his dog-walks. But conkers? Do me a favour.

See, Autumn is a challenging time for fostering folk, because there are a number of events coming up that are not far off the story of the conker.

Next up is Halloween. Used to be a lazy teachers tool. Then we had a go at doing it the American way. Now it seems to be on its last legs among children. Maybe Covid all but did for it. Mind, my teenager foster child used it to bargain a Halloween party, the only scary thing was the clearing up.

After Halloween; Bonfire Night, an ever-present. The big change from my generation is this; It used to be a garden bonfire and box of fireworks (inevitably lit by dad). Spool on and we attend "Displays" where local man-childs re-enact Armageddon having contacted each other to have their event on different days so as to get bigger crowds. Bonfire Night used to be only on November 5th, then it shifted to the nearest weekend day. Currently we all lie awake at 11.00pm comforting a petrified dog from October through December.  And are limited in our protests because the organisers reply that the reason they do it is it's charity. 

The great thing about the old bonfife night was that it was family. But like I'm on about here; things change.

After Bonfire night the build-up really kicks in for Christmas (ages old) unless Black Friday (shiny new) knocks you out of your stride. Christmas, or "The Holidays" as they call it in the US, is also morphing, but slowly. Somewhere in it all the Americans Thanksgive. 

The core of  Christmas is what kids love (as do I). They get stuff. But more than that they sense an event, a family event, and in fostering it's valuable to show kids how family can be.

Then New Year.

So, it's about 6 events crammed into 8 weeks and they are all big events for children and that includes foster children.

I'm told that more children come into care over this period than at any time of the year, because many families can't cope with the pressure.

We fostering folk can cope, and so we do.

Based on our own knowledge and our experience and our ability to adapt.

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TRIUMPH OF HOPE OVER EXPECTATION

I have a former foster child who stays in touch via Facebook.

It's her decision, she's an adult now, I've mentioned it to Blue Sky.

It's not something I generally do; staying in touch. The way I see it the whole point of fostering is to help the child get back to their own family and being in touch with their foster home could mess things up. The natural parents could understandably get het up about it.

A clean break is often best for all. 

Saying goodbye for ever is painful for the foster parents though, and tricky to maintain, as sheer curiosity kicks in big time.

I suspect that one of the commonest bonds between fostering folk of all shapes and sizes is that we would love to know how the kids turn out.

We get a pretty good picture of them, obviously, even if they're only in our home for a short time.

We can see the progress they make while they're with us, but we'll never know if they grow and flourish as adults.

Sometimes something will trigger a memory of one particular child or another, and I find myself saying out loud:

"I wonder how Barry's getting on?"

or

"Do you think Katie is ok?"

If my other half is in earshot he likes to make light and say things like;

"Still in prison."

or

"On her third baby."

This particular former child is still a bit all over the place.

Actually she's not really a foster child.

She came to us as a Mother in a Mother and Baby placement - which dates the placement because they're now called Parent and Child - it's not necessarily the Mum who needs help, and the child can be any age.

She was late teens and it was her second baby. The first had been removed from her before she had a chance to show if she could be a mother, so even though it was her second baby she didn't know anything about nappies or bottles so I had to do the mothering and teach her about it as I went along. 

The poor girl had never had any childhood of her own, so I'd often find her playing with the box of toys we kept for younger placements. She'd never heard a nursery rhyme. One summer's day we went to the beach and I'll never forget the child-like look on her face as she sat in the sand building a sandcastle for the first time ever.

As you're probably guessed, I became her surrogate mum, even though the fostering was primarily about the baby.

The baby was eventually removed from the mum's care and put up for adoption, and the girl went back into the outside world.

When you foster you get to know all about a child's history, and all about the child's day-to-day affairs while they're with you. Their backstories are painful, but at least you're spared any pain of finding out what the future holds for them.

However this girl is an exception. She remains suggestable; she's just had her third baby. She remains easily led; she let her uncle practice his new tattoo gun on her so she now sports a huge and badly drawn blue angel across her back.

She doesn't know we know, but a boyfriend of hers pursuaded her to tell him how to get into our house and we think he pilfered some of my (relatively worthless) jewellery. It's the only time in the whole of my fostering I've had anything stolen.

Plus, well after she left us we began to notice a stale pong in and around the bathroom. We had a poke around and found 15 used nappies stashed behind the immersion heater. Clearly she'd taken the baby's nappy off prior to bathtime, and simply couldn't be bothered to bring it downstairs.

Not much of a mum, not much of a citizen. 

But on Facebook she remains cheerful and chatty, and I say hello from time to time, just to help her feel she's got some sort of a mum in this world.

I mention her in connection with the thing I talked about a moment ago; not knowing how cruel or otherwise the world treats them when they leave.

I've just seen that the father of her third baby has learned that his father, from whom he was estranged, was killed in a shocking tractor accident. 

So sad, yet she's known so much pain and loss in her short life so far, what comes across on her page is that she's barely moved at all.

I suppose there's something to be said for that.

Sad though, to be so immune to sadness.

I'm not. I'm thinking of cutting my link with her, the odd thing being if I did; it would hurt me more than her.

I probably won't though.

There's always hope, without which we fostering folk would struggle.

That's why I always say; it's the best job in the world.

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BOB DYLAN WAS RIGHT

The times, they are a changing. Changing fast. Faster than ever before?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Old lag Bertrand Russell wrote over a hundred years ago:

"The average scullery maid now expects more excitment over one weekend than her grandmother sought in her whole lifetime."

But whether or not it's a fact, it feels as though things nowadays are changing faster than ever.

What got me thinking was this. I remembered the moment when I discovered there was such a thing as fostering. I was aged about 14. The TV was on, showing some sort of factual programme. The camera was inside a house, an ordinary house. The parents were both in attendance as were three children. The reporter said; "Mr and Mrs Smith have 2 children of their own, and a foster child."

"Eh?" said I to myself. As the programme went on I pieced together that if, for whatever reason, a child's own home couldn't look after them, they could go and live with another family who would "foster" them.

I put the idea of fostering in my back pocket and got on with being young. Years later it jumped up and bit me, and I'm SO glad it did.

But here's the thing; back then fostering was so unheard of I hadn't heard of it. Come to think of it, I'd never heard of a family breaking down. There were no children at any of the schools I went to whose parents had divorced. Divorce seemed only to happen to film stars. None of the children in my schools had any special needs. Or to be precise, the special needs those children had weren't recognised, never mind met.

Oh, I used to overhear gossip among parents; things like "the woman at the end of the road's too fond of gin". It was announced one morning in a school assembly that a pupil among the 600 at my secondary school was considered being referred to a specialist for counselling because he wouldn't stop bullying. 

But nowadays…

A relative of ours is a SENCO, a Special Educational Needs Coordinator. She's just told me that there are more children in her school have Special Needs than those that don't.

We've gone from virtually zero children detected to over 50%. And has it peaked? You bet not.

If you take an average assembly of 600, it's hard to imagine that a single one of the families represented don't have at least one backstory of broken relationships, bullying, serial incompetent bad decision-making, corruption, drug abuse, assaults, police interventions and so on. 

Is every house affected? Feels like it sometimes.

By the way, I didn't describe a school assembly back there. Nor when I mentioned 'house' did I mean a 3 bed semi. I was thinking the House of Commons. You know; the place where those chosen to lead us assemble every day...

Break-ups, breakdowns, broken dreams, broken homes.

The need for fostering has never been greater, and is set to grow even greater. Goodness only knows what the state of play will be in, say, ten years time.

I repeat my plea to anyone reading these blogs because they're considering giving fostering a go; get in touch asap.

There's a child out there who needs you.

I will always remember this moment; a tiny child joined us who'd had an awful time. A few weeks after she arrived she asked me why I hadn't come to rescue her sooner. I told her that if I had known what was happening to her I would have walked through hell and high water with a sledghammer to break open the door, sweep her up in my arms and take her to safety.

I would have too (well, metaphorically anyway).

Wouldn't you?

It's now something I do all day every day, and it's great.

You'll love it too, as will the kids you'll help.

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INDEPENDENCE DAY

 Apologies for my brief abscence; computer problem over, fingers crossed.

I suppose I could tax you with the details of the gradual decline of a laptop that had become a trusted friend. She knew me better than I did in some ways; she'd learned to anticipate my next move. Or so it seemed.

Then, just like so many poor people in our world today, she started being a bit slow, then a bit unpredictable, and finally downright difficult.

But, like so many people who stand by people who have begun that sad decline, I stuck by her as long as I could. Until, one morning I flipped her open only to be greeted by a symbol which was the equivilant of the road sign meaning "No Entry".

And that was her gone. 

The repair shop said she'd basically given up the ghost. They were able to retrieve some of the data on her - including, thank goodness, the Secret Foster Carer files. But as for the rest; a case of RIP old friend.

What I was able to do, though, which you can't do with loved ones, is buy a replacement.

And I'm on it now, finding it a bit tricky with it's shiny newness and facilities I don't know what to do with. But I'm not complaining.

It was one of those funny old days, the day my laptop died. 

Not only was my laptop dead, but so was the car. It struggled on the way back from the vet then, parked on our drive, wouldn't move an inch.

Not only that but our dog had to be kept in at the vet to be x-rayed because the operation they'd done on her back leg seems not to have taken and she's limping badly.

Not only that but I'm zonked on some bug or other. Headachy, stiff, sneezing, sore throat and can hardly keep my eyes open come 6.00pm! Tested negative for Covid and am due a flu jab soon, but deffo pretty rough.

So: 

Laptop         OUT

Car;             OUT

Dog:            OUT

Me:             OUT (Well, almost).

All on the same day. But y'know what? Nothing gets in the way of fostering when you foster…

Eldest came and talked to me. It was after midnight. There was a light tapping on our bedroom door. I knew that particular tap straight away, swung out of bed into my DG, and opened the door six inches.

I said "You OK?"

Eldest was standing there fully clothed and said:

"Can we have a chat?"

Now I don't mind telling you this made my day! (Or night, technically), because teenagers can be very monosyllablic if not downright non-speaking. So to get a request for a chat was heady stuff.

Turned out eldest wanted to buy and cook independently.

This would mean a budget for food, which eldest would buy in the shops, and there would have to be arrangements about who has dibs on the cooker, when and for how long.

This all might sound a bit drastic; a foster child shopping and cooking independently of the rest of the family, but I couild easily see what it was about and was happy to give it a green light.

See, children in care are even more enthusiastic about independence than other young people. How could they not be? Their birth family hasn't worked well, and they find themselves in with a family of strangers who - try as they might - will never be 'real' family. So their best bet seems to them to be to strike out on their own.

Obviously they can't set themselves up in accomodation and fend for themselves, not as minors.  But y'know what? A large part of our job with the older ones is getting them tooled up for the outside world. 

This was all a couple of days ago, so the plan is still alive. My guess is it will happen, but peter out after a few days. Young people often talk openly about their grand plans and get rewards from those who'll listen.

It can often end up with them almost feeling as if they've fulfilled their schemes by explaining what they are in advance. Once they've semi-experienced a pipe-dream they don't have any further need of it, so it's on to the next scheme.

I don't know when eldest thinks there's time for shopping and preparing and cooking and eating, followed by washing up and putting away. Not with all that Netflix to watch and homework and revision to squeeze in.

All that work will quickly be replaced by takeaways before the discovery that the budget simply doesn't stretch to Deliveroo more than twice a week. Then it'll be back to where we are now, with me as Head of Catering.

But. Eldest went off to bed one step nearer being independent. 

One step nearer being on control of creating a life that's well deserved and long overdue.

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Hi, sorry about this but my home computers have blown a gasket and I'm going to be out of communicado for a while.

Secret Foster Carer

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NOTHING ROUTINE ABOUT ROUTINES

 Routines.

I've learned down the years how vital it is for people to have routines.

I've got them coming out of my ears, and they all do me the power of good.

First thing every morning; I wake up, remember who I am and what day it is. Then I have a listen to make sure I'm first one awake. Then I slide back the duvet and squirm diagonally so my legs are sticking out, then sit up quietly. This is all to let my other half doze on. I slip my feet into my slippers, lift my dressing gown off the hook, silently open the door and close it noiselessly behind me. 

I go down the stairs careful not to creak the stairs, but no matter how quiet I am the dogs know I'm coming. Into the kitchen I go where I get one of those dog-welcomes that gladden the heart. I flick the kettle, which I filled last night, put the dogs' food bowls up on the counter so they know they've got food coming, then open the door to let them out for a quick pee. 

Knowing that their food bowls are up on the counter they also know that breakfast is imminent - it's the Routine - so they're back inside in 10 seconds. I don't want them to hang around outside because if they smell last night's fox they'll have a bark, and the neighbours don't want that.

Not at 5.35am.

I've been awake and existing for nigh on 10 minutes and haven't had to make a single decision.

This particular morning is different; I'm sitting at the kitchen table with the dogs at my feet and a cuppa tea at my elbow, writing today's blog.

All about Routines.

Kids who come to us for fostering have been through unthinkable chaos. I suspect the only Routines many of them have ever experienced have been negative ones. It's vital to build positive, rewarding Routines.

The best bet is to start small. Serve tea at the same time every night and find the best way to alert everyone that it's on the table, then stick to it. I had one child who was triggered by raised voices, so instead of shouting up the stairs I went up and whispered "Tea's ready'. Another child preferred a text message "Tea ready 17.33". I usually start building our Routines around food. I offer the same choices for breakfast. Then offer the same post-breakfast race "Bet you can't go up and clean your teeth and come down before I count to twenty." Followed by "Bet my teeth are whiter than yours…" Cue comparison in the hall mirror, which they win. 

Routines signal that all is well, everything's under control, there will be no sudden surprises.

One of my all-time favourite Routines was a child who experienced awful trauma at having to meet a family member for Contact. The adult in question was being investigated for horrendous crimes against the child, but until found guilty was entitled to insist on their statutory right to meet the child once a week. Contact can be my biggest bugbear in fostering, and this case was a standout travesty. I mean; would any adult put up with having to sit in a room for an hour once a week and 'play' with the alleged perpetrator of heinous crimes against them? Not in a million years. 

It went on for a whole year until the court case. Twelve months of it, once a week, every week.

And I had to deal with the car journey home between the Contact Centre and our house; about a 40 minute drive. The child would be in the back of the car, having a meltdown. 

This called for a Routine.

What would happen was this; I would pull into the first petrol station we came to. Same one each time. Contact always happened after school, so by the time we were heading home it was early evening, and the garage was quiet. I'd put some petrol in the car, and as I did the child would begin to quieten as they knew what was coming. I'd undo the child's seat belt and we'd both go into the shop to pay. The child didn't need to ask any questions; the deal every time was they could choose any sweets they wanted up to two pounds. I'd pay at the till, then say to the child; "I'll go and re-park the car, I'll only be two minutes." This I do so as not to block a petrol pump.

This "re-park" thing was all part of it. I'd leave the child in the shop in a state of near-bliss. Sweet shops are absolute Aladdins Caves for kids, and to know they have TWO POUNDS to spend on WHATEVER THEY WANT is both an anaesthetic and a euphoric. To top it all, the child is given independence - more than they've ever had - for 90 seconds. Imagine the sense of relief and freedom, that there was no adult hovering over them, bossing them.

The shop has a huge glass frontage and is well lit, so I can watch the child the whole time. Then I rejoin the child and we do the maths on the selected treats. The child would always (Routinely) try to squeeze a few extra pence on top to the two quid.

Did it every single time, always worked.

*    *    *

There, finished writing.

Back to my early morning Routines. It's now 7.15am and people are stirring upstairs. I have another Routine to attend to, in the front room.

Several years ago a friend moved home and asked us to look after their goldfish. "Jetski" - a foster child gave her the name - has been with us ever since. I decided she was lonely, so bought a bigger tank and a friend. The new goldfish hasn't got a name yet, so we refer to her as "Newbie". Actually that's her name I guess. Jetski and Newbie go everywhere side-by-side. Not that they can go far, but as we are told that goldfish have a memory of 3 seconds it probably doesn't matter they can't go far and wide.

Generally I'm not a fan of captive animals, but if I have to have them in our house I'll give them the best life.

Jetski and Newbie expect their breakfast at 7.15 every morning. When I go into the front room and open the curtains they're right there, up at the surface at the spot the food goes in, wagging their tails and frantically opening their mouths.

I even find myself chatting to them, same things. They don't know what I'm saying, but…

…memory span of 3 seconds or not; even goldfish love their Routines.

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SPOIL 'EM? YOU BET

 A recent comment from "L" set me thinking. L is singing the praises of McDs and how they can be a magic wand in fostering.

So true.

I found myself reflecting; foster carers have a mysterious image in the eyes of non-foster carers. Many are not sure what to make of us.

Are we a) some kind of angels on earth? super-parents? earth mothers and fathers with hearts as big as the great outdoors?

Or b) chancers who can't hold down a proper job? Dead-enders out of ideas, fallen back on incubating other people's kids.

My point is this. Although I believe the truth lies a lot closer to a) than b), we are only human and very human at that. You have to be human! Humanity is the name of the game!

Here it is, my point;

If the public saw us doing stuff such as dangling the prospect of a Maccy D in return for good behaviour, or using any other other (many) devices we use to achieve everything from major de-escalation to simple compliance - or even 5 minutes peace - they'd think we were nothing special.

But we often have to...shall we say...compromise our high ideals...

To paraphrase a German politician;

"The public must never know how sausages and fostering are put together."

Before I lay a few things bare, I have to stress that we never, ever trangress any of the golden rules of proper fostering. It's a noble profession and we always observe the highest standards. Truth, honesty, kindness, decency, good values, proper behaviour, proper language, high morals; we do all those things, to the very best of our ability.

But. Do we use fast food treats to get what's needed? Sometimes, yes. Do we allow crisps and biscuits and sweets popcorn and Coke? The sugary stuff? If the moment cries out for it, yes. Plenty of ordinary parents are able to take the high moral ground against snackfood, and other children's treats such as late nights and mobile phone use, good luck to them.

We foster folk are playing a different game, in a different league. There are times when we MUST indulge.

Times when we have to bend, be flexible. Give in, even. 

Meet their hopes and dreams, even if that dream amounts to little more than a second Magnum in one day.

Spoil them a bit. Yeah, spoil them rotten sometimes. Can we ever begin to imagine what they've been through? The world owes them a bit of recompense.

So; 

Do we discreetly re-do the washing up when they're watching TV when they've made a pig's ear of it, because we don't want to on their case all the time? Often, yes, and hundreds of other things like that.

Do we put up with bad language (sometimes), and even bad behaviour because we understand where it comes from? Yes, yes and very much YES. And so long as we square it with our own kids if we suspect they might think; "I wouldn't have got away with that…?", if it helps our foster children, then yes, yes, yes.

For example;

Caitlin was a 15 year-old who came to us when her birth mum was hospitaised and it looked like she'd be out of action for some time. No dad on the scene, mum's family somewhat to pot (pun intended). Mum had a problem with obesity, not to mention alcohol, tobacco and maybe other substances. 

Caitlin had understandably picked up some poor eating habits which needed to be managed. She was aware she wanted to lose some pounds, but didn't want to switch to salads, not for a while at least. She wanted - needed - her chips.

I talked to our Blue Sky social worker about it. We came up with a scheme; Caitlin deserved emotional security first and foremost, she could lose some pounds as soon as she lost some of her insecurities. A few weeks after she came to us her school threw a parents evening, which they dressed up as a social thing; quite a good idea actually. The pupils were invited too.

I don't often go to parents evenings, mainly as we foster parents have regular school meetings to track their schooling, but I decided to support the intiative.

There was food. A buffet. A help-yourself job.

Caitlin was in clover; crisps, cup cakes, twiglets, cheese things on toothpicks, pork pie quarters etc etc.

And some big sponge cakes, cut into wedges.

I hovered near Caitlin all evening without it looking obvious, I'm glad I did.

She'd dealt with the evening brilliantly. Several of her teachers wanted to tell me she should work harder, not cause trouble, try to be punctual…the usual. She took it well. As long as she had a paper plate with nibbles in one hand.

Then I saw her go up to the cake table and reach for a second wedge of cake.

The woman behind the table, not a teacher or parent, some kind of in-between who'd presumably had something to do with baking the cakes actually reached out and took the plate out of her hand saying;

"Excuse me, you've had one slice, don't be greedy."

Greedy!

I saw a bit of red mist. I went over, picked up a plate and served myself, then, right in front of the woman turned to Caitlin and slid the wedge onto her plate. It was all I could do to resist poking out my tongue. Then got worried that maybe the woman had only meant well, but nevertheless, it wasn't for her to judge. So I said sweetly;

"She's earned it. Had some really good reports."

Unfortunately Caitlin was nothing but embarrassed. At least, she told me in the car on the way home that she'd been SO embarrassed.

Mind, I knew she was partly angling for a bit of sympathy to negotiate a duck and dive into the One Stop before we got home, which I nipped in the bud.

We indulge them when it's right to do so, it's the professional in us.

We also know when to say no.

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