WHEN YOU ASK A CHILD TO DO A HOUSEHOLD CHORE

 An anonymous reader has commented on a post I wrote 7 years ago. I had to re-read the post so that I could reply to the comment, and I smiled re-reading something I'd forgotten writing. It was a quotation from a psychologist I met at Blue Sky. She said "No child has ever said to me 'My problem is that I'm loved too much'".

The reader wrote about how they've begun getting the children to do jobs around the house. Jobs like taking lunch boxes out of their backpacks when they come home and putting them on the kitchen table. The foster parent says it was tough at first but once the penny dropped they were able to add new chores, and it gradually became second nature. But more than that; doing jobs around the house increased their sense of self-worth and independence.

I try to do the same, I reckon we all do with our own children as well as children in our care. Sometimes, if I'm dog-tired or stressed out it's easier to do the job yourself than have the five minute argument. And often they don't do the job properly. Many's the time I've had to do the washing up a second time after their efforts were pretty poor.

This is the thing; getting them to do a job is about three extra jobs that could have been just one. You have to win the discussion about whether they should do it, supervise it, check that they've done it ok, then do it over again properly. Wait, that's four extra jobs.

And sometimes, not often, but sometimes, it can blow up in your face.

Like it did last night.

So. Eldest foster child is coming on apace. Not only do they tide up their room, but now, without being asked, go and get a bin liner and come down with a bag of empty plastic bottles, orange peel, a half-eaten sandwich, empty crisp packets…you get the picture.

Eldest's bedroom is a no-go area. I'm supposedly banned. Obviously I put a surreptitious head around the door when no-one's around, but generally do nothing to suggest that I've had a peek. His room is a bit of a mess, but I've seen worse. And like I say, the rubbish is brought down un-asked when necessary.

Last night I was finishing clearing the kitchen. You know, the enjoyable last bit where you wring out a damp J cloth and wipe the surfaces. The plates and cutlery were in a whirring dishwasher, the dog was fed, the breakfast things were out..I was all set for Love Island.

Then eldest appeared with a bulging bin liner. I made my usual neutral remark (they get to an age where praise is somehow insulting) and said something like "Oh nice one mate. Leave it there I'll sort it in the morning."

"Sort it" means I do the sorting of which stuff goes in the bin (food and food containers tarnished with food), and which stuff goes in the recycle bin.

The bin liner was plonked next to the kitchen door and I had to decide whether to sort it there and then (Love Island beckoned) or do it in the morning. I decided to do it in the morning, and was wondering about where it should spend the night; either outside on top of the wheelie bins (and hopefully out of reach of the fox), or maybe knot it at the top and leave it inside by the door, when suddenly….

The dog is choking. Choking hard. 

A choking noise I've never heard before or want to hear again. A deep, airless, gasping for breathe. Gasping for life itself. She had swallowed something and it was stuck.

If there is a dog-version of the Heinrich Manouvre I needed it, but there isn't.

I let fly an expletive and rushed to her. There was only one thing to do. With one hand I opened her mouth and with the other I reached into her mouth. Further and further my hand went down to the narrowing of the top of her throat. Nothing. Whatever it was it was out of reach.

Then.. wait! I felt something with the tip of my fingers. I reachen in a little further, really cautiously, conscious of the danger that I might push the object so far in I'd never get it back. I manged to get my first finger alongside the top of the object, then had to push a bit more to get my thumb against the other side of whatever it was.

Whatever it was was slimy with dog saliva, and somehow slimy in itself. Knowing I only had one shot I increased my grip and slowly pulled…

And out it came.

A chicken bone. One of the wing bones that are left over after someone has a KFC or Dominos pizza plus a side of wings.

It had all happened so fast that eldest was still standing in the middle of the kitchen having dropped off the biner liner of rubbish.

Panic over.

Except I was left shocked by the thought of what might have happened. I was angry with eldest, angry with myself for lack of viligance - I should have immediately checked there were no bones in the bag, eldest is old enough to order takeaway, I know he likes wings. Angry with myself that I hadn't drummed into him that we never allow chicken bones anywhere near where a dog could get them. 

It was a while before relief set in.

Sometime today I'm going to find a moment to explain to eldest that cooked chicken bones = death to a dog. I'll explain my strategy with them which is to wrap them tight in tinfoil and put them straight into the black wheelie bin and close the lid. They never get put in the kitchen pedal bin, just in case the dog learns to nose up the lid (it's happened). Most of all they never sit at the top of an open bin liner, catnip to any dog on a diet (which she is, that's another story).

All's well that ends well. It's 6.00am in our house and I'm downstairs with a cup of tea, been up since 4.30am when the dog started barking (she's just had a leg operation and is a bit anxious, all part of the diet story I'll get to another time) so I came down to comfort her. She's spread out on the kitchen floor.

Alive.

Eldest will sleep until about 11.00am as he's free today. He'll have his usual sore head when he does come down, so I'll have to pick my moment well.

I guess what I learned is something I already knew but failed in, namely assume they'll get their jobs a bit wrong and check their work as soon as you can without making it look as if you're looking to find fault.

Now I'm going to try to move on and forget the horror I felt when I feared the object was slipping out of my reach, that was the worst nano-second. 

Thank goodness for the hurly burly of a normal fostering family morning; you don't get time to dwell.

Bring it on. Please….