The current young generation are going to be alright.
I've long hoped - and suspected - the world will be safe in their hands; fostering only serves to confirm.
What happened is this;
Middle foster child has spent a first year at secondary school and has made a bunch of new friends.
There have been ups and downs with these friendships, nothing odd about that. It's always saddening when a foster child struggles with friends. Often they've been deprived of normal opportunities to learn how these things work, that's the case with this guy, who was kept out of school most of the time and away from other kids because the birth parents thought the child would somehow lead the authorities to them and they'd get somehow busted.
So on the many ocassions this last year when the child came home from school and ran upstairs to cry it was never because they'd got a demerit for talking in class or a bad mark in a history test. It was always because of peer group trouble.
Always.
Like most of us I spent more than 10 years sitting in classroom listening, and not one scrap of the information I believed I was supposed to memorise has come in handy at any time in life. I suppose perhaps I learned to organise my thinking a bit better. I know I found it useful comparing the different types of adults who stood in front of the class doing the teaching. I suspect I subconsciously chose to try to model myself on the bright, kind, accessible ones rather than the cold, remote ones.
Everything I learned at school that's stood by me down the years I learned in the playground, in the corridors, in the dinner hall. On the bus home, then hanging around outside the sweet shop. Having a laugh with friends. I learned my place in the world among my peers, and how I wanted to have fun and fit in life's duties.
And it's becoming the case with middle child.
Out of the blue came the request every parent loves to hear. It's music to the ears, our heart sings.
"Can I have a party?"
Only after we agree (with provisos) do us parents/guardians/carers remember from past experiences what we're letting ourselves in for.
So.
Me: "How many?"
Child "12".
Me; "You sure? There's usually an uninvited bunch turn up because they've heard there's a party and see if they can blag their way in."
Child "That won't happen".
Me; "Dancing?"
Child; "Doubt it. Can't really dance to Lounge."
Now when I was younger "Lounge" was something different. It was slow background stuff. Remember Sade?
Me; "No alcohol, obviously."
Child; "Obviously."
Me; "Do you want food? Y'know; snacks. Crisps, Doritos, Pringles…that stuff."
Child; "No. No Thanks. Deffo no thanks."
Me: "Interesting. What sort of a party are you planning here?"
Pause. The child had something up their sleeve, I could sense they were relishing telling me…
Child; "A dinner party."
Long story short, child threw a dinner party.
A "twelve".
Aged twelve.
My days, what a success. A handful of them arrived early with carrier bags of chicken breasts, fromage frais, fresh parsley, new potatoes, and baby carrots. There was a plate of charcuterie (I kid you not) for starters and a selection of cheeses or cheesecake to follow the main.
Luckily our dining table has extendable flaps (not that I've ever used them), and the chairs didn't match. But middle child made sure the plate mats matched, the cutlery was spotless and the candles lit.
We sat in the other room with the telly sound turned down trying to hear what was going on. Loads of laughter. Music by Sade (or some other retro-lounge artist).
It broke up about midnight with carriages awaiting. Middle child and bestie hung around chatting. Bestie's dear mum was held off until 1.00am for the collection. Come about 1.30am I had the downstairs to myself and set about the washing up. There was plenty of it, and no shortage of charred pots and baking trays. By the time I got done the birds were singing.
As was my little old heart.
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