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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