SO MANY WAYS TO CARE

 Just done a useful Blue Sky training session on managing allegations.

Until Covid, training sessions would be held at one of Blue Sky's offices, and that still goes on. Being in a room with fellow fostering folk can be really enjoyable, if you're a people watcher.

Which I am.

Obviously I don't allow my curiosity about the other people in the room to get in the way of the learning.

And managing allegations is such an important topic, you want to stay focussed.

But. Sometimes the leader asks us to give a brief description of ourselves. I often start with my staple; "My name is ****. I've been in fostering for thirty years, and I'm determined to stick at it until I get it right…"

Never gets a laugh, but a few wry smiles.

Then you get to hear; 

"My name is Andy, I was eleven years a soldier…"

"I'm Alice, I'm what they call a home-maker, our youngest left for University a few years ago and we had enough spare bedrooms, and I'd always fancied fostering…wish I'd done it sooner..."

"My name is Denise, I used to be a secretary at a publishing firm, I've never had any children of my own, but I and my partner kept on at each other about fostering…so one day..."

"Hi, I'm Gary. I used to be a professional footballer back when you could earn more as a milkman, so when I had to retire with a dodgy knee…"

"I'm Emma, I was NHS, but ended up burned out. After I took stock I wanted to be my own boss, but doing something useful and with decent support…"

"My name is Mohammed, we came here six years ago. I work from home in IT. My wife is at home today because one of our foster children is off school unwell…"

All of the above are true, I've changed the names. The point is; you get all walks of life in fostering.

Sometimes the leader asks us to tell us about our current or most recent placement.

My antenna goes into overdrive;

"We've got a 15 year-old girl whose father's doing ten years..."

"We've got three siblings whose parents have gone to live in a commune somewhere in Shropshire..."

"We've got a parent and child. The parent's had to be taught nursery rhymes to sing to the child because she was never sung any when she was little…"

All true. I could write a book.

But back to the training session on managing allegations.

The 'allegations' are things your foster child may say you've done unfairly - in their view - or complaints that the parents of your foster child might make.

It's rare, but important we know about the procedures and safety nets in place to support and protect us.

It sounds unsettling, but Blue Sky always get to grips with any allegations that are made and that's massively re-assuring. Mind, their professionalism means they ask fair questions aimed at establishing the true picture.

They care about the child, first and foremost - in fostering the child is paramount. The wellbeing of their foster carer comes a close second. Nobody's perfect, everyone accepts that, and fostering is challenging. Blue Sky are fastidious in looking after all parties if allegations ocurr, and a key take-away from training sessions is that we foster parents have a powerful bank of talented professionals at our back to sort things out. They train us to keep ourselves safe as well as keep our kids safe.

It was my fifth or sixth training session on managing allegations; the messages were pretty much as ever. But one thing was different.

It was a Zoom session.

Brilliant.

Besides avoiding an hour 's drive to get there, I could sit in my kitchen and look at other foster parents' homes.

Pure noseyness I know. But I justify it by saying it gives me additional background to what they tell us about themselves and their current kids.

I get curious about the decor and the wallpaper. Is that a Star Trek poster? Is that a crystal punch bowl on the sideboard? Who has a sofa in their kitchen? Oh wait, it's a kitchen/diner/sitting room with a telly in the corner, useful in fostering.

When the session ended the leader thanked everybody and one by one people left.

In the end it was just me, two other carers and the leader, shooting the breeze.

I don't say much at these things, I'm more interested in what other people have to say.

The leader said to me "Hello ****. You're sitting there listening quietly, is there anything you want to say?"

I said; "Yes".

See, one of the two carers still online was a man called Terry. At his left shoulder was a huge fishtank, all lit up and teeming with darting fish. I said "Terry, we've got a goldfish. Can you give them anything to eat other than the dry fishfood?"

Terry was made up. People love talking about something they know something about to someone who doesn't know as much as they do.

"Oh yes!" he replied, with a big smile. "Peas. They love peas. About twenty at a time. You have to microwave them for thirty seconds out of the freezer, then squeeze them out of the shell - they can't digest the shell - then crush them into a paste and drop them in."

Me: "What about baked beans?"

Terry; "They don't seem to like them so much."

Me: "Maybe it's the sauce?"

Terry: "Don't think so, I rinsed all that off before I crushed them…"

This person, Terry, knows what caring is. Bet he's a fantastic foster dad.

I thanked, him, the leader thanked him, and Jetski (our goldfish) thanks him. She now gets peas twice a week.

Fostering.

If you haven't yet; try it.

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YOU CAN'T STEAM FISH!

 We've just had a child stay with us for a couple of weeks.  A rare duration for a foster placement in my experience, but his was an unusual story.

We got the call on a Friday afternoon. 

Blue Sky said that the local authority was looking for a short-term foster home for a 14-year-old boy whose foster mother had been rushed to hospital.

The boy had arrived home to discover his foster mum on her bed. The poor woman was in pain, there was blood.

He phoned 999 and she was hospitalised. The paramedics learned that the woman was single and that the boy was her foster son, and that he had no-one else to look after him, and was too young to be left alone. They called social services.

A couple of hours later he arrived at our house.

Nathan.

After tea I sat with Nathan to learn what had happened.

Nathan;

"I've been fostered since I was eight. My dad's on the run. I never knew him. My mum's alright but she can't cope with my brothers and sister. She ended up all over the place. I'm the eldest so I kind of organised things. She got taken to court for a benny bend (benefit fraud) and they found out she was doing bad drugs and letting us look after ourselves. We had a load of social workers turn up. I got taken away and they put me with Maggs."

Maggie is the lady in hospital. 

Maggie, it turns out, is a comparative latecomer to fostering. A retired midwife, a divorcee with no children of her own. Apparently she's a cracking foster mum.

Nathan continued;

"So Friday, I comes home from school and no Maggs. She's always in the kitchen when I come in, cooking. She loves cooking. Every night, a proper dinner. None of your beans on toast or Mackie D. We had roast chicken this week. On a Tuesday! So when I gets in and she's not cooking, there's no pans on the oven or nothing, I'm like 'Hmmm…something's up'."

I was warming to this lad big time.

Nathan continued;

"So I calls out; 'Yo Maggs! Alright mate?'  Then I heard this sort of moan from upstairs, so I runs up and she's in her bedroom, so I asks 'Can I come in mate?' and she goes; 'Yeah'. So I goes in and… I tell you I was shocked. She was half on her bed an' half off, and her leggings had blood on them. Plenty of blood. Blood on the duvet too. My head went 'Jees, she been attacked!' But she hadn't. She went 'Nath love, I've got a problem. I need a doctor.'

He phoned 999 then tended to Maggs until the ambulance arrived. 

He was her rock.

Maggs was in pain, and was groaning. Nathan offered her paracetamol and a cup of tea but she knew not to take anything in case she'd need pre-op meds. Being a former medico she knew.

Nathan told me how he had to pretend to be less upset than he really felt in order to help Maggs be strong. He said he held her hand and told her she was wonderful.

While Nathan was on his way to us, Blue Sky gave us the bigger picture. Maggs had been diagnosed in need of an emergency hysterectomy. The discomfort had been growing for several weeks and they'd tried to tackle it with treatment, medicine and lifestyle changes (Maggs was on the big size, didn't exercise, and had previously been a smoker). She'd lived alone since her divorce, but since fostering had shared her life with Nathan who became her part-carer. Not in a major way. He became a sort of compassionate companion.

Yep. Maggie was caring for a young man who had begun to care for her.

Ain't life sweet sometimes?

Maggs op went well, but she needed to stay in for a minimum of 5 nights. Maybe 8.

On day 10 she told them she was going stir crazy and wanted to go home. Told the hospital they needed the bed. Told them she'd never felt better. She was walking, talking, bathing, using the loo by herself; everything.

There followed some serious conversations about how she'd be cared for. There'd be daily visits from a nurse, she was to take it very easy, stick to her medication, hydrate properly. She was given a diet, and had the option of pre-cooked meals and other essentials delivered. Plus a directory of telephione numbers to call for support.

Then came the crunch question; whether Nathan could go back to be with her.

The question was given massive - and I mean MASSIVE - consideration by all parties. I was included. So was Nathan.

The local authority decided to return Nathan to Maggs on her return home. He was made up. His local authority social worker collected him from us for him to be there when Maggs arrived. 

I was asked to be on standby to have Nathan again in case Maggs had any sort of setback, but as one social worker put it "Maggs is a tough cookie. Plus she's medical herself and won't take any chances as long as she's responsible for Nathen. Mind, there's no way she's going to have microwave meals in the house, so Nathan might have to learn to cook…"

It's been nearly a week and we've heard nothing, so everything's fine.

I'll never forget Nathan's guffaws when I showed him the diet sheet that Maggs would be on, and the meals he'd have to learn to cook under Maggs supervision. He went;

"Steamed fish? STEAMED fish? How d'yer STEAM fish? The batter'll fall off. It'll go manky."

I started to explain that he'd be steaming fillets of raw fish, and he laughed and said;

"Know what I love about you mate, you're such an easy wind-up."

Nathan is, as I said 14 years old technically. But thanks to his resilience, and Maggs care, and fostering, he's got a fantastic grown-up heart and mind.

Fostering isn't necessarily a fall-back for kids, often it's a springboard.

If you know where to look, it's often a springboard for us foster parents.

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RESCUE DOGS AND RESCUE CHILDREN

 For me, one of the biggest moments in fostering is when a new child arrives and the Social Workers leave.

Until the professionals say their goodbyes, we foster parents have a bunch of good people in our house working on the placement.

What usually happens is this. Having agreed to take a child arrangements are made to bring the child to our house. Blue Sky send one of theirs; usually the Social Worker who's going to be attached to us and the placement. The local authority's Social Worker, who've sought a home for the child, and whose ultimate responsibility is for the child, arrive in a car with the child and the child's belongings. 

As you can imagine it's a big day for all concened, especially the child.

Not to mention the foster parent.

In my experience both of the Social Workers remain in your house for a while, everyone getting to know each other. There's often a bit of paperwork which I leave to the Social Workers, but I'll sign where they ask me to.

Then.

They leave. 

And we have a child in our house who belongs to someone else but needs our help.  And there's no-one else to help them but us. Our family, our home. And me, mainly.

This is fostering.

I've learned to give the child a quiet tour of the house, especially the bathroom and toilet; demonstrate how the loo flushes and that the towels are communal, but if they would like one or two towels exclusively for themselves, happy to provide.

I show them their room, show how the lights work and the door handle. Then, depending on their age, I let them put their stuff into the clean, empty drawers, telling them to come on downstairs when they're unpacked, and that I've got juice and biscuits. Nothing much elicits co-operation as much as snacks.

From that point on, the foster parent is basically winging it. Learning as much as you can about the individual who's just joined your family unit, while at the same time getting started on helping them feel wanted, cared for and, as the phrase properly goes "looked after".

Next up; your family come home and meet the new arrival; we keep it low-key - it's always a bit awkward what with natural shyness. But as a foster parent you're picking up clues all the time.

We foster parents learn a bundle in the first 24 hours.

Lucy was a case in point. She was six when she arrived. Small for her age (they often are) and with blue veins showing on her arms that suggested possible malnourishment. Not enough was known about her at this early stage to determine whether her poor diet was through neglect (common) or actual abuse (rare but yes, some 'parents' use food deprivation to try to excert control over their children).

Lucy had arrived at 2.30pm, my own kids were due home from school about 4.30pm, my other half home from work around 5.45pm, so dinner was aimed for about 6.00pm. Around 5.00pm I was in the kitchen knocking up spag boll. 

Lucy was in the garden bonding with our dog.

We knew that Lucy had been given bad times by the woman she'd been removed from, but was holding herself together on day one with us, as is usually the case.

Nobody knew much about the 'bad times'.

I drifted to the kitchen window to watch her and our dog - who was called "Dog" BTW, because my partner is a John Wayne fan and The Duke had a dog called "Dog" in one of his Westerns.

Lucy was berating Dog because Dog wasn't sitting on her command.

"Listen sister, either you play ball or it's consequences. You want that? Just try me, go on I dare you. You wanna go for it? I'll drop you like a bag of dirt you little piece of …"

I could go on, but the air turned blue.

Right there, right then, I got Lucy. She let me see she'd been handling a tyranny for her first 6 years.

I said nothing, went back and stirred the pot of spag sauce. And had a clearer idea of how to stir the pot of Lucy's life.

Long story short; Lucy's ok. She left us after 3 months, the Local Authority found a permanent home.

Dog was ok too. 

Rescue dogs often have a wavelength with rescue children.

Foster parents an even better one.

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LOOKING AFTER YOURSELF

 In fostering you get quiet moments.

Not a lot of them, but by golly they're welcome.

Fostering is hectic enough without us foster parents keeping up the pressure on oursleves when we get the house to ourselves or some other breather from the hurley-burley.

You have to make the most of "me-time" when it comes along.

Blue Sky are always advising us foster parents to look after ourselves, because, they say, if we foster parents aren't at the top of our game our fostering won't be at its best.

I seem to use our kitchen table as my oasis. When I've got everyone to school I make myself a cup of coffee and sit at the table with a scrap of paper and make a shopping list. I don't really need a list, it's all part of the therapy. Creating order.

Here's the thing; when I'm chilling at the kitchen table, and our foster children are at home, they notice and are drawn for a chat.

Chatting with one's foster child; golden moments. 

I know a fine foster parent who, every day after school, insists her foster children each have five minutes with her talking about their day and their life and times. It works for her, and presumably the kids, so good luck.

I prefer it when the child comes to me, wanting to talk.

Andrea was seven when she came to us, and became a huge fan of joining me at the table. 

It didn't matter that there were cartoons on the telly, or that she was in banana territory (one banana up to but not nearer than an hour before tea). If I was sat at the kitchen table she would drift, casually, but with purpose, towards the table. 

And end up on one of the chairs. 

Her choice.

I'd often have a little pile of blank paper and some felt tips, and I'd doodle some silly images. Andrea would silently copy me.

I'd chuck out a deliberately flattering remark such as "Next time you're in the living room tell me if you think the fishtank needs cleaning". 

Then I'd fall silent. There'd usually be a long pause, then she'd kick in;

"When am I going home?"

"Is my mummy alright?"

"Why am I here?"

I would answer as best I could, as we foster parents answer all the enormous questions that foster children ask.

Andrea had been neglected. As I understand it (and I'm only a foster carer) , there are four offences a child can be removed from their home for; physical, emotional or sexual abuse, and neglect.

I once had a child who'd been subjected to all four, I won't detain you with that, not today. Except to say that thanks to fostering; thanks to our care and Blue Sky, that child is now ok. Or at least as ok as any of us can be.

Back to Andrea. Neglect is an insideous cruelty. The parent often genuinely doesn't believe they've done anything wrong. They haven't physically harmed the child; but they've ignored the child's need for love, care, engagement, play, nurture… that stuff.

Andrea had learned to feed herself.

Alright, this bit is shocking, but it's fostering.

Andrea learned that the five dogs in the house got fed every morning and evening, and that if she was canny she could get some scrapings - at risk of a bite - when they were going at their bowls.

All this stuff came out at the oasis that's my kitchen table.

Andrea's 'partner' - not Andrea's father, some bloke - was moved on and took his pack of dogs with him and Andrea went home.

As far as I know Andrea is ok.

And at my kitchen table quiet times go on...

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FEEDING THEM

 We foster parents are expected to provide our foster kids with their "Basic Needs".

The"Basic Needs" as set out by a revered expert called Maslow.

The most basic of basic needs - the bottom layer of the heirarchy Maslow says - are; food, water, warmth and rest.

After providing those we provide the next layer; security and safety. And so it goes up to the top of the heirarchy of needs. The top layer is where we help the child achieve "self-actualisation", meaning that they fulfill their potential.

But to start, we provide the most basic needs.

And it's always chimed with my experience that a foster child's most basic need is food.

Angelo came to stay with us a couple of summer's ago, he was aged 10. He looked as though he might have been a happily chubby child, he had a face that wanted to be pleasantly round, but he was haggard, drawn in at the cheek bones. One of the first things we did was have his eyes tested and he ended up with spectacles. His teeth weren't great either, which the dentician put down to poor diet.

As the days became weeks we slowly unearthed how appalling his diet had been.

He had possibly never eaten a cooked meal, at least not at home.

He'd not had many school meals either as he'd hardly ever attended school. His mother didn't want teachers to spot that all was not well at home. It's not an uncommon thing.

Angelo had lived off larder stand-bys; biscuits, crisps and crackers. Sometimes "sharing" the end of a burger bun or a half-eaten KFC wing being gnawed on by one of the adults. I pictured him squatting at the foot of a gobbling grown-up, salivating like a puppy in the hope of a treat.

I learned years ago the absolute importance of making sure that certain foster children learn that in their foster home there's ALWAYS enough food, and that they'll be well fed.

A few foster children that have come our way needed to have their eating habits adjusted downwards, that's a blog for another day. Not Angelo.

I told Angelo from day one that the bowl of fruit in his bedroom was his to eat as he chose. I told him we ate breakfast on the go in the morning and showed him that there'd be sliced bread laid out for toast with margerine and peanut butter. There'd also be a box of cereal and milk, easy on the sugar please, just the one level teaspoon.

He would take a packed lunch to school, and was allowed a banana, or sometimes a bag of crisps, when he got home to hold him until tea-time. Tea was served at the table with everyone allowed to load up their plates as they wished from the bowls of food laid out.

Many things about fostering make you happy; Angelo's "Wo!" at the sight of a tub of spaghetti and another tub of sauce, a plate of garlic bread, a bowl of grated parmesan and a salad (lettuce tomato cucumber) still lives with me.

Angelo spent the whole summer with us, we had regular updates that his mother - with whom he had contact every week - was "sorting herself out".

Then this happened.

Angelo came to me in the kitchen and said; "Would it be okay if I cooked for myself from now on?"

What?!

Of course I didn't go "What?!", I said something like "Sure. You might need a bit of help at first."

He replied "I can make my own toast already."

I talked it over with our ever-fantastic Blue Sky Social Worker, who shone some light.  I told her I felt a bit miffed, but she told me to take it as a compliment. She said that Angelo had seen the beauty of a kitchen being used properly and wanted a piece of it. Also; he wanted to know that if he found himself fending for himself, he could manage. His request was all about independence.

Can you imagine? At age 10? To fear you might be all alone?

So. Project "Chef Angelo" began.

Safety first; no frying or boiling saucepans. Plus me at his side throughout. Angelo learned how to make beans on toast using the micro, but that wasn't enough for him.

Next, he covered a cup of instant noodles with hot water from the kettle.

He was tall for his age, and well co-ordinated. So, under my scrupulous supervision he cooked some pasta and heated some Dolmio.

He asked if he could eat privately in his room, which was clearly another signal that he was looking forward to being independent. And that FOOD was the starting point for his journey into freedom.

Angelo's bid to become the next Jamie Oliver fizzled out after about 3 weeks. He re-joined us for family meals.

But in that time he'd learned a few basics about cooking and providing his own food.

And Food is number one on Maslow's heirarchy of needs.

He'd also begun his journey towards fulfilling his potenital, which is the ultimate need on the heirarchy.

So; all bases covered.

He returned to his mother after 5 months with us, and I just hope, with his new-found confidence, he put himself in charge of catering…

Even better, that he's fulfilling his potential.

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FOSTERING AND PHONES

 Children in care need their phones.

Look, I know all about the potential pitfalls, I've attended more Blue Sky training sessions on IT and mobile phones than you can shake a stick at.

On top of what I've learned I use my own native intelligence to keep our foster children safe.

But; make no mistake. They NEED their phones.

They need them big time.

So as foster parents, working with our Social Workers, we have to find what the professionals call a pathway to what they call best practice.

Gary is eleven, and when he came to us the had his own phone. Younger children sometimes have teddy bears. Older children have phones and skateboards, stereo keyboards and alleged boyfriends in Thailand.

I'll elaborate another time.

Gary had his phone, an oldish one, heavy to look at but it connected him beyond his life to a wider world.

His phone needed topping up, which we paid for, then talked to him about getting a deal that would be cheaper.

Gary was not a talker, you often get this in foster children. One Saturday I asked him;

Me: "We're thinking of upgrading your phone to a deal which would give you more airtime at a lower cost."

Gary; "Whatever".

Me: "Would you be okay to come into town on Saturday and go to a phone shop and see what they can do?"

Gary; "Nah."

The following Monday Gary had a tricky day at school, at 9.30am he was due to be assessed.

Knowing that playtime was 10.30am I pulled a trick I've used plenty of times; I started a mobile phone text dialogue with him. I typed;

Me: "How'd it go?'

Gary typed back; "Better than I thought. The whole thing was sicky, Asked me a bunch of questions which were a piece of p**s, it was sick"

Me; "Sick!?"

Gary; "Yeh.'Sick' 

Me; "Sick"

Gary; "FCS… 'sick' means good".

Best chat I ever had with Gary, top kid. OK he spoke using the language of the day, used the tech of the day.

Gary repaired in his time with us. His phone helped.

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KIDS AND SPIDERS

Fostering is wonderful in many ways, but it does make you softer, I think.

You give a bit more to the poor homeless person in the shop doorway, buy a spongee you don't need from the lad who rings your doorbell saying he's just out of remand and trying to go straight.

A while ago we took in a tiny little dog that no-one wanted. She's dying, basically. But we're all comforting her and trying to make her last months here not too bad. Blue Sky waived their normal dog vetting procedures, the little mutt has no teeth left. BS have a heart too.

Our foster kids are, I think, touchen bu this basic humanity.

What happened was this.

I sit at our kitchen table to do the family paperwork. In use a PC and a wee angle poise lamp to light up the keyboard. My laptop keyboard lights itself, but the PC one is an add-on, no back-lights. Sorry, going off on a tangent.

A couple of nights ago  I was doing our accounts spreadsheet (foster carers get preferred rates of income tax, more of that another time, yawn - but good yawn). When I noticed a tiny amber coloured spider hanging from the lamp by a single thread.

When I say tiny, I mean smaller than a pinhead.

Next morning I sat down at the same place, and lo and behold she had spun the most delicate little web between the bottom of the lamp and the top of my mouse mat.

I was intoxicated by her. A web, so delicate, about the size of a palm print, so gossamer it was almost invisible.

One of our foster children (we've 2 at the moment) showed themselves for breakfast.

I said "Look what Elizabeth's done."

Child came in close and muttered "So?"

Fair enough. Children coming into care have so much work to do to care about themselves, they're often not going to care about other people much. Or spiders.

Then he asked; "What do you mean "Elizabeth?"

I said that I'd decided to call her Elizabeth.

This changed things. 

Child came in closer and could see the amazing web. We wondered how the heck she could have done it without the skills of …Spiderman.

He asked what I was going to do about her and I said I was going to look after her.

He went off and made his usual bowl of cereal.

Next morning he came down and asked, as casually as he could fake;

"What's with Elizabeth?"

I replied;

"Not good I'm afraid, one of her strands has come away and the web is much smaller."

Child reacted;

"You need to turn off the light, it gets hot and that's what ruined the web!"

Child might have a point.

So here's my thing.

Tomorrow the spider might have spun another web, in which case me and foster child will have learned something about persevering. 

Or not, in which case the child and me will be reminded that life is hard, often unfair, but it has its moments.

Which is probably what I try to instill into many of our foster kids.

As I sit here looking up from my PC, I see Elizabeth looking.. er at me...I dunno…can spiders be thoughtful?

Kids in care can, for sure.

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GETTING REJECTED

 It's been an interesting couple of days.

Mind, I could probably describe any 'couple of days' in fostering as 'interesting'.

You don't get bored when you foster. No siree.

What happened was this;

My phone rang and I could see from the screen it was Blue Sky.

Joy of joys it was their Placement people calling to ask the golden question:

"Would you consider taking a child who…"

I've had my phone light up with Blue Sky asking this question countless times (a hundred maybe..) and it never ceases to quicken the pulse.

During the quick call - and it's quick - the potential foster parent is given a pen picture of the child including any details that might make it a no-no for the potential foster parent. Blue Sky never pressure anyone, fosterng requires absolute concensus, the prize is too precious for anyone to gamble.

That said, I have always replied "Yes" to the question.

What happens next is that the Placement team provide every scrap of information they have about the child, the history and problems with the child's family. It arrives electronically provided you have the technology (I know a very good foster perent who doesn't do email).

And you sit at your kitchen table sifting through the notes.

The child is called Destiny, age nine. Destiny is, in the new parlance, a designated male.

Destiny, the eldest of four children, lives with his mother. The father is absent, and Destiny appears to be the father-figure in their home. 

Destiny's mother is in police custody after a drug squad smashed a gang who were using what's called County Lines to sell cocaine and other stuff to kids.

County Lines is a criminal practice aimed at making police investigation almost impossible. It must have been invented by a drug dealer who knew how police forces are set up. The phrase "County Lines" is based on the simple fact that if a criminal crosses the boundaries between two separate police forces, the responsibility for investigating the crime comes under dispute. So all a drug runner needs to do is collect the package in one area, get on a train and cross county lines, pass the package on in a different area, and if intercepted leave the police to worry where the crime occurred.

The gang leaders groom youngsters to carry out the drug runs because they are cheap (a pair of trainers or a video game would be payment) and they're easy to boss.

Destiny was one of the gang's runners.

And, almost certainly; a user. 

Aged nine.

So; as a foster parent one reads the information and forms a picture of the child you're being asked to come live with you.

The optimist in you imagines, in the case of Destiny, an innocent victim who longs for a normal home with a family that cares. The pessimist sees a child who sells and uses hard drugs and is maybe more street smart than the average foster parent could ever be.

In the words of a former Prime Minister, I'm an optimist who carries a raincoat. I'd kept my partner informed all along the way, he was at work, he agreed. I said "Yes" to Destiny.

And began preparing in case we got the green light.

The file on Destiny had touching details. His favourite TV programme was "The Magic Garden". Favourite takeaway KFC. He liked gaming (they all do), his ambition was to create internet content.

After saying yes one simply sits and waits. The child's Local Authority, who from the point that they intervene seek parental rights over the child (but it's a process - a quick one but not instant), are sat in a room sifting through the offers to take the child.

My phone rang about an hour after I'd said yes, it usually takes them about that long to decide.

It was a young person with a heavy accent offering to upgrade our washing machine insurance.

About half-an-hour after that I was becoming hopeful. I've always figured the Local Authority assess the potential foster homes and knock out the ones that they think wouldn't work. Often geography is the key, it's best to be nearby the child's real home but not too nearby.

The longer it takes for the verdict to come through, the more you start to believe it's going to be you.

So by this point I'm wondering if we'll be ordering a KFC delivery that evening, and checking Destiny's bedroom to ensure it's acceptably grown-up for a person aged nine, going on twenty-nine.

The phone rang again. Blue Sky Placement Team...

So sorry, they said, but Destiny wouldn't be coming to us.

Some sort of red tape mix-up meant that although Destiny was with the police, he hadn't been arrested; (you have to be 10 years old or older) and the legal paperwork that give the Local Authority parental rights over the child hadn't yet gone through.

Or something like that, I'm not a lawyer.

A youngish man had turned up at the police station saying he was Destiny's uncle and had arrived to look after Destiny. The police did their job and checked out the person's credentials. They asked Destiny about the 'uncle', and he seems to have satisfied them; apparently Destiny knew a lot about the guy.

My guess. Your guess too I guess; Destiny is out there crossing County Lines, snorting stuff and day-dreaming.

Dear Lord, I wish I could have got him to our house…

Good luck Destiny.

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 If you foster with an agency as opposed to with your Local Authority you get better support. OK that's just my opinion, but it's how it seems to me.

I'm not knocking Local Authority care and support of foster parents, but if a foster parent is with an agency they get not one but two social workers offering help, advice and support.

A quick word to non-UK readers of this blog, obviously different countries have different systems, but they're probably fairly similar.

In the UK our country is divided up into Local Authorities which govern local regions of the UK.  They're mostly based on counties. They don't have as much legslative power or authourity as US states have, but they control their own department that deals with fostering, and in the UK that department is called "Social Services".

So what happens here is that if a child needs to come into care it's the Local Authority and their Social Workers who enforce that. 

However, Local Authorities often have a limited number of potential foster carers on their books and that's when fostering agencies can help.

Agencies - and Blue Sky is standout - nurture foster parents from the get-go to approval, puting time, expertise and investment into ensuring that their carers are primed, ready, and - crucually set to be shepherded day-on-day by Blue Sky.

I didn't realise the hard thing of this until way baxck we were about 6 weeks into our fostering. What happened was this;

A girl had been placed with us who had endured many disturbing things in her real home. Khala.

Khala was sort of pre-triggered. "Triggering" is when a person is made to be upset by something that reninds them of something.

A child who gets triggered generally takes a while to become upset; they usually ruminate fof 10-15 minutes about things that have happened, then they get upset.

Khala was, what we labelled "Pre-triggered." Ready to go ballistic almost every moment. 

Me arriving at school to pick her up wearing a hat she hated: anger.

A key in the front door - meltdown.

Being offered a bag of crisps to hold her until tea; hysteria.

So. A tricky one. They all are, mostly.

The Local Authority Social Worker showed up and wanted to know all about Khala, which was cool, we got that; the child is paramount.

The day after next our Blue Sky Social Worker turned up.

And wantwed to know about US.

Look, of course she cared about Khala, but she knew that Khala was the main responsibilty of the `Local Authority. 

And Blue Sky's thing is their foster parents.

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PARENT AND CHILD

 I went to a dinner thing many years ago, the guest speaker was an Air Traffic Controller.

We used to live near a major airport and practically everyone we knew worked at the airport in one capacity or another.

The speaker was chosen from an after-dinner speaker agency a) because he would talk about the airport, and b) because he was known to be terribly funny.

He was hilarious.*

His opening line was pure gold;

"I've been an air traffic controller for 30 years. And I'm going to stick at it until I get it right…"

The expression of theatrical terror on his face had us holding our sides for a full minute.

I mention him because his joke has become a staple reply of mine when anyone asks how long I've been in fostering;

"I've been in fostering for 30 years and I'm going to stick at it until I get it right…"

See, the underlying theme of the gag is that there are always new things to learn, old things to improve on. The consequences of not being quite right in fostering are not as horrendous as a plane crash, but we are dealing with lives.

And improving what we do is one of the reasons we're considering applying for a Parent and Child  placement….again.

We had put our toe in the water with Parent and Child a long time ago. To give you an idea how long ago, it was then entitled "Mother and Baby". Blue Sky updated the title because they discovered that sometimes it was the father who needed help, and the child was not necessarily a baby.

Parent and Child is challenging in a singular, unique, and in many ways harrowing respect.

It's this; the foster parents can be called on to play a pivotal role in a major life-changing decision, namely; whether the parent is up to the job of parenting the child. Or whether it would best for all if the child were removed from the parent and put up for adoption or permanent care.

I hold my hands up and admit that when we first had a Parent and Child placement we wobbled.

We knew in our heart of hearts that the parent probably wasn't up to it, but held out in the hope we could help fix the parent's shortcomings and everything would be alright.

We probably tried too hard to help them stay together. Only out of compassion, but looking back; the child deserved a clean start. There was a waiting list of families who wanted to adopt, and they deserved consideration; the longer the child was being parented by an inadequate parent the more likely that some damage was occurring.

I have to say that Blue Sky were immaculate in guiding us and supporting us as we edged towards reporting to the Local Authority that the parent and child should be split up. The Local Authority needed to look after their budgets and Parent and Child is a big cost to their system. Also; they had the child's needs at the top of their agenda. Looking back, I believe they made up their mind pretty quickly that the child should be put up for adoption, but needed the foster parents (us) to indicate the parent's unchanging inadequacies.

Blue Sky looked after me and our family as their priority, that's how it works with them. They knew we were a family who found it hard to be hard, but sometimes you have to be hard.

Short story long; the child was adopted.

The parent became pregnant again within months her third child, it was all over Facebook. She was not yet 18. Our understanding is that all three are adopted.

We plan to discuss that we might try Parent and Child again with our Blue Sky social worker, to make sure we're not simply trying to prove to ourselves that we know how to learn. Fostering isn't about the foster parents, it's totally about the child.

Since middle child went home (sigh) we have a spare room with a double bed and a cot in the loft...

I'll keep you posted…

* The Air Traffic Controller had us in stiches with stories. Here's two of his;

One morning the pilot and co-pilot of a London to Manchester shuttle were bored. So as the passengers filed aboard they put on coats over their uniforms and sat in empty passenger seats. They allowed 5 minutes to pass before the pilot stood up and said;  "I'm due at a meeting in 35 minutes I can't wait any longer. My father was a pilot in the war, it's not that hard. Can anyone here navigate?" The co-pilot got up and said "I've got an O level in geography". The pilot said "That'll do. Let's you and me take this crate to Manchester.." And off they went up to the cockpit, with the passengers suitably gobsmacked.

And; one afternoon, on a ten hour flight to Los Angeles, the plane on auto-pilot, the pilot tied two long lengths of string to the joystick, one on each arm. He then began backing down the aisle, holding the string taut. When he got to the end of the plane, next to the toilets he said to a woman passenger;

"Could you keep her on a steady course, I'll only be a couple of minutes."

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FOSTERING'S BIG QUESTION; WHO'S NEXT?

 When a foster child goes back to their real home, it means a number of things for the foster home.

One stands out.

You now have a spare bedroom, so the excitement begins again.

We're in that boat today, now middle child has returned home.

First up, Blue Sky check out where we're at with our fostering. They do this with all their foster parents who have a room available. They need to verify that the family in the foster home are ready willing and able to take a new child, and if so what sort of profile would be best for all concerned.

Would we prefer an infant or an older child? Are there any specific features of a potential placement that we would be uncomfortable with?

I usually reply "Try us, send us the child's details, the worst we can do is say "No thanks."

We haven't said "No thanks" yet.

In our way of fostering all children are challenges with the potential to be immensely rewarding, and it's our job to help them feel rewarded and rewarding, and to get them to reward us with their progress through a difficult childhood.

When asked about the profile of our next child I sometimes joke with our Social Worker; "Oh, any of the Sound Of Music children would be okay." and we break into a quick burst of "The hills are alive…".

Then return to the real world.

Fostering desperately needs more Carers.  Everyone who fosters should see themselves as in recruitment.

I've got someone nibbling at the hook right now, an old acquantance I hadn't spoken to for donkeys, who got in touch out of the blue. She said she merely wanted to 'catch up', but quickly raised that she'd heard from a mutual friend that I fostered.

She asked; "How are you finding it?"

It's a hard question to answer in ten seconds; I knew she wanted her first inquiry to sound matter-of-fact and off-the-cuff. But she was deffo interested in learning if fostering was for her.

I replied; "Well I first got approval around the time Duran Duran were the number one band. So if I can stick it out that long, there must be something in it."

The chat meandered elsewhere, but I was pretty sure she'd been Googling "Fostering", and I'm also pretty sure the topic will come up again between us, but it's important I don't get pushy.

Why foster? For me, it's the best thing I've done for literally countless reasons. Those reasons range from the endless highs you get when children say things such as "Can my family come and stay with you to learn what it's like to be a proper family?" to the highs you get when a child that's arrived in turmoil finally settles one afternoon after school with a bag of Hula Hoops and a bottle of Ribena, sucking their thumb while cuddling the dog on the utility room sofa watching a superhero cartoon on a knackered TV with a look of peace all over them.

Fostering helps pay the bills. Foster parents receive an allowance for each night the child is with them. It covers the bills (the child's clothes, food, transport and other) but still leaves a substantial amount to help the foster parents maintain their home and family. Plus (not to sound mercenary) the Tax people treat the income in a special way such that we retain the lion's share. 

I'm not saying people should consider fostering for the money, but we all have to eat and mend the roof.

Short story long; we had our Annual Review with Blue Sky yesterday. Goodness, Blue Sky leave no stone unturned. Our SW filled in a 10 page questionairre about us and our fostering. We signed it off and it was passed up to an independent Review Officer who read it cover-to-cover, then we all got together for a video conference that lasted best part of two hours.

We passed. No recommendations!

Actually it was very enjoyable, very therauputic. In my experience of the workplace from the past you rarely recieved a quality interface on how you are in your job, what's working, what could be even better. But that's what the Annual Review is.

The Annual Review usually ends with the Review Officer inquiring "What's next for you in fostering?"

Which translates as "Please keep going!"

To which we replied "We're thinking of asking for a Parent and Child placement…"

In many ways, one of the biggies.

I'll keep you posted...

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PUTTING ONE OVER

 Sometimes being in fostering has hidden perks.

So there I was in the doctors' waiting room waiting my turn. I was wet and cold with the winter rain outside.

I needed the doctor to see about a trapped nerve in my neck. It came on suddenly, I'd lain awake at night in discomfort, wondering where it had come from.

Probably picking up toddlers and holding them to my right shoulder (have you noticed almost all mums and dads of babies hold them with their head to the parent's left side, but when they get toddlerish you hold them to the right?)

Sorry, off message.

So. There were about 6 of us sat there staring at our mobile phones, me too, and because I'm who I am I said out loud:

"This weather makes everything feel worse doesn't it?"

There was a muttering of agreement, but one lady chipped in;

"It just goes on doesn't it? Cold and damp and grey. And they say the planet is warming up."

I didn't pick up on that. The planet is not just hotting up, it's burning up. I didn't want anyone thinkng I was a Just Stop Oil militant, although sometimes I wish I was.

Two of the other people waiting were men, they didn't join in the muttering, some men feel difficulties pitching into conversations women are having, I don't know why.

One of the women waiting was rather grand. She was togged up in her best, made up to the nines, hair well done, possibly a wig. Some people with not enough to do in their day turn a trip to the corner shop for a carton of milk into an event and deck up like they're going up west with a new man.

I put my foot in it.

I said; "Oh look at us all on our phones."

The grand lady said, grandly;

"I don't allow them in our house past the front door. When my children and grandchildren come to stay they have to put their mobile phones in a basket next to the front door."

Her remark was about showing herself being ahead of the game.

But you have to be up early to be ahead of a foster parent.

I'd recently been on a Blue Sky training session about mobile phones. Fascinating. I was able to reply to her;

"There are ways young people get round that sort of rule."

She replied "Oh yes? And what that may be? Their phone is sat there in the basket next to the front door."

So I replied;

"Well, I'm not saying your children or grandchildren do this when they come to stay with you. But let's face it, you're confiscating something that's important to them, and you simply might not be as far ahead of them as you think."

She replied; "How can they use their mobile phones when the phones are in the phone basket?"

So I said" "I'm in fostering. We get training in things like this. Do you want to know how the kids get round your phones-in-a-basket rule?"

"Yes!" she replied, a bit smug. How could anyone outwit her?

Answer; a foster child.

So I explained.

"They buy a second mobile phone for peanuts, you can pick one up for a fiver on eBay or at the market. When they get home from school they take the Sim Card out of their second phone and put that phone in the basket. Then they go upstairs, put the Sim into their number one phone and on they go.

The look on Mrs Posh's face was priceless.

It's the sort of street cred stuff we get tutored in by Blue Sky. It helps us know what's going on. The question of how we deal with what's going on in our home as foster parents is down to our own wit, but we have the the support of our social workers. 

Cheap of me, I know, but I enjoyed putting one over on Mrs Grand.

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FOSTERING THROUGH THE NIGHT

 Night time is always worth plenty of thinking about in fostering, because for the foster parent it can seem a lonely time. We get plenty of support, there's always someone at Blue Sky, or whatever one's agency or local authorority is, we can phone or email if there's something. 

During the day.

But out-of-hours (night time), we inevitably feel a tad more alone. Blue Sky have a  24 hour service and that's great, I did call once, and got good advice, but the officers don't quite feel the same as the social workers who know your case inside out.

It's easy, sometimes, to get your foster child to bed. The process towards bedtime almost begins when they get back from school. Weekends are slightly different, but from the evening meal onwards, bedtime looms.

Some kids are cool and go upstairs fine. Some argue the toss wanting another half-hour.

One way or another we parents push a bit and get what we need. 

Then we come downstairs and settle in front of the telly.

But in fostering night-time doesn't end there.

99% of the time, the actual fostering does; the job is done until the following morning. But some nights it's different.

The difference is down to the fact that we know our own children and their sleeping patterns, and have learned them from the day they were born. We get their quirks of going upstairs, getting into bed, being left alone after the usual "Night night, sleep well, see you in the morning."

But when you foster, the evening routine has a twist on normal parenting, not  necessarily a twist for the worst, merely a new thing.

Put simply; we don't know how our foster children sleep.

Just think about the lighting thing;

Some like a nightlight, some like a landing light left on and their door half-open. Some like a full bedsite light on. I had a 17 year-old once, could only sleep with the main bedroom light and the bedsite light on.

Some need to go to sleep wrapped in a duvet on the sofa and get carried upstairs once they've gone.

Some simply fight sleep and are still flipping and flopping at 11.00 o'clock.

A quick story about a girl called Kathy who came aged 14. 

Sorry, this story is unsettling, but has a happy ending.

Kathy's father had been imprisoned, and before she arrived we knew and were informed about the reasons for his conviction. Her mother was limited, and deemed unable to look after the children.

Kathy displayed a need to have her bedroon door permanently shut tight. At first we didn't think anything about it. She would come home from school, go to her room and shut the door hard.

She'd eat with us, then go back to her room and get behind her door, which she shut hard, good as gold.

One night not long after she arrived she'd gone to bed, and my partner happened to go upstairs and ten minutes later she came stomping down in a right tizz.

Long story short; she was triggered by the sound of heavy footsteps outside her bedroom door.

In fostering we foster parents often put two and two together and get four.

We devised a way of going upstairs when it was our bedtime that helped Kathy's nightmares. We tried going upstairs softly softly; succes rate about 4/10. The we tried making abit of noise that was plainly us; 8/10.

Me: (quite loudly) "Here we go upstairs to bed, me and Jim! (not my partner's real name)..  me and Jim, Jim and me… night night anyone who can hear us, tomorrow's Spag Boll, get your order in at breakfast if you want garlic bread or dough balls. G'night all!"

It wasn't a cure-all. How could it be? We had been advised on Kathy's life up to coming into care. She had a mountain to climb and in fostering we foster parents often offer the first little ladder.

I believe our efforts to help her get a good night sleep helped.

We sleep a bit less in fostering. But we sleep better than many.

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EACH CHILD IS UNIQUE

 Remember when we had a working class, a middle class and an upper class?

And 'blue collar' workers and 'white collar' workers?

No?

I do. 

Ah, categorisation was easy not so long ago. Nowadays we have more 'demographies' than you can shake a stick at.

Thanks to fostering I've come to treating each person as an individual and finding out their personal story rather than pigeon-holing them. My thing now is to try not to jump to conclusions about a family because they live on a particular housing estate, or drive a Range Rover, which was a trap I used to fall into.

We looked after a lad, I'll call him Tyrone, who had been removed from his single mum. They shared a modest house on a notorious estate. Social housing. Blue flashing lights every Friday and Saturday night. Tyrone's mum drove a top of the range brand new 4x4 (probably on lease), had a 5 foot TV, and held down some sort of semi-executive financial job with one of the big supermarket chains. 

She was at war with Tyrone's father, a big man with a police record. I was asked to take Tyrone to Contact with his dad. That sort of thing isn't a problem for the foster parent, the routine is that you hand the child over to a Contact Officer, and when it's over they bring the child out to you. You don't have to even see the parents, unless everyone wants to and it's agreed and supervised.

Tyrone's dad lived elsewhere.

Tyrone used to be left alone in the house when his mother went out drinking every night and came home with different men and a multiplex of substances.

Tyrone was a picture of neglect; a child whose mother and father each made it clear to him that he was unwanted, a nuisance. I often wondered if his mum was glad of the respite when social services took him away, if you can believe that. 

We went to work on helping Tyrone develop a sense of belonging and self-worth. It's often a cornerstone job in fostering, and a mighty rewarding  one.

Contact is sometimes sweet, sometimes tricky; not always easy for the child; we foster parents make it work. 

The Contact was in the community hall in the centre of Tyrone's housing estate - a place some people used to call a 'sink estate'.

Tyrone and I arrived early and rather than sit in the car for half-an-hour I suggested we go for a stroll. This was Tyrone's home patch. We hadn't gone more than 100 yards when two young women, both pushing pushchairs, came walking towards us. As soon as they saw Tyrone they lit up and went;

"Tyrone! Hello mate! How you doing?"

Tyrone waved and they exchanged a few pleasantries. 

Tyrone and I carried on walking and went past a house with a low brick wall. Sitting on the wall was a large older woman and a smaller, younger, tattoed girl, both smoking. The same thing happened;

"Hello Tyrone! You alright kiddo?"

Another brief, friendly chat.

This happened over and over. Everyone knew Tyrone. Everyone knew everybody. Except me. I didn't get a word spoken to me, or even an acknowledgement that I was looking after one of theirs.

That's what Tyrone was; 'One of theirs".

Their community.

I could sense the distinct and heady fragrance of... family.

Tyrone didn't have a mum and dad. He had hundreds of mums and dads.

I live in suburbia. It took several years after we moved in before I got to know even the names of some of our neighbours and even then we only got formal, irrelevant chit chat. Tyrone had an entire village.

Tyrone came when I was newish to fostering. I'll give you a clue to how long ago;

10 years back I attended a childrens award ceremony for young people who were either in care or had been in care. My foster child at the time was getting a trophy. It was a great evening. It was at a posh hotel, so to make it a night to remember for our child we booked a suite at the hotel and stayed the night. He had sausage and chips from room service and watched cartoons before nodding off in his adjoining bedroom.

Next evening, while sat at our table waiting for our foster son to be announced I became aware of a pair of eyes on me. A big man, with a small smile at the corners of this mouth. 

Tyrone! 

I went straight over and caught up with him. Married, one child, good job as a self-employed builder. 

Tyrone was announced and went up on stage to collect his award.

Our kid went up after Tyrone and punched the air heading towards centre stage. You never forget moments like that.

So. Tyrone had been brought up on an estate that sociologists (remember them?) would have labelled socio-economic group "E", ("A" being Knighstbridge, "B" being upper middle class suburbia and so on). 

But in terms of communuty it was an A.

I don't know how much my fostering helped Tyrone on his way. I'm absolutely certain that the warmth of the community was a big factor.

So, from that experience onwards I try to make no pre-judgements about kids and parents based on their affluence or lack of it, or their job, or lack of one. 

Of course I reserve judgement on some of the things that happen in homes that children are removed from, but they are specifics and each deserves specific thought.

Each family is unique, each child even more so.

No pigeon holes.

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DO WHAT YOU CAN

 As they grow up children develop two personalities, the public one that we all see, and the private one.

If the child belongs to us we get to know both of their personalities and how to manage them.

We usually know when our own child is upset about something but doesn't want to talk about it. We can often work out what it is; it might be a problem with a friend or a setback at school. Or maybe they've lucked out on their current Gamebox game.

We can work out that if the scissors aren't in their usual kitchen drawer someone's probably borrowed them to cut their own hair and haven't put them back. We usually know them well enough to say either;

a) "Your hair's looking nice"

Or

b) "Have you seen the scissors on your travels?"

Or

c) We say nothing at all, but have a quick shufti in their room next time they're out and check the bathroom sink for hairs as it's the favourite place for a quick trim, nice big mirror and a door they can lock.

We know them inside out and that makes parenting them all the easier.

Different in fostering isn't it?

When a new child arrives we've usually seen paperwork about their history, but that never prepares us fully for their actual arrival. From the moment they step through the door we begin a lightning fast learning experience; the more we can understand them, the better we can foster them.

We knew, for example, that one of Raphael's favourite meals was pizza, but didn't know that he never, ever, ever.. ate the crusts. That is, he never wanted to. We found out soon enough that he'd been forced to eat crusts. Crusts were some sort of trigger. He was frightened/repulsed by them. As soon as we made the discovery I took to snipping the crusts off with the same pair of scissors that had frecently gone missing. Raphael had borrowed them to  trim his own hair.

But he hadn't been with us long enough for me to know which response to the scissors thing of a, b, or c would be best. You don't want a pair of kitchen scissors to stay in any eight-year old child's bedroom longer than necessary, just to be on the safe side. Nor do you want to make a mountain out of a molehill. 

Didn't need to make the decision, as he came downstairs later the same day carrying the scissors by the blades and walking very slowly, with the scissors scrupulously  pointing downwards.

From his behaviour we began to learn that his parents had drummed certain things into him to make sure he was "safe". Yet social services judged that on their evidence his home, and his parents' parenting, was unsafe. Yet his parents, who we hadn't met yet, had strict rules about things they thought made proper parenting. They made him stay at the table until he'd finished every last crumb of his food, which they believed would somehow make him a better person.

They'd made Raphael brush his teeth to a slow count of one hundred to 'get rid of all the germs'. We drew this out of him when we asked why he brushed his teeth for an age three times a day.

Our social workers were professional about the nature of Raphael's parents' parenting, but advised us that our latest young arrival was being brought up in a household where he was subjected to extreme supervision. Social Services had been alerted by his school, where teachers had grown concerned about Raphael's anxieties. His constant hand-washing, his huge meltdowns if his painting wasn't a new Mona Lisa. 

Children (and adults) often fall victim to hyper-anxiety for almost no reason, but his school gently took him aside and became aware of the regime he was living under in his own house.

So, with Raphael, we went to work. We made small but important adjustments around the house to help him loosen up.

We'd leave the washing up, we'd not polish the cutlery at teatime, we'd leave his socks on the floor of his room. 

These were all things we were informed, had been taboo in his home.

How much of a help was our fostering, using this programme? We'll never know. At best, probably a bit.

We tried.

Bottom line is this; we worked our way into our foster child's personality, and unobtrusively tried to use what we learned to help him. You can't do much more than that.

Probably a maxim for fostering; "Do what you can for them, you can't do much more than that."

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WHEN THEY GO HOME

 Middle foster child is getting ready to be returned home.

It ought to be a red-letter day for foster parents, because the job of fostering is, in a nutshell, helping the child's family come together again, with safety for all ensured.

It's always tinged though.

When the child is driven away from your home, posessions neatly packed in proper luggage, a few mementoes should be included. This one's going to get to keep a daft baseball cap formerly belonging to somebody who left it here after a gathering. The child likes to wear it backwards so the slogan faces forward; "I'm not arguing, just explaining why I'm right".

There'll also be a card from everyone in the house at the bottom of one of the bags so the child won't get it until they're unpacking. It'll consist of a few words from each of us, a few memories of happy days here, and best wishes for the future.

I'm going to write a paragraph about the time he got separated from us in a giant Tesco. He'd wandered off, or maybe we'd wandered off. We hooked up again after no more than a minute, and always knew where he was because his mobile phone had a wee app that allowed us to track his location. When we found each other again we all laughed. We said "We were getting a bit worried about you!" to which he replied "I was getting a bit worried about YOU!"

Brilliant moment. I'll also write a line about how much we'll miss him, but hope things work out better than ever for his future.

I'll probably mist up when waving goodbye, always happy about the emotions in fostering. Part of my sadness at slight loss are triggered by an experience outside fostering; and I can't remember if I've ever mentioned this on the Secret Foster Carer blog. Our next-door neighbours lost a child who died. They were - and still are, many years on - distraught and in limbo about the loss. They are wonderful people and utterly heroic. In the months afterwards I spent as much time as I could sitting at their kitchen table drinking tea and listening. They were hugely grateful, especially the dad, who struggled with the loss more than his partner and their other children, or so it seemed. From time to time he asked how come I could be so helpful about their loss, and I said I could only guess that it came in part from getting in touch with the sensibilities of loving care you need in fostering, plus the experience of exposure to family difficulties.

Here's one big thing about it; their child had his own bedroom, and the bedroom is still exactly as it was when the child left home to go to the party from which he never returned. Discarded socks are still on the floor, the bed's unmade, the door kept half ajar, just as it was when a police officer knocked on their front door to bring them the worst imaginable news.

When a foster child leaves to go home, it's nowhere near the loss our neighbours are still suffering, but you still miss them, and have to deal with an element of loss. I find it helps to return their bedroom to neutral as soon as possible, get it ready for a new arrival. 

The departed child is high in your mind until the phone rings and Blue Sky's placement team say;

"Would you consider taking a child who…"

Heady stuff.

My partner and I had a rough day the other Sunday; eldest foster child was feeling low, our eldest real child is not in the best place, the elderly dog we're looking after to help out a family member is going downhill fast. My partner has two close family members both needing profound medical treatment. It's harrowing how sometimes in life things bundle up.

We sat in the living room early last Sunday morning drinking tea, and found ourselves going through all the foster children we've had placed with us.

We went through the full list, remembering each of them easily enough, only struggling about the order they arrived here. We managed all their names, and swapped reminiscences of each of them; funny moments, poignant ones. We really enjoyed remembering them - memories are always a bit rose-tinted - and found ourselves laughing and privately reminding ourselves that fostering is the best thing we've done. We shared our fears that one or two of them might be struggling now, just as so many ordinary young people are.

By the time we were ready to flip from tea to coffee, we were feeling 1000% better.

I've got a painful shoulder at the moment, it spasms now and then, probably caused by picking up and carrying our sturdiest grandchild for the last year or so. My GP says it'll mend itself but in the meantime offered to prescribe Diazepam to relax the muscles. 

I declined. Fostering relaxes me - not all the time - but when I really need it, it's there for me.

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