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.