FOSTERING AND SINGLES

 My Blue Sky supervising social worker has just left.

She arrrived, as ever, on the dot of the agreed time - 9.30am - for our monthly catchup, and left at midday.

I can't overstate how invaluable is this regular once-over.

Among other things we talked about how important it is to my marriage that we, as a couple, have fostering. And how valued is our fostering to opur marriage.

The conversation moved on to people who bring up children on their own, usually known as "single mums", or sometimes "single dads".

Honestly my mind boggles with their achievement. 

We agreed to agree; being a single parent is by no means twice as hard as doing it with a partner. 

It's tougher than twice as hard.

Not only do they do it all, all the things two parents do together (or should if they get it right); the single parent has no-one to share their parenting with. At least, not every minute of the day, and night, which is what you do if you and your other half are in it together.

Me and my husband talk incessantly about our family. If I have something worrying me I run it past him when we're alone, and vice versa. If I'm handling a problem I can ask him if I'm getting it right. What I mean is, you have access to support as and when it's needed.

We share jobs.

My point here is this; one of the best foster mums I know is single. She does the whole job alone, except, of course, for her Blue Sky social worker. And she's absolutely brilliant.

I remember going to a party some time ago which was thrown by a work colleague, a single mum with a ten year-old. The party goers drifted off around midnight until it was just the three of us; her, me, and my other half. She started to tidy up; cups and plates and dirty glasses and bottles and pots and pans and bowls with a few crisps left…

I offered to help, but she refused and ushered us out. When we got in I said to my other half;

"How the heck does she cope with doing EVERYTHING - day in day out."

Respect.

However. The reason the topic came into consideration during a Blue Sky supervision session is as follows; Blue Sky are hoping that hubby and I agree to sign up for "Parent and Child" fostering. We're thinking about it.

Parent and Child is where the fostering family takes in a parent (usually a mother, but not necessarily) and the child (usually a baby but not necessarily). I did some of these way back, when it was called "Mother and Baby", but we live in modern times.

Our social worker brought us up to date with Parent and Child, and we dropped anchor at the topic of how many single parents out there can't cope.

We try to steer clear of generalisations; every pesron is unique and owns their own merits, but stats are stats. Single mums - and dads - are finding it harder and harder.

So; instead of a queue of teenage girls with newborn babies who need fostering, nowadays you might be asked to consider talking a single parent and an older child; the parent has run out of steam. Run out of steam, money, accomodation and support. Not to mention running out of hope. 

The child is at risk of being remaindered.

Our social worker wound things up and left, leaving me with plenty to think about.

I thought to myself; "When he gets home tonight we've got lots to talk about".

And because we can, we will.

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TREADING ON EGG SHELLS

 Youngest foster child wanted to watch normal TV. 

This is slightly unusual, as most parents of young children will know.

They'll watch a Disney film or endless SpongeBob, and their big hanker is Netflix.

However, youngest wanted to watch what now gets called "terrestial" TV - the stuff me and my generation, and our now grown-up children used to worship.

Remember? The TV was always 'on' in the corner; with only a handful of channels, and the family sat side by side together and watched the same programmes throughout the evening.

To this day when I come home from the shops I'll put the kettle on, then the TV.  I've even gone out to the shops and left it on so the dog had company.

But for a youngster of junior school age to want to watch 'telly' - unreal.

Equally unreal; youngest foster child said; "My dad's going to be on TV, maybe".

Call me a cynic but my first thought was "Are they still showing Crimewatch*?"

The child said "He might be on the news".

I recieved this with my well-worn casual reaction; no fuss. I fired up BBCTV.

He sat on the floor in front of the box.  I lingered, standing by to explain anything about our feverish world that might need a bit of mollifying for the child.

I asked casually; "Any idea what your dad might be on the news for?"

And he replied:

"Marching."

Oh dear. I guessed immediately - and correctly - that his dad was attending the "Unite The UK" rally in London.

If you're not familiar, the UK, like many many countries, is currently wrestling with the issue of migrants hoping to make their homes in Britain. Quite a lot of people are vociferous in their opposition; heated even.

Tricky.

See, it might be that my views about refugees, multi-culturism and loving thy neighbour differ from the child's dad's views, but if I start canvassing I might step beyond the gentle protocols of fostering. Anyway, for all I know the child's dad might be nothing less than a well-meaning citizen championing underprivilidged home-grown Brits who feel passed over in favour of new arrivals.

Dilemma.

This sort of thing happens in fostering. The foster child will unknowingly put the foster parent in a tricky position where we have to try to explain the behaviour of their real parents in a non-judgemental way. You often don't know enough to express an opinion.

The child watched the start of the news: the march and the rally were top story.  They showed people (mainly men) "marching" in rather higgldepiggldy bunches looking serious. Then the newscaster moved onto the next story, something to do with Trump.

I asked the child if he'd seen his dad.

"Nah," he said "There were too many people there."

And I muttered to myself:

"That's what I thought too, in a different way…"

*A late-night BBC show that reconstructs crimes supposedly to jog viewers memories of crimes and villains. If they remember and have evidence they telephone a hotline with their tipoff. In truth it's just voyourism...

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IS FOSTERING A PROFESSION?

It baulks with me that we foster parents are sometimes regarded as amateurs.

One of the foster parents in my Blue Sky support group is a lecturer in child development. To be precise she's Head of Child Development at a prestigious college. She's a qualified Primary School teacher, a former Youth Club Chief Officer and single-handedly built one of the first Adventure Playgrounds in the UK. She has a Masters in managment. She's been a foster mum for ten or twelve years, and is absolute mustard.

One of our social workers refers to her as "The Pro."

She told me this story;

She fostered a child whose real parents were going through the penal system. Both parents had been jailed for offences against society, but most of all for offences against the child. The parents were due for release after serving half their time, as is the case nowadays.

A Hearing was scheduled at which the impact of the parents release on the child would be assesed. 

The child had been in the care of the foster mum for two years. The foster mum had bonded with the child, who'd come to know her inside out, in ways that no-one had ever befriended the child before. They were an item. The child worshipped her foster mum. It was a two-way street of mutual care, respect and the particular type of love that can develop in fostering.

The foster mum did some asking around and learned that the Hearing would address whether the parents early release dates should be rubber-stamped and what restrictions should apply to their movement and in particular their contact with the child.

The foster mum had accumulated a mass of concrete evidence that the parents were planning to try to force the child back into their care despite the Court Order blocking them from any rights of care of the child.

The child knew/guessed what lay in store as the parents had boasted about their plans to family members during prison visits. The family members had split the information to the child.

All of the above stuff that the foster mum told me this far was the province of the police and the law. The foster mum knew that.

But also on the Hearing's agenda was "The Child and their needs".

The Hearing was due to be attended by a dozen people; The police, Court Officers, a rep of Social Services, legal bods, a child psychologist, the deputy Head Teacher from the child's school. Even the tubby old red-nose parson who was on the school board of governers got an invite on the basis of Parish.

The foster mum telephoned the Hearing's secretary and offered to attend that part of the Hearing which addressed the needs of the child.

She was asked; "Are you a professional?"

She replied; "I'm the child's foster parent. I've looked after her for two years. I know her inside out. I've documented her needs and preferences and can supply the best possible picture of the impact of the parents' release and the impact of their possible plans to affect the child."

The reply:

"I'm sorry, you're permitted..."

Then;

"… you're not a professional."

The Hearing went ahead without the child's closest friend and ally. A roomful of people, most of whom had never met the child, and a couple of distant bods who knew her as no more than a name on a spreadsheet.

And the one person who knew the child inside out, and had the professional wherewithall to provide concrete evidence, information and insight was left outside the loop while the 'professionals' used up a whole morning in a chinwag about a theoretical youngster. I bet the red-nosed parson chimed in with something about the Bible.

Hot air.

The foster mum told me her Blue Sky social worker saved her day.

Next time the SW showed up for supervision (by the way, I don't call it 'supervision' any more, I call it 'coffee and catchup") she laid the ghost for the foster mum. Explained that the meeting was 'to cover themselves'. In other words, ensure that if anything unwanted kicked off they could all show from the Hearing's minutes that each of the different bodies involved had done it by the book.

That helped my pal.

But it sticks in my craw to this day that the 'professionals', from time to time, see us fostering folk as amatuers.

I'd like to see old red-nose have a go.

Haha

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WHAT IF YOU DON'T CARE FOR THE CHILD YOU'RE CARING FOR?

 After reading "TF for KFC" a reader who signs as "L" posted a comment;

"May I ask a question? It's not necessarily related to this post but is something I'm struggling with and would appreciate the advice of a more experienced carer. Have you ever had a kid(s) who you've struggled to bond with / to attach to / to like? I'm not talking about challenging behaviours but about connection. If you have, how did you work through it - what worked? Thank you."

It's a good question.

I have a friend who's been 30 years in teaching, secondary education (11 through to late teens). English and English Literature. He says the biggest mistake many young teachers make is to try to get the kids to like them, and want to like them back.

The job at hand, he says, is to teach them about English; books, plays, poems etc and how to write.

The business of who likes who doesn't get anybody an 'A' level.

Sounds cold and heartless? It's professionalism.

So…maybe we move you - "L" - on with your dilemma by remembering what our profession wants of us foster parents -  it's a darn site more complicated than teaching.

The requirements are summed up in good old Mazlow's Heirarchy of Needs.

First and foremost a child needs the fundamentals for survival; air, water, food, shelter, clothing and sleep. Second she needs security (from violence, crime) and predictablility in the home.

The higher you go up the heirarchy, (always looks like a mountain to me) the closer you get to where "L" is asking about;

The third tier hits the nail on the head for "L". Note it actually specifies the exact same word "L" asks about; 'connection'. Every child needs social connection and acceptance. And like most of us in fostering, we hope to get it back from the child. Mazlow says this is a family thing first and foremost. This is your Everest "L", because you can't be proper family to your foster kids, you can only be the kid's foster family. 

As I've piped up at many a Blue Sky training session:

"He never fostered, this Mazlow, did he?"

Most kids in care are compliant, often even happy, with their life in fostering, but from time to time you get a grump.

My experience is that there are 101 reasons why a child brought into care might be a bit anti to their new circumstances, and we all get why.  Must be hard as hell for them. Some kids seem to think if they try your patience you'll boot them out and they'll get to go home. Other children maybe test you to check that you don't give up on them. You don't. You keep accepting them no matter what.

If you feel someone doesn't like you it's hard to like them. Even harder if they're living in your home.

But. You don't boot them out. You keep giving them everything they need. If you think that they should show you they like you in return, that hope can affect your energy for the job. Our job is to climb the mountain of needs with them and get as high as we can. If we get stuck at level 3, no problem, we camp right there and keep at it.

We had a kid stay with us who was difficult to like, call him Tony. He was grumpy with my other half who one time joked he was thinking of moving into a B and B for a bit of respite! I didn't like Tony much myself at first, so I pulled back on seeking that connectivity, just provided the basics. My other half also pulled back, kept things polite but formal.

We agreed that wanting to be liked/loved wasn't the priority. 

We simply stuck at it.

Then…

My other half had to go into hospitsal for a knee operation. Too much football when younger. They kept him in for two nights. (this was a good few years ago when the NHS did things like that). His armchair was empty, there was one less person at the table at teatime. 

Foster child Tony said nothing, asked no questions, but pieced something was up.

I picked up other half from hospital and when Tony got home from school other half was sat in his armchair, heavily bandaged, leg up on a stool.

Then this happened:

Tony dropped his schoolbag and walked nervously towards his foster dad, with both arms outstretched. When he reached him Tony froze and kind of air-hugged him, then turned, grabbed his bag and went upstairs to his room, fast.

That air-hug meant the world and his wife to me and my other half.

We packed up tents at level 3 camp and began the ascent to level two; "Esteem".

"L", that part of the journey took about 6 months, but we made progress.

It's what we do, it's what YOU do,  and you do a great job.

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THE IMPORTANCE OF PORK PIES IN FOSTERING

 One of the keenest challenges in fostering comes when the child asks why they're being fostered and how long before they go home.

If they're persistent the questions can get to the foster parent. I learned why back in my early days.

Nowadays I try to try to liaise with my local authority social worker to get the latest news on the child's real family. I talk to my Blue Sky SW for guidance on what to say and how. If a child asks a leading question and I feel I'm not prepared (say, perhaps the child hasn't been with you long and details about the placement's family are still being processed) I often reply; "That's a good question. Can we come back to it later?" Which buys a bit of time to have a quick consult with a professional.

The way you frame your explanations depends on the child, especially their age. You also have to get a handle on their mental and emotional intelligence, and their degreee of resilience. After all, what you're about to discuss is potentially a bit harrowing.

You have to be truthful, but consider the impact of how you tell the truth to the child.

Some time ago a famous politician denied telling porkies(*1), claiming instead that he'd been "economical with the truth". 

That said; children coming into care are often quite tough - after all, many of them had to be to survive.

But we foster parents are driven to get our answers to those difficult questions right. And by 'right' I guess I mean we should make our use of the truth of benefit to the child.

Listen; most of what all of us do in these instances is instinctively right. Foster parents have all passed a vetting that includes ensuring that we have the skills to get results from these moments.

Remembering my early days in fostering; I had a test of my own resilience with a child who was unrelenting in her questioning about the reason she was in care, and begging for a schedule as to when she would be allowed home.

Kaz was 14, very strong willed and had single-mindedness on top of resilience. I didn't realise it at the time, but my Blue Sky social worker helped me work out why I found it a bit gruelling.

My SW and I sat at my kitchen table drinking coffee and talking it through.

She let me do the talking; about how concerned I had become to say the right things; not to show any judgement about Kaz's parents, despite their physical and emotional abuse and poor lifestyle choices; drugs, infidelity and... worse.

Kaz loved them in spite of everything and a foster parent often must deal with that huge fact of life (*2).

As I talked my social worker began to help me discover an important truth about being a foster parent.

Namely; don't expect a mountain of gratitude from the child. They've got enough on their plate without paying you or the system any compliments.

But there was something else going on in my heart that I now know about and recognise every time it returns.

It's this; when the foster child is badgering to hear positive things about their parents, and hectoring the foster parent that they want to leave and go home…

…you can, if you're not careful, take it as a slight.

You hear a voice whispering to yourself; "There's gratitude! We rescue them from their miserable home, give them proper care and support and yet all you ever hear is that they want to leave you and never come back!"

When I'm asked those questions by the child nowadays I'm thinking of what it means to the child, and not at all what it means to me.

                                                                    _______________

*(1) "Porkies": cockney rhyming slang. "Pork pies/lies".

*(2) I heard that Kaz made it back to her beloved chaotic home and is going along ok. Apparently she speaks highly of the 'holiday' she had at our house...

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TF FOR KFC!

 Kal was seven when he arrived to us, a smallish boy, shy.

Shy at first anyway.

Children taken into care and delivered to a new foster home are often cautious at first.

Imagine; they are tiny and alone, they're in a strange house with an unknown family.

They generally keep their heads down, mind their Ps and Qs and set their sights on learning about their new life.

People in fostering call it the "Honeymoon" period.

Perhaps the child is learning about themselves as well as learning about the new things in their life.

The number of "new" things are inestimable. But we foster parents have new things to learn too. We must learn about the new child and her journey as a new foster child.

The child might be new to using a knife and fork, new to cleaning their teeth. New to pyjamas, new to a fixed bedtime. They might be new to the concept of sitting up at table to eat. 

The foster parent needs to be on the alert to the child's fears and dilemmas, and be on standby to take the child to one side and gently explain. The child might be new to being spoken with in such a way.

New to being listened to.

Kal, like many foster children, had learned in his 'real' home the value of invisibility. He'd taught himeself that the best way to protect himself from unjustifiable retribution was to keep out of sight.

So, to begin with, he was almost too easy to accomodate. He moved noiselessly around the house, hoping not to be noticed, to the extent that in the morning he would come downstairs draped in his duvet and ask to eat his breakfast in the corner of the kitchen, hidden from our eyes.

I've learned not to confront the quirks that new foster children sometimes exhibit. It's their emotional anchorage. Their grounding in whoever they used to be, strategies that got them through life in their real home.

But. 

I wanted Kal to step out of his shell…

I had conflabs with our Blue Sky social worker about it. She said that time would tell, but I'd be right to make some effort to lift Kal's self-esteem.

I tried a thing I'd read about somewhere…it seemed looney, but worth a throw.

What you do is this; you switch roles with your children for a whole Saturday afternoon. Yup; they become the parents and the parents become the children. We introduced it one Friday evening, all smiles and laughter. But how would Kal deal with responsibility?

Answer; he was er…enthusiastic. Given the job of keeping the kitchen in shape he inspected every nook and cranny and politely ASKED me to empty the bin. He SUGGESTED that the fridge needed more snacks.  

Then…wait for it.. he asked if there was any disinfectant. In fostering you need to keep substances safe, so I unlocked the cupboard, gave him a Dettol spray and watched over him. Kal squirted the work surfaces and wiped them clean.

A few weeks later it was Saturday teatime. Kal sat up with all of us. I brought bowls of spaghetti and bollognese sauce to the table.

Before anyone could dive in, Kal went; "Spag boll! Every Saturdfay it's spag boll! FFS! Jeez, it'd be nice to be upstairs wondering what's for tea instead of going 'Oh it's Monday… fishfingers. Tuesday sausages…"

Then he made his point; "It's Saturday. Everybody else has a KFC!"

Kal's transition was spot on. His mini-rebellion was exactly on track. A good sign. It was hardly civil war, but it signified him finding his feet in our home, in the world.

He trusted us.

And yes, I started mixing up the menu.

And yes, Kal started on the road back to some kind of good life…

I bet wherever he is now, come Saturday it's KFC...

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A LITTLE BIT OF CHAOS DOES YOU GOOD

One thing I find myself talking to other foster parents about is how fostering can change your home life for the better. Some of the changes are challenging. A great many of them are wonderful.

Example;

Before fostering, our home was - I now realise - organised to the point of mundane. Everyone knew their role, we were conventional to a tee. Nothing wrong with that; people need stability as well as fun and laughter.

Obviously, one's household is altered when foster children join your happy valley. Children who've been taken into care know all about chaos. It's our job to show them the value of order. 

And they introduce us to the many joys of uncertainty.

So...

Last Sunday our eldest foster child was due to bring his new and first-ever romantic partner to our house to watch the football on Sky. The two of them had been a tentative item for about two weeks. I doubt anyone'e kissed anyone yet. We monitor, discreetly.

Watching a TV football match for a first date is hardly the same as strolling hand-in-hand in the park. I suspected maybe one or both of them were reflecting parental role modelling. Meanwhile middle foster child had an 18 year-old relative coming for Sunday lunch. I say 'relative', the fact is no-one knows how to describe their relationship. In most families, the blood lines are clear; brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins and so forth. But things like that can get complicated with foster children. Our middle foster child and the young relative don't know what their blood links are. But they need each other in order to experience that need of belonging to a family.

Youngest foster child was cool about being the 'youngest child'. Youngest children can be very artful at playing the 'little one' role.

Sunday lunch was timed for half-time in the football. I'd sweated over roast spuds, green beans, brocolli and carrots, plus boned enough chicken thighs (skinned them too, trying to pre-empt any "I don't like").

Before we fostered, the technicalities of cooking a Sunday lunch was clockwork; uneventful.

Here's how Sunday afternoon went.

First; a text from eldest; "Running late", the romance had hit its first snag; unspecified.

Middle child's relative arrived, turned out he'd rather watch the cricket than the football, he's never had a dad to infect him with the football virus. So they're glued to the limited-over cricket (limited' being the key word).

We only have one full-size telly. What if it boils over into a cricket v footy stand-off?

Meanwhile.. the roast spuds and chicken are coming on.

Middle son's relative starts to bond with my other half who will watch any sport any day. They're discussing the merits of a swinger versus a yorker. Or somesuch.

Middle son is loving the bond that's growing between his older relative and his foster dad. A taste of family normality for him. The cricket is strangely raucus. A family-style argument breaks out over whether the Essex Car Thieves are going to beat the Kent Tax Frauds (I may have got the team names wrong, forgive).

My partner goes to the fridge. Snaffles two Peroni and a Sprite. "Going well in there", he said over his shoulder.

Eldest suddenly bangs in through the front door. Had a first-ever lovers tiff. The football thing is off.  Meanwhile youngest is on a first Calippo and a second bag of crisps for being "Such a good child". Two minutes later eldest comes in and announced they've sorted it out and the partner is on their way to ours.

Long story short; the green veg was soggy, the chicken came out 7/10. The potatoes were overdone. And…I forgot the Yorkshires.

A bucket of instant gravy got me out of jail.

My partner and middle foster child's relative had become joint tribal elders with middle child their keen apprentice. Middle had been poured a glass of weak shandy (lawful and within Blue Sky guidelines, I know the rules inside out).

They were mates. No...more than mates…family.

Eldest wouldn't join us at the table pleading need for privacy in the front room with partner.  No problem, that's why God gave us trays.

Then, this happened. I swear this is simply the truth, the whole truth and nothing but...

There I was laying out the table. I had my music on Alexa when our own two grown-up kids showed up on the dot for family Sunday roast. Our house had; a foster child with partner nurturing a start-up relationship, a foster child and their indeterminate relative bonding with their make-believe dad in the TV room and a littlest foster child already hassling for ice cream to top up (if they "couldn't finish the brocolli"), plus my own two who simply got stuck in. 

Then, for me, from nowhere...a wave of well being.  

I wanted to tell someone how wonderful life can be when you get stuck in, but there was no-one to tell.

Except me. 

And so I did...

Then I called out; "Come and get it!"

And so they did...

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KIDS IN CARE REACT TO OTHER KIDS IN CARE

Kids in care often bond with each other in ways that are charming and, more to the point, useful.

I remember the first time we had more than one foster child in the house. We already had one who'd been with us about six months, a teenage girl who had endured a rotten childhood at the hands of adults who…

You don't want the details.

Actually, I know you really do want the details but the child's privacy is all important, so you'll have to take my word for it… a rotten childhood.

Things had been going along okay with her, and we (Blue Sky, the Local Authority and myself) had worked up a timetable to get the child back to her real home. The thing was this; the child wasn't much of a chatterbox. I'd learned to read her mind to some extent, but there's no substitute for a good heart to heart.

Then Blue Sky's Placement team telephoned me; "Would I consider taking a child who…"

The new child needed a foster home asap, and we had a spare room.

If Blue Sky judge that a carer is up to more than one foster child, then that carer is up to more than one foster child, that's how I pitched it to myself. I made the necessary phone calls to the family, our answer was yes.

The second child was much younger, and no more talkative than the older girl.

Everyone connected with her case (social workers, the police, the Crown Prosecution Service) were desperate to get as much information as possible about the goings-on in the child's life. But she'd clammed up. Possibly under threat from certain adult perpetrators not to blab.

Then something wonderful happened.

It was all down to the fact that I now had a double school run to carry out. Each morning I'd load both girls into the back of the car and drive the 20 minutes to the school gates of the elder child. I'd drop her off, then take the younger one to her school.

One morning we're all in the car. I was driving, Terry Wogan was on the radio (remember? the 'gob on a stick' as he called himself?). The girls sat in the back in silence.

Suddenly; a magic moment. Eldest foster child said to youngest foster child;

"So what happened to you then?"

Little one:

"What d'you mean?"

"Like, how come you're in foster?"

"Dunno…"

"Somebody must have screwed up, else you wouldn't be?"

"The police came and took my mummy away."

On and on they nattered, me all ears and glowing inside. 

They bonded - no mean feat for two children who were strangers to each other. They were years apart in age, but equals in their circumstance.

I gleaned more by eavesdropping on that car ride than any one-to-one could ever unearth. I couldn't wait to log it all in my report. When they visited, my social workers told me I'd done a great job.

I politely spurned their praise. The hero was the power of human cameraderie.

The girls were together in our house for about six weeks, and although neither were any the more chatty with me or social workers than they had been before, those shared car rides were often hilarious and always eye-opening.

When the elder girl was returned to her real family, the younger girl seemed to need a substitute buddy to chat in the car. 

So she talked…to me. 

I became her pal. 

Until one day, out of the blue, from the back of the car, she called me "Mummy".

And believe me, on the rare occassion that such a moment occurs, it is the reddest of red letter days in fostering.

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HEROIC KIDS

 Fostering can easily drain your last drop of belief in humanity.

Sounds dramatic I suppose but hey, we foster parents always bounce back.

Blue Sky make sure we do, and we do.

But by Jimminy, sometimes you go pale at the gills.

Our middle foster child is a trojan. A finer kid you couldn't hope to meet. Bright, decent, resourceful - all those credentials. On top of the sterling stuff, the child has subtle kindness, care of others, and love deep down in a big heart.

We squared things when the child came; explained that fostering is temporary and the job is to bring the child's family back together so they can move forward.

The child bought in. The child decided to see being in care as a sort of holiday from the family nonsense.

Weeks turned into months, during which our Blue Sky social worker kept us posted on the progress being made by the child's family.

The stepfather had issues with the law; criminality, substance abuse, alcohol and domestic violence. He had a suspended prison sentence hanging over him, but he seemed hellbent on activating it, as he couldn't stay out of trouble.

The child's mother was almost equally aberrant.

The thing is this; in my experience all children in care want to be re-united with their real family - no matter how chaotic they are. There it is.  An amazing fact, yet I came to understand and accept it.

So.

Here's the thing.

The child's mother has decided to start a new life for herself. She's moving back to her grassroots in Lincolnshire. She's hoping to escape the child's stepfather. The child's real father has never been on the scene.

The child's Local Authority social worker visited us on Thursday to bring us up to speed. Our Blue Sky social worker made sure she showed up.

The news was devastating.

The mother has decided to go live with her elderly mother and father in a cramped farm workers terrace house where she was brought up. She hoped to disappear from her abusive partner. She felt she had benefitted from the peace of not having kids to look after. She wanted to look after herself.

So; she declared that she was unable and unwilling to care for her own children, didn't trust her ex-partner not to find them and cause danger. And didn't trust herself to mother them.

All the above boiled down to this;

Someone had the job of breaking the news to our lovely foster child.

"YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T WANT YOU"

Sister, go try that hat on, as my nan used to say.

Blue Sky's people crowded in on this one, my own personal social worker had the chair.

The news had to be passed on to the child, but how?

Blue Sky have a big thing about "age-appropriate" interactions.

There are ways of telling a 5 year-old that are different from the ways you'd tell the same thing to a 15 year-old.

The child in this scenario is 10, going on 27.

First up; Blue Sky offered to do it for me, break the news. But no, I wanted to tackle it head-on as I knew the child, and believed that by imparting the bad news I would at least retain the child's respect for the intimacy of the moment.

I called the child to the kitchen table (where we do 'stuff') and laid it on the line. I didn't diss his mum, maybe even sided with her about the stepdad, and how the real father had left her high and dry.

Know what? I think and hope the child got it. We talked about the fact that the child's mother needed a break from her life. Just like the child was having a break. And that one should 'never say never'.

Child was cool. 

Where do we get these amazing kids?

The mum is not my favourite person, the father and the stepfather definitely aren't.

But our new long-term kid?

A five star ocean going hero.

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FOOD FOR THOUGHT

 Alicia, our current eldest foster child, is transitioning from male to female.

She is a great person. I'm totally behind her in her goal.

All the hot air surrounding the issue seems produced by people who have no real world knowledge of the issue of transitioning or Alicia specifically. Whatever the hot air, Alicia is morally right and anyone opposing her basic human right to be who she believes she is are wrong. 

Simples.

One of the many beauties of fostering is how it opens the door on so many issues and experiences where previously one had no real knowledge. 

I find that many of the problems that result in broken homes are down to nutrition - and by "nutrition" I mean more than just food.

In my time I've had to gain knowledge of things such as; how to help youngsters with poor physical development caused by over-eating, under-eating, or plain old bad eating, aka "food poverty". Then there are the effects on a child of abject social and emotional poverty. A different form of malnutrition.

If you foster it helps to develop an understanding of things you didn't used to know about so you can do your job. Blue Sky training sessions point you in the right direction. Your BS social worker is there to clarify and support. Together, we feed our knowledge and it grows.

Most of the public binge on what they see in the papers or online, or hear from "the man in the street" debating on the media. It's bad fast food for the soul. The less a person knows about something the more strident and simplistic their opinions.

Alicia puts up with turning on her news sites and being greeted by people condemning her.  She gets down about it, I'm certain, but because she cares about me and our family she sucks it up, processes it and, I believe, is currently able to say to herself "They don't know me, never met me. I'm not affecting anyone. I shall go on."

It takes guts, standing up for yourself when you're a young teenager. She does it quietly and with dignity. She attends the occasional march, but only to support people who are in the same boat as her.

She gets in nobody's face.

The whole business of transitioning is fraught with obstacles. I'm helping her with endless paperwork about her new name and identity.

I've needed to negotiate with her doctors surgery which was reluctant to get involved - possibly because they were wary of trouble further down the line if legislation and opinion turned against anyone who had helped transitioners. 

Alicia's pharmacy told us one day that they "no longer dispense" the medication Alicia is prescribed, but only because "It's out of stock with our supplier and we don't know when it'll be available again". Hmmmm.

Her school have been, on the whole, brilliant. Her fellow pupils applaud her courage. Mind, there's a teacher who exercises their "right" to continue using the male pronoun for her. It's not her, she says: "The Bible says…"

Alicia doesn't eat brilliantly. It's not a problem yet, but worth monitoring. She hops around her plate like a butterfly with sore feet, she is okay with pasta, but not too big a bowl, better to come back for seconds. Yet she'll go through a whole serving of popcorn if the movie is right. Me and her social worker, we talk about it a lot. We're agreed the key is making good food available, and improving her ease with eating. She has her own fruit bowl in her bedroom, and gets through bananas just fine.

It's her emotional poverty we're also focussed on feeding properly.

When she comes home from school or from hanging out with pals, I always give her a loud welcome, whereas in her real home she'd been invisible. If I find hair cuttings in the bathroom sink, I'll comment favourably about her new hair look. If a parcel arrives for her then next time I see her I'll tell her how great her new top is. If she has a couple of friends round to our house I'll stay out of the way but when they're gone I tell Alicia how fantastic her friends are.

Serving up the right food in the right portions is important.

Serving up the right care, in the right portions, is equally important.

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FOSTER CHILDREN AND BAD DECISION-MAKING

 One of the things you wonder about in fostering is; what becomes of the children when they leave you and go out into the world?

It's troubling enough worrying about what direction your own children will take, but at least you'll know their story, and can always be there for them if needed.

And in any case, your own children haven't been scarred by chaotic home life, then removed and placed with total strangers. All that baggage is hardly the best start.

There's one common trait I often see in chaotic parenting;

Bad decision-making.

The seeds of poor judgement in important matters are probably sown early in chaotic parents, during their own childhood in fact. Their own parents made bad decisions, yet defended those decisions throughout life rather than admit they got things wrong, own up, apologise and try to improve.

Take Colin.

The state of Colin's home life only came to the notice of Social Services as the result of a bad decision by the dad. He acquired a dog.

I say a "dog", Colin showed us images of the beast on his phone. And what a beast it was. All teeth and jowls, reminded me of Bill Sykes' dog in "Oliver".

Colin's dad acquired the dog from a man he'd heard was trying to offload it as he had to leave it at home all day while he was out "at work" and it "wasn't fair on the dog".

Colin's dad came home from the pub one night with the dog; "Gunner".

Gunner was an anxious dog and couldn't settle. He barked all night. So they put him outside in the yard. Where…surprise surprise …he barked all night.

The neighbours got fed up, but rather than confront the family about Gunner (probably fearful of the father's reaction) they called the council and a Dog Warden called.

Colin's father was upset, then angry. In front of the children he threatened to have Gunner put down telling the Dog Warden "If that'll make you happy!" Colin's mum started shouting at her husband for "Getting the bloody animal in the first place!" and the children were terrified. Colin's father's temper tantrums often backfired on them.

The Dog Warden asked a number of questions about their care for the dog. The parents said there was always someone in the house during the day so Gunner never felt lonely. The parents may have thought it was ok to say that the children hardly ever went to school, assuming that would be a credential.

The dog warden began to wonder if there was a safeguarding issue for the children.

They clearly shouldn't be shut in all day with a volatile dog that could easily be taken for dangerous. 

There were other red flags. The Warden spoke discreetly to a number of neighbours who'd come forward about the dog. They had plenty of negatives about the family and the plight of the children.

When he got back to his office he emailed colleagues at Social Services, and one thing led to another. Social Workers took the view that Colin and the other children were at risk for a number of substantials; neglect plus emotional and physical abuse. Never mind the dog.

Their removal into care was approved and Colin arrived at our house

We have a dog, and Colin, once he got past his fear, bonded with her. And told us all about Gunner.

And all about how his dad made bad decisions.

Colin's dad left school early saying the teachers were useless and education was for losers. The only thing he'd been any good at was singing, he'd made the edge of the school choir. He boasted he could have been a pop star but never really bothered.

He got work on a building site thanks to the dad of one of his mates and decided against saving up for a van (something he told his family for years was "next on the list"). Instead he spent his cash on beer, drugs, tattoos and following his football team home and away.

Then he got his girlfriend Cheryl pregnant.

Then he got into nicking. He told everyone (including Colin) it was a victimless crime because the owners had insurance, and he sold his wares on at bargain prices so everyone's a winner.

All the while, Colin is growing up watching his role model father act proud of his achievements. Which is how he re-invented his bad decisions.

Colin told us that whenever it was Karaoke night at the caravan site his dad would get up and sing the same song;

"My Way" by Frank Sinatra.

If you know it, you'll know that Colin's dad is trying to tell the world he's proud of his bad decisions. And seems to be recommending bad decisions to Colin.

So. 

Colin gentled himself while he was with us. Sometimes our dog would follow him up to bed and sleep on his floor, which he absolutley loved. You always, always see progress in foster children while they are with you, it's wonderful. Then they go, and are at the mercy of the world again.

I don't know where Colin is now, a piece of me hopes he's got a sloppy labrador, a career of some sort and is planning a white wedding with his fiancee.

Whatever; good luck Colin, thanks for your time with us, we loved having you!

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YOUR BEST FRIEND

In fostering you quickly appreciate the importance of your best friend.

Your bestie. The buddy who who can be trusted to be discreet, and who understands what you're doing in fostering. Worth their weight in gold.

I've known my best friend since I was a teenager. We buddied up because the same things made us laugh. Plus, we had similar values, particularly about how important it is for people who 'can' to help those that 'can't'. My friend became a nurse, I ended up fostering. 

We continue to meet up every couple of weeks and Facetime almost every day. We share our ups and downs. Her ups are that she runs her own food hub, her downs are mainly that her partner is struggling with mental health and her daughter's marriage is on the rocks. She tells me all her latest. I listen. We talk about it. 

When it's my turn I tell her about the comings and goings in our home. She listens.

The big thing is that the two of us listen to each other. We don't offer advice unless requested. We can tell that the other is listening because every so often they ask a question about what the other is saying that connects with what's just been said.

Listening.

SO important.

A good listener can make you feel so much better about everything because they step inside you and you become a twosome. You double in size whereas the rest of the time you're a onesome, on your own with your thoughts.

A long while ago I made a heady discovery, namely that I have another best friend.

Our Blue Sky social worker.

What happened was this.

We were fostering a young teenage lad, Aaron. He'd been through the mill in his real home. As a small child was routinely punished harshly for things he hadn't done.  Part of my job was to help him develop a sense of security that the outside world has more justice than his childhood home.

One evening we took the family to a Pizza restaurant. I'd booked by phone. After eating I settled the bill and got everyone heading for the car. However, Aaron asked if it was okay for him to walk home alone. It was a quiet evening, it wasn't too late at night, the walk was no more than six or seven minutes.

I said sure.

Aaron stayed in his seat while we set off, finishing his pudding.

Shortly after we got home my phone rang. It was the pizza restaurant. A voice said there was a problem;

"The young man who was with you inadvertently picked up a bag belonging to someone else and the owner of the bag is very upset."

I apologised. When Aaron arrived home, he confirmed that he had the bag, but denied that he'd picked it up himself. He said that a waiter had run after him and said "One of your party left this behind, you'd better take it home." So he complied.

I phoned the pizza place and they conceded that they'd been mistaken in saying that Arron had 'inadvertently' picked up the bag, and confirmed that the waiter had made the mistake. The restaurant sent the waiter to our house to collect the bag and apologise, but when he arrived he dropped a bombshell. He checked the bag and said' "The owner says there was a purse in the bag with cards and I don't see it in here."

Yike. The situation ratcheted up several notches. I had no option but to ask Aaron if he'd had a purse foisted on him as well as the bag. He said he had not. Then our phone rang again. The restaurant said the panic was over, the customer had found her purse.

But. Harm may have been done - to Aaron.

The following morning I phoned my Blue Sky social worker. The agency likes to be in the know.

We talked for nearly an hour.

I say "we talked" but what I mean is that she listened.

She took notes. She was being a professional best friend.

After I finished the tale, the first thing she said was;

"The last thing Aaron would do is risk being in trouble."

He response was SO spot on. It showed not only that she'd taken in all the details, but that she knew and understood a key facet of Aaron that needed to be protected.

Aaron, vindicated, seemed unaffected by his brush with false accusation. If anything he was fortified that the facts came out and his integrity was confirmed.

Confirmation that the world is not too bad, most of the time.

What's also not too bad is having TWO best friends; a social one and a professional one.

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DILEMMA SOLVED

 A while ago I mentioned a problem facing one of our foster children, the one I'm calling Alicia.

Alicia is transitioning from male to female, and doing it with pride and purpose. And we're proud of her for her courage, integrity and unending kindness.

Alicia flattered me by letting me in on a dilemma she was facing.

It's rare to get an update on a troubled child from the child themself. I find that children in care only own one thing outright, and that's their own thoughts and memories. And so they guard their privacy like the crown jewels that they are.

Alicia had been invited to the birthday party of her aunt. Big party; the aunt was turning 50. She apparently wanted her birthday to be one of those Big "0" events. The aunt was very excited about her own party; she'd mailed out invitations with RSVPs, complete with dictats about the guest list. It was to be "Family, close friends and their partners and children only. The invite also briefed everyone on what stuff guests might care to bring, arrrival times, order of events (eg the cutting of the cake). Parking, even.

She was leaving nothing to chance.

Half of the above I learned direct from Alicia herself, the other half by being unable to avoid overhearing Alicia gossiping with her friends in the downstairs room off our kitchen.

Here's Alicia's dilemma.

The aunt considered herself very close to Alicia. She'd allowed the young Alicia to stay with her couple of times as a stop gap when Alicia's home had temporarily broken down.

However. Alicia isn't a kid anymore, she knows herself and her own heart and mind.  When the aunt learned that Alicia was transitioning the aunt virtually disowned Alicia. The aunt had told Alicia via Alicia's real mother that she was not to come to the party as Alicia, but must come as her former self, a boy called Troy. Alicia was to dress as a male and not talk to anyone at the party about transitioning.

For Alicia it seemed to boil down to either complying or refusing. Refusing meant not attending.

If Alicia showed up as Alicia there'd probably be a scene, and Alicia didn't want things to be all about her.

So, what happened?

Alicia played a blinder. She found a better way forward.

First up, she showed a bit of genius in her analysis of human nature. I heard her tell her friends that she reckoned that her aunt's problem was that she didn't want people to think that Alicia's transitioning was any fault of the aunt. 

If Alicia was correct it reminds us all how frightened for themselves some people are.

Alicia hatched a plan.

She would tell the aunt that she wanted to bring a guest; a friend.

The aunt would veto the request as she only wanted 'family, friends of the aunt, and official partners'. In other words if a person wasn't on her list they were not allowed.

Alicia's position was;

"I am who I am and I'm not going to live a lie, not even for a single afternoon".

A beautiful way out. The aunt declined her request so Alicia could say a polite "I regret..." back.

My guess is that almost anyone at the party who noticed "Troy" was a no-show knew why. The aunt sounds like a case in point.

Alicia? I'm not going to pretend she didn't have her ups and downs about it, but she has great support from social services, Blue Sky, and her network of friends. Plus I think she knows that her fostering family are in her corner.

I hope the aunt blew out all her candles.

But that her wishes don't come true.

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FOSTERING AND BEDTIMES

 Bedtimes are slightly different in fostering.

If you don't have children to put to bed you don't know you're born, as my dad used to say.

If the Bedtimes are simply those of your own children then things can still get complicated, but a routine gradually takes shape. The routine takes everything into account; age differences, which day of the week it is, the order of events, and more. It starts with the youngest and works its way up to the eldest. The first of the bedtime routines might kick off for youngest at 7.00pm, and might not finish until eldest at 9.00pm. Repetition is important. If you can get all the little events set in stone there's less wiggle room for argument.

We must never forget there's an understandable drive in kids to stay up as late as they can wangle. However if you have an unchanging family dynamic you're halfway there.

However. The business of Bedtime is slightly altered once you start fostering.

We had three children of our own when we began fostering. Our first foster child was aged ten, a couple of years older than our eldest, so technically the foster child should have been the last one to go up. Whether or not the foster child gets an extra half-hour downstairs after all the others have gone up is one of those seemingly innocuous things that are actually huge. Bedtimes are one of my regular conversations with our Blue Sky social worker when we get our 2/3 hour visit. These visits, by the way, are tailored to everyone's needs. Mine are currently monthly.

We chat about all the issues. In the case of our first foster child the issues included whether our own children would somehow feel miffed that a total stranger has somehow usurped them. We talked at length about what it would mean, especially to our eldest. In our case our eldest, though only eight at the time, was pretty level headed about most things. We took him into our confidence, explaining that if he went to bed cheerfully and without argument he would be a good role model for our new foster child. Our eldest rose to the responsibility. In return eldest would receive longer time in bed with the light on for reading.

BTW, for 'reading' make that 'game time' - we knew it, and he knew we knew it, but so what…? 

We agreed that if our new foster child tried to pitch for longer staying-up time our trump card would be that we were tired, and since we were going to bed he'd have to hit the hay as well because he couldn't stay downstairs on his own.

This wasn't merely a tactical call; I remember we were genuinely whacked.

Bedtimes can be fraught at the best of times, but despite the battles there's always that moment of triumph when your plan has come together and they are all tucked up.

And me and my other half can have a breather.

And an early night...

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PRAISE BE ICE CREAM

 Catriona came to us in a flurry.

It could have been a disaster, but my oldest trick came through.

Normally there's a measured process about a child arriving at your home for fostering.

For carers with an agency such as Blue Sky the process usually begins with a daytime phone call asking if you might be willing to take a child who needs to be fostered. 

The phone call gives a pen picture of the child and her circumstances, and, if there are no obvious problems Blue Sky put you down as a possible. They ping your details to the Local Authority which has ultimate responsibility for the child, to see if you fit the bill. Blue Sky send you everything they have that's known about the child, so you can consolidate your willingness.

I can't tell you how exhilarating this episode is! The prospect of a child arriving into your care, becoming part of your home, enjoying your parenting - whatever they've endured - it's heady stuff.

Catriona arrived by a slightly different route.

The phone call came late one night.

Blue Sky had been contacted by a Local Authority which had suddenly taken a child into care.

See, generally a child is taken into care after a process of investigation into the home life of the child by Local Authority social workers. They trawl through the situations in the home and evaluate if the child/children are at risk of safeguarding issues. 

If the social workers decide there are sufficient concerns they trigger a high level pow-wow review of the child's vulnerablity, which then decides if the child is to be taken into care.

All very measured.

However, not so with Catriona.

My phone pinged. The time was just after midnight. Blue Sky calling. I was on their list as a potential emergency carer. 

The question I was asked was; would I be willing to take a child who police had found wandering the streets in a dubious part of town. The child said her name was Catriona, but blanked other questions such as "Where do you live?", "Who are your mummy or daddy?", "Why are you out of the house at this late hour?"

The officers contacted the Local Authority's 24 hour service, and they put the word out that a bed was needed for a child, and fast.

I said "Yes" and literally ten minutes later a squad car was on its way.

See, the alternative accomodation for Catriona was a police cell, and no-one wants that.

I dressed myself, did a quick zizz of the spare bedroom and boiled a kettle. 

Catriona arrived with two officers, a female and a male. Their care for the child made my heart glow. 

It was agreed that almost all the necessary paperwork could wait until the morning, they made a couple of phone calls, jotted some notes, told me what they'd noted, and departed.

Catriona was well presented, smart even.  It turned out that her good appearance was her own doing, her family didn't give a tinker's cuss about her.

She was totally tight-lipped. I asked about how she was, she shrugged. I asked if she needed the bathroon, she didn't even shrug, just stared down at the kitchen table .

So I fell back on my cheapest trick. I went to the freezer and said "Well as it's late I'm going to have a bowl of ice cream. Not sure whether to have chocolate or strawberry…"

I saw her perk up a little, so I added "How about you? Chocolate or strawberry?'

I watched her litttle face as she wrestled with the problem. The REAL problem.

The real problem wasn't chocolate or strawberry. The real problem was whether to relax and engage with a stranger of an adult.

Catriona gave in;

"Chocolate…please."

Cue engagement.

Ok, we didn't talk way into the night, but ice cream had broken the ice.

She absolutley savoured every spoonfull.

Catriona wasn't with us very long, a more permanent foster home was secured a better distance from her chaotic home.

But I'll never forget her licking the spoon.

Or, even better, her smile and nod when I asked:

"D'you want a drop more?"

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SAFE FOSTERING

 I can't fully remember the last block of time in our home when we didn't have a single foster child in our care.

This has been wonderful of course, but it also has it's constraints.

I can't remember the last time I was able to nip across the landing to the bathroom in my nightclothes without slipping a dressing gown on first.

Even if I was bursting😅…

Plenty of times I'm on the horns of a miniature dilemma. For example I might discover there's not enough bread for tomorrow's school lunches.

I need to buzz to the corner shop. Only 200 yards. But should I? My own kids are ok to leave unsupervised for 5 minutes, but when one or more of the children in one's house are foster children it's a bit different; you have to make some tight decisions. 

Do you know them well enough, even if they're old enough? Is there anything in their background that means that being left at home (even for a mere 5 minutes) could be a trigger?

Then I find I do a quick bout of "catastophising" (where you imagine the worst). You picture the boiler suddenly melting, or a plug fusing and flames belching out.

These dilemmas are always sorted with common sense, in the above case I'd err on the side of caution. But they add a layer of reasonable concern to the normal considerations of safe home life.

Example;

Eleanor came to us aged eleven. A very adult aged eleven, as can often be the case with children coming in to care. They've been around the block more than the average child their age.

During her third week with us she asked if she could take her pocket money to the corner shop and get some sweets.

Eleanor had done her homework. She had found out that my youngest was allowed to go to the corner shop as long as she came straight back, and, Eleanor pointed out, our youngest is two years younger than Eleanor.

She knew where the shop was - she'd spotted it from the car on the school runs.

She reminded me that to get to it she didn't need to cross a road.

She's saved her pocket money and deserved a humble bag of Haribos plus the feelgood feeling of being grown up.

And trusted.

What would YOU have said?

I didn't say anything that would have reminded her that she was in care, that would have risked harming the process of creating respect and care between us.

So. Just as with my own kids, I asked her not to speak to anyone except the person on the till. I asked her to go straight there and not spend too much time browsing (I knew she'd dawdle a little - all part of the fun).

I didn't tell her I'd be watching all the way there and back. See, we have a rather sparse hedge on the side of the front garden. You can see through it, but passers-by can't see you.

Perfect.

Mission was accomplished, total success. The spag boll didn't even catch, I'd turned it off to avoid distractions.

My other half, when I told him said; "Like I always say, you should've been SAS".

Funnily enough, Eleanor never asked to do it again. I guess she was just ticking it off as a credential; interesting.

Like I always say; fostering is wonderful. 

On top of that, it's nothing if not interesting.

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HERE COMES A SCHOOL HOLIDAY...

 Approaching every school summer holiday I resolve to get ahead, have things planned. Don't get caught unawares as I usually used to.

Result; no change. The last day of term - the summer term especially - still creeps up on you unannounced, camouflaged by end-of-term exam stress, sorting out if your foster child is staying with you throughout or not, stocking up, booking days out and travel.

And if you're going abroad for your summer vacation, good luck. We took a foster child to Spain a few summers running and it was great, but we resolved after Brexit to go no further abroad than the Isle of Wight. However if you do need guaranteed sun bear in mind it's a long haul day even if it's a short haul flight. Whatever your plans, enjoy!

Every school holiday in fostering - even the 'short' half term breaks - follow the same pattern.

Your child spends the first day 'chilling', luxuriating in the bliss of freedom.

Day two, up goes the shout "I'm bored!"

And besides all the standard day-to-day duties of the foster parent, you are now an entertainments officer.

You offer organised activities, saying;

"There's a playgroup/football club/cricket/golf/pony riding/swimming/rock climbing thing organised in town."

To mixed response. When I say 'mixed response' I'm talking somewhere betweem "You're joking!" and "No chance".

Jobs, to earn extra pocket money, often get some traction. "Jobs" such as accompanying me on the dog walk, which gets a taker now and then, or cooking the evening meal (aka making a huge mess in the kitchen for muggins to clear up). They fill another day.

I think I've learned to do nothing in the morning, but talk up what's planned for the afternoon (the 'something to look forward to' ploy.

They can whittle the morning away on tech or TV while you hoover and peg out a wash.

Know what's my jewel in the crown? There's an old field near us we can walk to, and take the dog. It's got a medium sized tree near a shallow stream. I bring a carrier bag with some snacks in it (aka "a picnic") and they'll stay all day. Making up games, getting wet, climbing a bit of the tree, snacking. Shrieking as the dog goes for a splash.

Laughing, running, lying on their back in the sun.

They don't want the day to end.

I don't either…

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