RUDDY KEYS, AND FOSTERING

 It's sometimes a bit frustrating having to write up little mini-episodes of "A Day In The Life Of A Foster Mum".

Why, because life - especially fostering life - doesn't happen in neatly boxed-up vignettes, with a beginning, a middle and a neat ending.

I try to make my experiences bite-size because you're busy, I'm busy…who wants War and Peace?

The door keys saga from my last post is a case in point. I wrote up "Close Encounters" about how an older foster child benefited by being given a set of house keys. He then enhanced his bond with me late one night by talking about how he lost them, leading onto him talking about his life and hopes and dreams.

I signed off the triumph with a homily, as if it was over. Never tempt fate…

He and I had chatted into the night and all seemed well.

However, check this out.

We had another set of keys cut, a front door one and a back door one. Put them on a keyring and gave them to him.

Last night he came home and said; "Er..I don't know what happened here but I've lost the front door key. Again."

Sure enough, the back door key was on his keyring, but no Yale-type for the front door. The keyring was a pretty heavy-duty job, the ring was solid.

I had to decide how to react. 

 Fly off the handle? NEVER!

Act disappointed? Well a little bit, but with the emphasis on sympathy.  Must be upsetting for him to have to own up.

I quickly let my curiosity bubble up. "I don't get it," I said with my famous gentle smile "The key was hung on the keyring same as the back door key."

I fell short of saying; "The front door key couldn't fall off. Someone must have worked it off…"

True.

So I let it go. I was looking out for the moment to bring it up again, and while waiting I started to get a picture of events in the park - where he spent most of his leisure time.

That first time it happened, he lost his whole set of keys.

So I reckon this is what happened the afternoon of the first loss.

He'd told his group of friends that he'd been given house keys, all proud and enjoying a bit of one-upmanship. One of his mates, jealous, disputed the keys so our boy got them out, showed them round. Then there was a bit of a melee, at the end of which no-one knew who had the keys, and whoever had the keys felt that he'd won.

No wonder he was distraught when he got home, he'd not only lost a set of keys, one of his gang had bested him.

If only ordinary kids had some inkling of what foster children have been through, they'd (hopefully) rally round.

So. Onto the loss of the second front door key. I reckon this:

He showed up in the park wanting to demonstrate he was still out in front on the house-key stakes. He wanted to rub it in that, although he didn't have a real family, he had a family that trusted him more than the families of his park mates.

One or two of his mates were disbelieving  and asked to see the main key. He took it off the keyring and proudly handed it over. And never saw it again. Same "Jape".

Some friends...

He feels foolish, defeated and diminshed.

Got to pick him up.

So. Go on…what would you do?

I went on Amazon and bought a "screwlock" carabina for his belt loop, and had another key cut. And gave it to him.

Our foster boy - still ahead.

Oh, and don't get me started on our front door security. I gave thought to the fact that our front door keys are out there somewhere. Luckily there's a big second lock which has been on the door since we moved in. We never use it, but it's back in action.

Blimey; a new lock and set of new keys must be £150 and upwards so I'm settling for bolt-locking the door day and night, for the time being.

As for eldest foster child…they hardly ever show it, but I sense he feels even more supported and trusted than ever.

Job well done.

And let that be the end of the housekeys saga.

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CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

 Getting close to your foster child is hard graft. Earning trust isn't easy, and frankly, it happens few and far between, although you get flashes.

So; Terry (aka "Tezza", "T" and "T Man") reached an age where he could go into town by himself. He then reached an age where he didn't want to say what time he'd be back. So we talked to Blue Sky and it was agreed. 

Terry could have his own keys. Front door and kitchen. Blue Sky are SO good at advising. We went through all the possible pitfalls, the pros and cons.Then it was agreed, based on that Terry is trustworthy and old anough. All the security angles got discussion and boxes got ticked. Terry could have a set of keys.

This is a big day for any young person, but for foster children it's huge. It's a medal, a certificate of belief, a path to adulthood. It's not just keys to the doors, it's keys to the road to independence.

Naturally we made no big deal about it. I handed them to him with a matter-of-factness, as if to underline how appropriate it was for him to have keys, a kind of understated; "This is who you are now".

A couple of Saturdays later he called to say;

"I've lost my keys."

He'd sat on the grass in the park with friends and the keys probably slipped out of his pocket.

No problem as far as we were concerned, but Terry was in bits. 

The keys were his passport to a new life. Terry making his way. And he'd lost them. He was almost in tears.

Part of his angst was that he might be in trouble. In his past, being in trouble with adults in the house was horrible for him, and though he knew we were different, it never stops demons from the past showing up.

I heard Terry downstairs very late at night the day after he lost his keys. It was 1.00am. In fostering I sleep in a day-clothes outfit of trackie bottoms and T shirt, ready to do my job, but I slipped on my DG anyway and went down. His emotions were raw and his privacy settings were low. He actually wanted to talk about himself. And the world.

I let him talk, didn't interrupt. Didn't offer grown-up "wisdom", or allow my face to hint any judgement.

He talked on and on.

Talked about his sad and tragic childhood and things that had happened that social services probably hadn't heard about. Talked about lonliness and fear, being bruised physically and emotionally. I made mental notes to include in my next report. 

He told me nothing that had the status of a disclosure (where a child reveals something possibly criminal and the carer needs to refer it to their social worker) but painful listening.

Then Terry got energised. He intended, he said, to live off-grid. He would buy a piece of land and build a shelter-home from timber he'd collect. He'd drink rainwater and forage for food. He said he'd done the research.

Terry wanted to turn his back on the world, humanity, and all us people.

Terry and I got close in the middle of that night, thanks to lost keys.

He calmed down a lot too, let stuff out.

By this time it's 4.00am. I'm not as good at 4.00am as I was once. We adjourned. For both of us, a good day (night) at the office of fostering.

A couple of days later I mentioned to Terry that I'd seen an advert from a farmer who was selling parcels of woodland not far from us. Terry barely registered. Perhaps he'd shelved the whole idea.

Or, just as likely, if he was holding onto his dream as his personal, private quest - so it would be his achievement, no-one else's -  his thing was he didn't want help.

Cool.

Whichever; what changed for the good was that during that wee-small-hours chat he and I were closer, and both of us happier for that.

We replaced his set of keys. Even got him a keyring in his favourite colour; black.

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HOW DO FOSTER PARENTS GET AWAY FROM IT ALL?

 We've just returned from a mini-holiday, all of us.

Five days in a converted barn in lovely countryside about an hour-and-a-half's drive.  A just-about-tolerable distance for a convoy of…thirteen people.

Yep, when I say "all of us," I mean our entire extended family. Half of the troupe are blood relatives, the remainder are family through fostering.

Three generations too; healthy.

Two members of our funny old family didn't come. The first no-show was battling mental health issues (as are so many young folk these days, so sad). The second non-attendee…I'll come to in a moment. Might surprise you.

The holiday was fantastic. I wish I could go into detail, but privacy and identities are so important, I'll stick to sweet memories. Do them in reverse order.

5. We all sat down together every evening for a family meal. We took it in turns to cook; quite a challenge for most, not for the young mum who'd worked in catering and breezed it; sticky pork ribs and all the trimmings. But mealtimes weren't just about food; everyone came together at the huge table. There were pair-off conversations - one foster-family member brought a best friend and they sat together and shared witty observations. Mostly the conversation involved everyone along the huge long dining table. Powerful.

4. We saw a deer from the living room window. Next day myself and one of the youngsters went into the forest to try to photograph a deer. The child is family of a foster child, but is not our foster child or blood-family (keep up...). We didn't see deer, but we saw a big dead tree that looked a bit like a bear so we snapped it and came back with a hoax that fooled no-one. Fantastic.

3. "I need to get more chilled", said the friend of a foster child who came along. He was stretched out on the lawn with the mate next to him gazing up at a blue sky. My partner, concerned that the youngster was still feeling jangly said "Is there anything we can do to help." There followed a pause. Then; "No." came the reply. "I was being kind of ironic. What I meant was I've never been this chilled before."

2. The third and fourth nights; 2.00am. The barn conversion was all on the ground floor. Everyone had private rooms off the main living room. Two members of the family-but-not-quite family (as in family of a foster child) had agreed to share a dormitory room with 2 single beds and a bunk bed with their real-life sibling and friend. They were all happy with the idea in principle, but I put my foot down gently and said no, "Two of you has to sleep on the sofas". Foster child and friend got the dormitory, not-quite-family were happy with the sofas. I woke at 2.00am one morning and went for a potter to check on everyone. Foster child was asleep on one sofa, the friend on the other sofa. At breakfast I enquired. Got the answer "Yeah, we thought it was fair to give up the beds 50/50. Actually the sofas are more fun. And we can watch the big screen TV until we go Zeds" 

In fostering you're always encouraging growth of kindness. And astuteness...

And at Number One…!

1. The hot tub. So. I'd never been in a hot tub before, I don't think any of our party had. What a wonder they are. Especially when your tub is zero-maintenance because the owners send a couple of nice people every morning to clean it and add the agents needed to make sure it's safe. The hot tub was hot from morning 'til the next morning. People could have slipped in at 4.00am. It could take eight, and was three paces off the living room. It looked out over forests and fields; not a single building or power line in sight. You could lay back, get six nozzles of jets on that aching back and sip a Coke. We'd brought a wireless speaker so we had music too. It was just the right depth for the toddlers. It had flashing lights. The tub stole the show. When we got home one of the group Whats Apped us all that she'd found a hot tub on E Bay going for nothing. I persuaded a gentle swerve. Who'd end up cleaning it? Muggins.

…oh, and I mentioned earlier; who was the other extended family member who couldn't make it?

I kid you not a jot; our Blue Sky social worker (our SW). A person who's become so central and crucial to what we do, is so supportive, encouraging and wonderful company that we credit thnis person with a fat lot of our enjoyable endurance of fostering's ups and downs to this person.

This SW was SO excited about the prospect of our up-coming break it added to our anticipation. SW enthused and invigorated us beyond belief. This is what you can get from a Blue Sky hook-up.

Our SW isn't a one-off. A would-be foster parent, whoever you are, who joins Blue Sky gets a dedicated and professional social worker whose job is to have your back.

Is Blue Sky pivotal to what we do?

Do bears spit in the woods?

( I know it's s**t in the woods, just being diplomatic...

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FOSTERING AND THE CAR

 So, currently we have three foster children, my maximum due to bedroom availability.  Looking after a brood of other people's children has it's ups and downs, but the kids seem to like it. Strength in numbers.

They swap their stories with each other of their journey into care. It bonds them. They do it by themselves, no coaching needed. Is there an element of "My woes are worse than yours"? - a common game played by adults - no. If anything there are hints of genuine caring for each other.

Nothing thrilled them more than the morning last week when the car broke down on the school run.

Cars are a big deal to foster children. Often their loftiest aspiration is to one day be able to drive. 

Way back, when I first put in for approval to become a foster carer, Blue Sky attached a social worker to my case, a young man.

He came to our house once a month.

When you go through the approval process you're asked to talk honestly and openly about yourself, your life and experiences. Blue Sky has to ensure that foster parents are okay to do the job. But don't get me wrong, the process is gentle and caring. 

Nobody's perfect; we've all had our bad days. In fact, fostering needs people who've been there and got the T shirt. Difficult divorce? You know about turmoil. Fired from work? Useful experience of disappointment and rejection. Not on speaking terms with your father? Invaluable insight into domestic tension.

The process is positive. The prospective foster carer gets clarity on their own self and qualities. 

One of the ways I found myself drawn into talking about my background was the social worker sharing things about himself.

His was a fascinating story.

See, he'd been a foster child himself.

So he could talk about fostering not only as a provider but also as a recipient.

He was taken into care aged 15. His foster mum was a single woman who owned a smallholding. She had some income from her former husband so her earnings from eggs and renting out fields for ponies was beer money.

Anyway, going back to the driving thing. The young social worker told me about his big memory of being in care. He made it sound as though the experience made life in a care the greatest thing a child can have.

His foster mum owned seventeen acres. And a land rover.

And…provided he only drove it on her private land...he was free to drive it. Aged 15. Not sure wjhat Blue Sky would make of that, but this was back in the day, nothing to do with Blue Sky.

He and I sat at our kitchen table talking about him bumping around the farm, I could see plain as day what it had meant to him to be asked to drive down to the bottom meadow with a load of feed for the ponies.

Fostering and driving…

We were doing the school run with a full car - three in the back - and were about ten miles from home when I began to notice a whirry noise when I braked.  It got louder and grew into a proper whine. Then a hideous shriek. 

I pulled over and called the RAC.

The kids were absolutley made up. Not only were they legitimately having a no-school day, their foster mum was under the cosh. Just like them.

The joy and laughter was discreet but unconfined. 

The RAC lady said my brakes had seized, can happen to anyone. She towed the car off to a garage and arrranged transport for me and 3 foster kids. We arrived home at half past twelve, too late for school; day off. 

No car, has to be Deliveroo. Maccy Ds all round. Never seen them happier. We all need happy days.

Day to remember. You get quite a few in fostering.

And you never stop learning.

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THE MYSTERIES OF "MATE"

 A new foster child takes all your focus. You have to consciously remember to look after all the other people in your life, not to mention yourself.

Our new child, Alicia, is pretty undemanding. Quiet, no wobblies, maybe a bit scatty with apple cores and crisp packets. Normal teen stuff really.

But every foster child brings their foster parents some new things to get our head's around. In Alicia's case it's mainly one big thing; she's transitioning. Used to be male, is now female. Aged 14.

Alicia is a wonderful young person. She's cheerful, happy-go-lucky, positive and rock solid. She helps around the house, is supportive and engaging with our other youngsters. 

But, like people everywhere, she has her sad moments. What happened was this;

It was late afternoon and the family were coming home from school. I'd done the school run for youngest and was, as usual, in the kitchen as the others arrived. Every afternoon I'd hear the front door open and call out "Hiya! Alright?". I'd hear shoes hit the floor and grunted sounds of reply. I know their moods after a long day and can guage how they are feeling, but with a new addition to the family I need to be on my toes.

Alicia is now the last to get home, she has 2 bus trips to connnect. She gets home from school just before 5 o'clock.  Before being in care she'd been able to walk to school, not that she hardly ever did.

Alicia had begun to make a slight 'thing' about her long day, and with good reason. Children in care have plenty of good reasons to feel wronged, it's our job to nurse all their woes.

She came through the door and didn't respond to my "Hiya!"

Alicia ran upstairs and closed her bedroom door loudly, though it didn't amount to a slam.

I wanted to run up and check on her, but I've become wiser.

She was quiet at tea, pushing her sausage, mash and beans around the plate. I could tell she was wanting to talk.

Now, when a foster child needs to talk, the art is to find the moment. Which (sigh) never presents itself. So you have to force the issue.

I nabbed Alicia while she was helping me clear the table and stack the dishwasher;

Me "How was your day?'

Alicia; "Alright".

Me: "Really though?"

Alicia; "Maybe."

Me: "Funny old day?"

Alicia; "Kind of..."

So we chatted while fixing the kitchen. I sought the moment.

The reason Alicia was upset?

A bus driver called her "Mate".

She now wants to walk to school, which is impractical, but a measure of how deep she was hurt. Mind, I'm not convinced the driver mistook her for male, I sometimes say "Hi guys" or even "Hi mate" if I'm not sure.

Turned out the only reason she had any kind of conversation with him was because her bus pass isn't valid yet, so she pays cash. That turns the moment into an engagement, which backfired for her. When she has her pass she only has to flash it and the driver doesn't really look, never mind speak.

I'm going to drive her to and from school until then, which cramps my day, but it's for the best.

Another wrinkle bites the dust.

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FINDING THE MOMENT TO TALK

 Our latest foster arrival, Alicia has been with us about three weeks.

She's a charming teen, if a bit disorganised. Understandably so, what with the chaos going on in her life.

I woke up at just after 3.15am and didn't know why. I lay there for a bit before hearing the faintest of voices from downstairs.

I slid out of bed, wrapped myself in my DG and crept down.

Alicia was watching Netflix.

In my book, what you DON'T do is get heavy. You need to check out what's going on before judgement.

She was in the back room, which is off our kitchen, it's kind of a kids area, as in all crisp wrappers and biscuit crumbs. Dog was at her feet, dog loves it when people stay up late. 

Or was she up early? I wanted to find out gently.

Me, turning on the kettle;

"Morning, y'alright?"

Alicia; "Yeah. Couldn't sleep. I haven't woke you up have I?"

Me; "Nah. Some car went past at a hundred, so I thought I'd have a cuppa tea then try for another couple of hours."

Alicia; "Yeah, me too. What day is it again?"

Me: "Saturday. You can sleep in if you want."

Silence. I took my mug of Yorkshire across and perched on the arm of the sofa. And pretended to be fascinated by the movie; a bunch of super heroes battling bad guys.

I find in fostering that you have to be alert to moments when the child wants to talk. I know of carers who sit their child down every afternoon after school for a 5 minute chat about their day. For me that's too formal, like an office thing. I prefer opportunism. Especially when it's the child that wants to talk.

Alicia sighed, pointed the remote at the TV and muttered;

"C**p."

Me: "They're all a bit same, these superheroes things."

Alicia; " Yeah, but Black Lightning is the first black superhero who's, like, the star of the thing."

Me: "Aaah. That's good."

Now I'm getting in with Alicia. She wants to talk about minorities, the oppressed, and change.

Long story short; Alicia and I nattered for nearly half an hour. Then she began to get uncomfortable talking about private thoughts and beliefs with a middle-aged woman she'd only met a few weeks before. Suddenly she got up and took herself to bed.

We didn't talk about her transitioning from male to female at all. Obviously it's high in my mind, even higher in hers, but I'm mad keen not to make it her defining feature - if you know what I mean. 

She's got plenty on her plate.

Me too: on my "To Do" list; talk to the school about toileting for gender neutral pupils such as my Alicia.

Yep, she's "my" Alicia now, unless and whenever her somewhat disturbed mother collects herself, and no-one's holding their breathe.

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