NEXT BABY STEP FOR A FOSTER MUM

 Fostering; where a family (or a solo adult) takes in a child who needs caring for. The fosterers could be a mum and dad with children of their own, or a single person. They could be in work or between jobs, or retired. Might be religious or not, might have pets* or not. There's no template for us fostering folk. 

It takes all sorts.

Nor is there a template for the type of fostering one might go for.

For example; there's the common or garden placement of a child whose real family home has broken down in some way. The child is considered at risk. But even with that sort of fostering every child is unique, every chaotic family are a case in point. 

But there are other ways to foster. Respite care is a good example, where the fostering family takes in a child whose foster parents need a break or maybe have to go off for a family wedding or suchlike. Respite care is very rewarding in many ways.

Then there's Emergency care, which is where a child needs a bed for the night and needs it pronto. Emergency carers need everything from a bedroom ready to be used to a new toothbrush still in its carton.

There's all sorts of in-between fostering, if I can put it like that. But the one I'm aiming to go for next is Parent and Child.

Blue Sky have been nudging me to think about it for a while now. 

What made them think I might be up for it? That's easy; they don't miss a trick these social workers; sharp as the proverbial tack.

See, I'm now a young gran! Yep, a 'nana' to give me my official title, and the whole experience has put my maternals back in full bloom.

I'm cuddling cushions and encouraging the dog onto the bed in the morning.

Last time our social worker was here I banged on about how I'd bought curtains to pull across the front door and keep out the letterbox draught. I'd bought a new rug for the living room. Cleaned all the insides of our windows with vinegar.

I'm nesting.

And therefore easy prey for the proposition of looking after a parent and child.

The Parent and Child isn't necessarily a young mum and a newborn, although I'm told that's the most common profile. It's the one that would suit me best to get me started in what is, after all, a specialist type of fostering.

Thing is, I've done it before, once, way back a long while ago, before I joined Blue Sky. Bottom line is that I believe I could have done better. The young mum was 17, it was her second baby. Looking back I went hell for leather to help the mum shape up and be good enough to keep the baby. Her first-born had been removed and put up for adoption. In the case of this young mum I was instinctively driven to do my utmost to help the mother keep her baby. With hindsight I should have given more priority to the baby's needs, and adoption was the best thing for her.

I learned on the job as I went along.

I can't overstate by how much Blue Sky's support and preparation is superior to what I had way back then. 

I'm going to be helped, advised and guided every step of the way this time, and I can't wait.

Blue Sky appears to have staff dedicated to Parent and Child, and one of their head honchos is a fantastic person who… used to be a foster carer. Not only that, she used to specialise in Parent and Child.

When it comes to help and guidance, you can't beat someone who's walked the walk as well as talked the talk.

I had a virtual meeting with her to get the ball rolling, it was scheduled for two hours.

Three hours later we relunctantly pressed "Leave the meeting".

She's my new chum.

And I'm going into Parent and Child…me and my new chum plus my regular social worker and her team. Together.

_______________

* Pets. I've only heard of one circumstance where pets were a deal-breaker. A single man who'd enquired to be a foster dad. He informed social workers that he owned a collection of live snakes, one measuring eight feet long. All of which had the run of the house...

 

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JOHN LENNON WAS RIGHT...

 I bumped into one of our neighbours in the high street recently.

She's not someone I'm particularly connected to, but our paths cross and we have an occasional chat, usually a gossip about things going on in our road.

I asked her if she was busy and she told me all about how she and Chris were settling into retirement and finding things to do. Eventually she asked: "And you? What are you up to these days?"

"Oh," I replied "Fostering."

"Goodness!" she floundered; curiously at a loss; "Are you STILL fostering?"

Her use of the word STILL annoyed me a bit, to be honest. The way she said it.

What did she mean? Am I getting a bit old for it? Haven't I got it out of my system yet? When am I going to start acting normal?"

I thought about it all day.

I ruminated away…the woman is a bit older than me. Would I say to her "Oh, are you STILL alive?"

I dropped it into the conversation next time my Blue Sky social worker came over for one of her lovely visits.

She reminded me how huge is the need for more foster parents. One organisation reports there are 60,000 children in care, and 90,000 who need care. 

The two of us got to wondering whether the neighbour, recently retired, and her husband, also recently retired, have been considering applying to foster.

Maybe they just need a nudge, maybe they find the prospect daunting.

Maybe she's fearful of being told she's too old to foster.

She ain't.

I had an idea; I asked my Blue Sky social worker if they had some cards I could keep in my bag to give to people who I thought might be interested.

She's getting back to me with the idea. I hope it kicks in, I've always wanted to announce; "My card!"

Getting started in fostering isn't a huge leap, it's a series of baby steps which one takes with strong supporting hands guarding the would-be foster parent along the journey. They won't let you fall.

They want you to succeed.

My experience with Blue Sky was as follows; I phoned their office and after a friendly chat on the phone they sent someone to visit us. He'd been in the house for 5 minuites before announcing;

"Right! I've seen all I need to see! You're definitely worth taking to the next level. You can expect another call from Blue Sky."

Turned out he was 'Stage One". A quick shufti to make sure we had the basics; a normal family home with a spare bedroom and enough brain cells to do joined up thinking.

The next stage was a series of visits from a Blue Sky social worker to get some details about ourselves, our family, and our home. They even checked out our immediate family members and friends, simply to get a picture of how we might foster, how we might structure our fostering.

Blue Sky's discovery that we had a couple of difficult family members didn't put them off; if anything they were encouraged. Fostering needs carers who have experience of managing family people who think two and two make five...

Then came a formal review of our application to foster; a small roomful of kind but constructive people checking out that we measured up. It felt more like a massive pat on the back than a rigourous exam…

And then?

You're in!

It was the best piece of cake I've ever had!

Oh, and as I always tell people who ask, my abiding memory of the review happened when they announced that we had passed, and asked if I had any questions.

"Yes" I replied, turning to the man on the review board who was also a foster dad. I said:

"Do you have any advice?"

He thought for a moment then replied;

"All you need is LOVE…and a lot of it..."

Know what…?

He was spot on.

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A MOST UNUSUAL FOSTER HOME

 I often find myself reassuring people who are thinking about becoming foster parents about the lengths Blue Sky go to to ensure that each foster child is a good 'fit' for their carers' home life. This includes any foster children already in the home.

They call it 'matching'.

For example, a few years ago we made our family available for providing respite care; 'Respite' is where a foster child comes to stay with a fostering family for a short period of time in order, usually, to help out the child's regular foster parents.

Sometimes it's just for a weekend, sometimes a week, sometimes an indeterminate period depending on the exact circumstances. However long the period of respite lasts, it's temporary.

Yet despite it's short-termism, Blue Sky always go the extra mile to ensure a 'match'.

Here's a typical example.

We were asked to consider providing regular respite for a young teenage boy. We were flattered to be picked for consideration as the foster home he was with was over 100 miles from us. If it had gone ahead Blue Sky would've handled the transport.

The boy, 'Carlton', was a white Zimbabwean by heritage who needed respite care during school holidays. Both of his foster parents worked; one was full-time the other part-time, and arrangements had been agreed that there'd always be one of the parents on hand when he was home, but they couldn't give that guarantee during school holidays.

Our home was covered for school holidays as I was full-time fostering and always on hand.

Our house was almost like a youth club back then.

Blue Sky went to work collecting information about the lad, his story, his character, his likes and dislikes, his food preferences; the works.

One titbit about him caught the attention of our eagle-eyed social worker.

"Hmm…" she muttered. "I'm going to have to find out more about this…"

She'd spotted something in the boy's notes, namely the identity and profile of the family that had provided his respite care up until this point but were no longer able to do so.

Listen to this, it'll tickle you I think.

Our social worker came back to us armed with as much information as possible. She wasn't in possession of the names or address of the respite carers, but she was able to collect enough peripheral information.

They were…

... aristocracy!

Yep. I can't explain why I found that surprising and intriguing, but I did. 

They lived in a converted castle, on a country estate. Hundreds of acres of woodland and wheatfields, a river, a trout lake, deer, pheasants, a stable with horses (a couple of which were thoroughbreds they ocassionally sent to the races). 

Did I mention their castle had a moat and turrets? It had the remnants of kennels for forty hounds from when they used to lead the local hunt. 

Oh, yes. The thing that caught our social workers attention was this.

They had a gun room.

Ah. Good spot by her.

She made more inquiries.

Turned out the boy had learned to ride, fish in the river and…join in the shooting. All proper and above board of course; he wasn't allowed anywhere near the guns. But he worked as a general gopher; a pheasant-beater, a junior hound-master collecting the game that had been shot. The Lord (or Earl or whatever he was) regularly invited banking friends for weekends and Carlton would mix it with City-slicker Hedge Fund managers and the Wolves of Wall Street.

Carlton had become a part-time member of the hunting shooting and fishing fraternity with such enthusiasm that he'd put himself down to join the army at the earliest opportunity. Apparently his real family had fled Zimbabwe in the final days of the country being under minority white rule - partly because his stepfather had been a farmer and had been involved in the fighting, siding with the losing side. He was sought after by the incoming authorities.

No wonder Carlton's DNA felt at home on the country estate.

His local authority were a hundred per cent vigilant about keeping Carlton from so much as touching a shotgun, but he become enamoured of the lifestyle, and an enthusiastic advocate of controlling wildlife, and mixing it with enemy forces.

We had to decide whether Carlton would find respite life on a normal suburban estate a bit tepid. Blue Sky established that his permanent foster home was much like ours. They assured us that Carlton would benefit from our provision of something that the aristocrats didn't do so well, namely a bog-standard loving family.

But something niggled with us that it might be a shock to his system.

Then we got round to talking about how he'd fit with our family members, and that was when a penny dropped.

Our eldest foster child (at the time) was just starting to find his feet. Until this time he'd been painfully shy and lacking any confidence, but he'd started to hear his own voice. He took views on issues, and developed pride in his noble opinions.

Eldest was on the way to somewhere better.

Blue Sky and I sat around the kitchen table wondering about the impact of having Carlton for respite might have on our eldest foster child.

Carlton had reportedly grown into a strong character with clear views. For example he would argue for military action (by no means unusual thinking among teenage boys, but not prevalent in our house at the time). 

After much thought we said "Sorry but no" to having Carlton for respite care. Blue Sky totally understood and moved onto rustling up some other options. The very next offering was Nagwa. She was a "Yes" and it worked a dream.

And our eldest? 

He continued onwards and upwards, happily oblivious of the care everyone had taken to ensure that newcomers fit into every part of our wonderful family.

Sometime shortly after this, eldest announced he was vegetarian. And asked if he could attend a peace march.

His newfound commitment didn't last, but we laughed at how the conversations would have gone around the kitchen table if Carlton had arrived and started banging on about pheasant shoots and Afghanistan…

BTW we wish Carlton well and hope for his future, we never met him but he lived in our hearts and minds during an interesting period of our long and happy time in fostering.

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A CREAM CRACKER UNDER THE SOFA

 When I began fostering I went to great lengths to keep each foster child's bedroom neat and tidy.

As soon as I returned from the morning school run I'd poke my head round their door and collect up empty crisp packets and apple cores, pull back the bed to air it, pick up clothes from the floor and try to match odd socks lying everywhere.

All that palava.

I've had teenagers of my own, I know that untyidyness is a normal part of their journey. But for kids in care it began to seem to me that some of them took it to a new level.

Asking a teenager to tidy their room is like asking a baby not to cry. It's just impossible.

So, for a long time I fought fire with fire.

Their bedroom is a tip? In goes I with a bin liner and a Dyson.

War. Me versus rubbish.

To a large extent my efforts were in the best intererests of the kids. Basic cleanliness, good hygiene and self-respect are valuable lessons in life. Not only that; this was my house and I wanted it up to scratch.

On top of those motives; social workers need to check a foster child's home life, including a quick gander at their room. They don't go in with a magnifying glass and a dust meter. They can tell with a quick head round the door. Look; if social workers aren't up to speed on teenagers' untidyness, no-one is.

All the same, back in the early days of fostering I was often frustrated. The child would come home from school and go up to a neat and tidy bedroom and next morning it would look like, as the phrase goes, a bomb had gone off.

The sheer untidyness of some kids in care was almost a work of art.

The clutter! They seemed to think that the purpose of possessions was to chuck them everywhere!

Then, one day, I had to take Katy, a particularly untidy 14 year-old, back to her real home for a visit.

It was a revelation.

On the outside the house was a smart newbuild social housing home.

On the inside it was a tip.

Debris everywhere; in the hallway, the kitchen and the living room. Katy's mum had been watching daytime TV on a giant screen, the sound full on and subtitles. Katy ran up to her room to pack her stuff; clothes, personal music, make-up and suchlike.

I sat on the other end of the sofa from the mum. In between us was piles of detrius; an open packet of Marlboro and a plastic lighter, a half-empty bag of Doritos, a TV listings magazine, a pack of chocolate digestives, an inside-out pullover, a scattering of unopened brown envelopes etc etc…

In between the sofa and the TV was a sizeable glass coffee table piled high with an empty KFC box, a full ashtray, an opened can of full-fat Coke, a sock, several coffee mugs, a wine glass, a box of Kleenex, a corkscrew, a magazine of word puzzles etc etc...

Most disturbing was the large tub of Sudocrem with its top off.

Oh, and a jar of E45…

When I say "Most disturbing", those things fell back into second place when a one-eyed cat hopped onto mum's lap demanding attention. The cat somehow symbolised the tone that shop-soiled stuff was in charge of the home not the mum.

When my Blue Sky social worker dropped in a week or so later she wanted to know all about the visit.

We talked for an hour about the clutter, and Katy's untidyness.

A penny dropped. I bet you got there first dear reader…

Yep. Katy needed to re-create her home life in her foster home in order to feel safe.

Home from home.

So: with Katy I eased off the tidy-ups for the best possible motive. Only a bit, mind, I'm human after all…

Is that a cream cracker under the sofa…?

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FOSTERING AND SCREEN TIME

 We've just enjoyed a week hosting a four-year-old for Respite Care.

His foster mum needed a wee operation and her other half is an airport driver who works all hours and couldn't bridge the gap. Plus the guy wanted to care for his partner when she came out of hospital. They needed a week off fostering.

No problem. Respite is something we've always been up for.

We say to the kids when they arrive; "It's your holiday". And we try to make it feel like that.

After all, it must be a bit scary for them, having been taken into care in the first place, then sometime later being shifted somewhere else. The whole kiboodle of getting to know a new home and new people is a big ask.

Fostering (for us anyway) is about bringing the children on. Anything less is what I call incubation, which I'm only prepared to do when offering Respite.

What I mean is this; I will always take every opportunity to help the child progress (that's my priority in fostering) but when one hosts a child for a short Respite period, the priority has to be helping them deal with their new, temporary environment.

Cut to the chase; I spoil them.

I don't spoil them rotten; what I do is help them feel safe. And there are lots of ways of doing it.

Big example; I let them have plenty of screen time. 

More than I'd normally permit.

See, their screen represents a familiar world. When a child is uprooted from their real home, then uprooted again from their foster home, they can feel rootless - because they are.

So I allow them plenty of journeys into a world that feels to them like 'home'.

Some screen 'homes' are a bit worrying. I wouldn't want them to live in the world of Spongebob or other shows I could name, so I stay vigilant. 

The child who came to stay for a week was happy to watch the likes of Peppa Pig and one hosted by a beautiful person called "Rachel".

Believe me, these shows are like Sunday School, only better. They're steeped in great values and real connections with top end ethics. And they're fun!

The four-year-old arrived with a bag that included a tablet.

I showed him his bedroom, then made him a snack. He asked for his tablet.

He got it.

And he relaxed.

Then, next thing, he wanted to show me what he was playing/watching. We bonded.

I sometimes wonder if people who carp on about children spending too much time on their phones/ipads etc, ever bother to get informed.

Still: who cares?

Who cares? We foster folk, that's who cares, and we try to care about the right things.

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WHAT'S IN A NAME? 2

This comment arrived at the blog in response to a post about how children who need special care often have been given slightly - or sometimes highly - unusual names by their parents.

MoogletFriday, October 17, 2025

I have never considered that but I suspect you're right - its the IMPACT the name might have on a child that has not been considered by children. My name is normal but its one of those names that can be spelt two ways, drove me crazy how often people spelt it wrong when I was growing up. I imagine anyone with extra Es or Ys or c/k and s/z mixes is going to face the same.

FYI - Roald Dahl was born in the UK, but his family were Norwegian. So his name was unusual for us, but fairly common over there. Its considered old fashioned now - a bit like our version of Harold or Reginald - we all know its a name but we don't know anyone under 60 called it.

A while ago I was watching TV when an expert raised a point about the use of names.

Got me thinking about the general importance of a child's own name, and how we parents use that name.

I remember being told that our favourite sound is the sound of our own name; but that doesn't mean it's a welcome sound for everybody.

Lots of people change their names for all sorts of reasons. Take politicians; remember George Osborne the Chancellor? His real name was Gideon, but he thought it made him sound posh. Going way back a Prime minister called Harold had changed his name from James, thought it made him sound more working class. His successor was called James. He'd changed his name from Harold because he thought no-one called Harold stood a chance of becoming Prime Minister…

Boris Johnson's real name is Alex. One of his middle names is Boris, he used Boris as it made him seem more fantastical.

Would Elton John have become who he is if he'd stuck with Reginald Dwight?

A child's name is one of the first things they own, and when parents are faced with choosing a name they sometimes think of themselves more than the child.

See, my point is something like this;

If parents aren't careful, they use their childrten's name in admonition, saying things such as:

"Karl! Stoppit!"

"Kylie! Don't do that!"

"Martin! I saw that!"!"

"Vicky! We're going to be late!"

"Dillon! Please don't use words like that!"

You get the gist…

Is it as big deal? Probably not, but even if it's a small deal, it's a deal worth thinking about.

If it's worth building into your fostering manual, I guess the answer is to include the child's name when you praise them.

Get them to associate your use of their name with positive things. Reduce the number of times you include their name when being stern.

It's worth a thought.

And who was the expert who planted this seed about names?

None other than that bloke with a cravat who shows us…

…how to get your dog to do what it's told!

He said that too many owners only use their dog's name when they're misbehaving; a good tip.

 

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BLUE SKY TO THE RESCUE…AGAIN

 Sometimes all you need is a friendly word...

We've had a hectic and stressy fortnight.

We'd taken our dearly loved dog to the groomers. They mentioned that she had a small protuberance down below, right next to her bottom.

We scooted her to the vet, who said best to remove it.

Yikes; an op, general anaesthetic, stitches etc. The works. 

Then there's the sending off of the protuberance for analysis.

We took her in on the day and collected her same day, she was wobbly and anxious.

The kids were great. Rallied round, well sort of. They didn't know how to actually help, but they tried. They fussed around her and fluffed her head (which only made her more giddy). They turned the TV up nice and loud which didn't create the sort of recuperation atmosphere the dog needed, but children in care are recuperating too, so you need to balance everything…

We didn't get much sleep that night. The dog needed to wear one of those collars to stop her worrying at her wound. She was frantic with the whole thing; not just the collar, but the pain of the knife and the strangeness of it all. Around 2,00am we got her up and onto our bed and in between us. She settled - a bit.

Next morning we played things down for the kids; didn't want them to have to hear about the stressy stuff we were dealing with. Dog was still frantic but we played it all down. Got the kids off to school and closed the front door on the world.

Other half had taken the day off work to help manage the situation, so we were in it together. But alone against the world.

Know the feeling?

Then, at 10.00am, with us out on our feet, frightened and alone, my phone pinged.

A text message from our Blue Sky social worker, who'd visited us the previous week.

Her job is to ensure her foster carers are ok and work alongside them to keep their fostering on course.

The phone messsage said;

"Hope the op went well. Fingers crossed the results are good too."

Now, I don't remember telling her about the dog problem, but obs it came up. And obs the SW noted the day the op was due and that there'd need to be tests.

So; suddenly we weren't alone.

There are not enough words to tell you how much that tiny message meant.

Our Blue Sky superstar social worker must have made a mental note (she rarely takes written notes at our sessions, too formal) and waited 'til things had happened before sending us a support message. It was a smart message too; no call to action (we were busy enough), but a simple note of care and togetherness.

You want some suchlike care? Try fostering!

ps. Anyone know how to get dog blood out of a duvet?

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WHAT'S IN A NAME?

 Interesting footnote of fostering…

One of my family is a senior "Senco" - stands for Senior Educational Needs Coordinator. She supervises the care for pupils with needs across 5 primary schools.

She's a font of all sorts of inside knowledge.

Try this; the wierder the spelling of a child's name, the more likely that child is to have needs.

When she let this one slip out I realised that I'd noticed it myself, but had dismissed it as an unlikely universal truth. I put it down to randomness. However...

It first struck me when "Skarlett" came to us. Skarlett was a charming little one with a chaotic mother who I met several times when she attended Contact to spend an hour with her daughter.

Like many parents at Contact, Skarlett's mother did her best to come across as a good parent, and I usually try to support their efforts. Visiting adults are often encouraged to bring a snack for the child and one mum could do no better than buy the cheapest sandwich from the newsagent round the corner and give it to the child still in its plastic. Hardly the token of affection that it's intended to be. I gently suggested that next Contact the parent hand-make a sandwich or a roll, or even bake a little cake. In fostering the job is usually to help the family get back together, so any positive signs have to be encouraged. In this case the mother rejected the idea saying "Nah, she loves tuna". As though tuna only comes in pre-packed sarnies...

I remember itching to ask Skarlett's mother why she, or she and her partner, chose an unusual spelling for Skarlett.  I felt the spelling would turn out to be awkward for the child as she got older and had to slowly explain the spelling of her name when asked. Scarlet is a lovely colour in itself, and though the double "T" is commonplace when it's used as a girl's name, the "K" is decidedly unusual.

"Tamzyn" is another example of the same syndrome, not the strangest spelling of a name I've come across though. I'll get to that in a moment.

I'm not saying this is a unique trait among parents who end up having their children taken into care. And as for it being a clue to trouble ahead for the child it most definitely is not.

It's simply that once a curious fact comes to one's attention one ends up looking out for it.

Our family member (the ultra Senco) says she can almost scan down a list of pupils in a class and feel she's learned something about some of them simply by the name that the parents had chosen for their child.

The wierdest one I've come across so far?

"Chereeee".

Yep. As in "Cherie" but with the letter "e" added no less than FOUR times at the end.

Caused no end of unecessary business.

See, when you take in a fostered child the foster parent usually needs to enrol them with a GP and get their eyes tested. They might also need to go to a new school. On each occassion one is asked the child's name and spelling. It's no big deal to have to answer, for example "It's Chereeee. With four letter "e's" on the end". But when every time you have to name the child it ends up with a convoluted conversation it can get in the way of business.

I mentioned the Senco's observation to my Blue Sky social worker over coffee at one of our regular supervision sessions. She agreed that there's something in the observation.

We guessed that perhaps every parent of a new-born has high hopes their child will make their mark on the world in a positive way, even if it's simply that they're more happy and contented than most. Some parents hope that by giving their child a distinctive name, or a distinctive spelling of a regular name, it will help them stand out in life.

I don't think it helps the child at all during childhood, especially if they need to go to a new school and the teacher introduces the child to the class and mentions the oddity of their name before the child has had a chance to make friends.

I remember being embarressed by my own name when I was little, and my name is about as ordinary and commonplace as names can get!

We ended up putting it down to being a possible marker that (sometimes), some parents haven't given enough reasoned thought to the enormous responsibility of raising a child.

Instead they opt for the easy helping hand; giving their baby a stand-out name, imagining their child's name being up in lights one day.

And it can work sometimes too;

Would Roald Dahl have made it as an author if his parents had called him "Ronald".

I'm just asking...

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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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