The joys of fostering are myriad, but you have to know where and how to look.
It's August, it's hot (well today it's hot) and the school summer holidays are well under way.
A challenging six weeks for parents, and an interesting period for us foster parents.
Why?
All sorts of reasons, not least how to handle the getaway family holiday.
When our own kids were young it was a caravan on the Isle of Wight. When they were secondary school age is was Malaga.
Now that we foster we take the foster children on holiday with us, wouldn't dream of leaving them behind, but everybody's different.
If you foster with an agency such as Blue Sky you get a dedicated social worker who helps and supports you with things like this.
I knew of foster parents who'd ask for their foster child to go into respite care while they went off. They felt they owed it to their own children to feel the exclusivity of their family unit. That approach is definitely not for us. I get a massive enjoyment from giving our foster child a proper seaside vacation. Some kids in care have never been on a beach before.
Yes, there are complications. Perhaps one's concerned about their swimming safety. They need a room to themselves, that adds to the complications and cost. What about insurance?
Foster children often dislike being singled out as being in care, but it tends to happen if you're going abroad, the reason often being down to security against people-trafficking. When officials notice that one of your flock has a different surname, they need to make sure it's above board. I carry a letter from social services authorising our travelling with the child. I have to say though, that the officials are always very kind and discreet.
Example; we were coming home from Spain and going through passport. I handed the officer our passports and I clocked him take a look at the child, who happened to be non-white, and then glance at me, who's white. He smiled and said "Did you have good weather?" I replied "Beautiful thanks". He gave us a two second up-and-down, smiled again and said "Welcome home. It's rained here since Wednesday." With that he handed back our passports and nodded us through.
I suspect he was checking me out to make sure I wasn't nervous or up to no good. Maybe he simply fancied a quick chat. I'm pretty sure it was the former. Clever eh?
With school summer holidays, whether it's six non-stop weeks at home or a break that's split by a trip away, fostering folk have to stay on their toes.
How soon before the cry goes up:
"I'm BORED!'
Usually on day two…
One of our first foster children was due to break up for the summer on a Thursday. Parents were invited to attend the 2.00pm end-of-year assembly, at which the deputy Head gave a silly speech saying "We've had to put up with them all year, now it's your turn to suffer…"
Daft words. She retired not long afterwards.
The child was full of enthusism for new-found freedom, fun and games, and bounded into the car.
She'd asked to play tennis. Wimbledon had just happened, I have it on all afternooon every day, part of my summer routine. The child had come home and watched, fascinated.
And, I realised later, the child was beguiled that the child was beguiled by the players.
She wanted to impress me.
On her instructions I'd booked a court for 3.00pm the afternoon school broke up. The child insisted on a full-size court. I'd bought her a tennis racket. Again, she'd insisted on an adult-sized one.
We went out onto the court and I under-armed her a gentle one from the other side of the net, right into her hitting zone, she didn't need to move.
She swung. And missed.
I tried again. Second time was a miss-hit off the rim.
Third time, she missed again.
We'd not been on the court sixty seconds and her red mist began to descend.
Now she's swinging huge, and missing or miss-hitting every time.
Then began the tears and cusses of frustration.
I suggested we take a break.
Nope, she was determined to carry on, sobbing all the while.
I suggested we come back another day after she'd practised at home.
Nope. On and on it went.
Other parents were walking their children past the courts and I swear some of them thought I was one of those dreadful tennis mums. The truth was the exact opposite, and I had to stand accused (or so it felt).
I gradually got to the bottom of the problem.
The child had watched Martina and Steffi and co. and assumed that a tennis racket was some kind of magic wand which, when waved in the direction of a ball would send it fizzing over the net and down the line for a winner.
I changed tactics. I said;
"I don't think your racket is any good. My fault. I must have picked out a duff one."
The child is six, by the way, but like a great many kids who need care, was brighter than any button. My new strategy hit the spot. She said:
"Yes. It's rubbish."
She knew I was helping her out and bought it.
On the way home I asked if she wanted to try again another time.
"Nah."
Then she asked;
"What are we going to do tomorrow?"
Me;
"I thought we'd take the dog to the meadow and try to fish for some sticklebacks in the stream."
That clicked. She;
"With a rod?"
"Nah, that's cruel. With a net on a bamboo pole, and a jam jar to keep them in until we release them back."
Her:
"What's for tea?"
Me:
"Well, it's a special day so we'll swing by the shops and pick up whatever you fancy."
And we were both back on the front foot.
It ended up pizza.
The afternoon could have been a disaster, but in fostering, like they say, when God gives you lemons...
Only another five and three-quarter weeks to go...
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