FOSTERING'S GOLD STANDARD

 My march towards becoming a foster mum to a Parent and Child is picking up pace.

Our Blue Sky social worker visited this morning and we got through a pot of tea dotting the lower case Js and crossing the lower case Ts.

Nothing is left to chance, the fostering family, in our case our extended family, the home, the family pet…everything has to be lined up.

It's so crucial, is Parent and Child.

The child is often (but not always), a newborn baby. The parent is often but not necessarily a young mother.

Our wonderful social worker and I covered all the theoretical stuff no problem.

We kept returning to the biggest matter in hand - that we won't know the specifics until the placements arrive.

Will the Parent know how to feed, how to keep the Child safe, clean, stimulated?

What will the relationship be like between the Parent and Child?

How will the Parent need coaching and support?

Then we got onto some truly thought-provoking stuff.

Our social worker asked things such as;

"What are the things, if any, that might make you upset or sad? How will you react to those things?

How will you and your partner feel if the parent takes a particular liking to one or other of you?

Are you prepared to fill out your report sheets with diplomatic honesty so that the Parent can learn from them?"

And so on.

Next will follow meetings, mainly on Teams, to equip Blue Sky's Parent and Child officers to find a match for us. More essential reading matter and paperwortk is to come.

How am I feeling?

As if I'm going up a level in fostering.

To shore up my confidence and belief I'm decribing Parent and Child to myself as the Gold Standard of fostering.

It's not, of course, but it helps.

Every foster parent, every placement, is Gold Standard.

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BON APPETIT FOSTERING

 I had to drop into our local wholefood shop yesterday.

Not a place I visit much, perhaps I should go more often, after all; good food is obviously better than ultra-processed.

When I say that I "had" to go, what I mean is; the visit was fostering-related so it was duty.

See, middle foster child has started to cook for himself.

This, as any parent will testify, is a milestone.

Why? Because this young man has always harboured self-doubts about himself. Like so many childrren taken into care he believes deep-down that his family break-up was his fault. That nobody really wants him. That he's not worth bothering with.

When he arrived he barely bothered with himself.

In fostering we work our socks off trying to improve each young person's self-esteem. 

We tape all their drawings to the fridge door, praise them for finishing in the first half of the school egg-and-spoon race, video their performance in the second row of the Nativity choir.

We try to be real, but at the same time often over-egg the pudding and get told "Stoppit please, it's no big deal".

Up to now middle foster child has always been fine with my food. I do spag boll, pasta (with Dolmio, sometimes pesto), pizza (weekend treat). Sausages always get eaten, as does chicken anything. Green veg I hide in soups. Salad bits get eaten unnoticed in a burger.

Then suddenly, without warning; bombshell.

He was having a friend visit for Saturday tea and asked if he could cook their meal.

"Hans Christian Anderson!" I exalted (my mum's way of joyful swearing without crossing boundaries). Huge.

I asked him what ingredients he needed; he dictated a list. He was planning a Thai green chicken curry and needed items that we do not have in our sorry larder of lost ambition.

But purchase them I did.

Into the Tesco trolley went; Thai green curry paste, chicken breasts, coconut milk. Nix on lime leaves but I did track down a sachet of lemongrass.

Foster child cooked while his pal sat at the kitchen table dealing from his pack of Tarot cards and telling our kid how his life would unfold. The aroma-rich atmosphere was idylic.

Obs, mum did the washing up.

Here's the thing; did his interest in cooking end there?

No. 

It gathers apace!

He still eats with us, but he and I share the cooker/oven. 

And now; he's gearing up to cook for the whole family.

I got given a shopping list. 

Spooling down it I realised there was no way it was a Tesco job.

Hence I'm in our wholefood shop.

Organic paprika, organic garam masala, cayenne, Himalayan pink salt (seriously), Sushi rice, Nori, wasabi paste, white Miso, and…(don't laugh) beetroot powder.

The lady on the till said:

"Someone's going to be cooking tonight."

I replied "My son. Tonight and most nights. He's discovered he loves cooking."

"That's lovely!" she said.

"Yes" I replied, "It's great if they begin taking care over their food, and celebrating eating. Means they are developing respect for themselves."

The lady went a bit rheumy-eyed.

"Yes…" she said quietly. Then;

"I must admit that now that I'm alone in the house I don't always bother to cook. Thanks. You've made me think."

One day I'll tell middle foster child he made a difference to someone he'll never meet.

Not today. Today there are other fish to fry.

Or to be precise; other fish to slice raw and roll in sushi rice before binding in dried seaweed, served with a steaming bowl of deep red miso soup.

Restaurant quality fostering!

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FOSTERING AND GHOSTS

 Middle foster child is off out tonight.

Off to our local youth club.

This is HUGE.

Going on his own, meeting a bunch of mates there.

Came out of the blue, he appeared downstairs looking well kempt, whiffing of after-shave and the quiff moussed into a peak.

HUGE

Wait 'til I tell our Blue Sky social worker, she'll go;

"NOOOO! FANTAAASTIC! ANOTHER MILESTONE!"

And it is a milestone. 

You get milestones cropping up in fostering, it's important to register them alongside the challenges.

Without betraying his identity, the young man is at war with the ghosts of his former family. To be precise, the ghost of his late grandfather. What's more, he's beating the ghost.

It's a dynasty thing I've noticed often with children coming into care.

They have troubled home lives, but the troubles often began before the child's parents were born. The trouble begins with the parents' parents. 

In this case a grandfather called "Wullie".

The lad's name is something like "Cairngorm". That's not it; I'm respecting his privacy, but it gives you an idea of the millstone round his neck. His name is that of a hallowed nook of Scotland. Hallowed because grandfather Wullie claimed he hailed from  there. And Cairngorm's father - I'll call him Alan - tried everything he could to pay homage to his father Wullie, tried everything to placate Wullie's rage and anger. Even tried naming his son after the place Wullie claimed to worship as some sort of magical kingdom from which he was wrenched.

Our Blue Sky social worker and I gleaned Cairngorm's backstory gently over a period of months. His mum had often opened up to him.

Grandfather Wullie was an alcoholic. Jobless (unemployable) itinerant (a pioneer sofa-surfer), father of innumerable 'bairns'.

Violent. Imprisoned for attacks on women, including Cairngorm's grandmother, the mother of Alan. Alan knew Wullie, but had no clue that his father's behaviour was criminally wrong. Like so many youngsters, Alan assumed his father's atrocities were somehow the norm, and it fell to Alan to sooth his father's savage brow.

But Cairngorm's dad, Alan, ended up fighting Wullie, his own father. Regularly.

Then Alan started drinking, like Wullie.

Then he started meeting girls, who exasperated him just as Alan's mother exhasperated Wullie.

It seems some sort of pact between the Magistrates and the military got Wullie enlisted, but it didn't help much. Wullie got billeted south of the border and ended up remaining in England. He sowed his seed, Alan was born. Alan sowed his seed and Cairngorm was born to a young woman best described as limited. But Cairngorm loved his mum; loves her still.

Wullie dedicated himself to drinking and fighting and claiming to be a victim, which he probably was, but we can't go back that far...

Cairngorm's mother had a succession of failed relationships, with Alan often showing up demanding money, booze and somewhere to doss.

Eventually she went under and social services stepped in.

Cairngorm came to us shy and frightened, as if everything was his fault. He had no friends, no social life, no family…no nothing. A closed book. We fostered him, us and Blue Sky.

He goes out tonight starting on his way.

Where that way takes him is his choice and privilege, but I genuinely believe that our fostering system means that another child will turn his life around and be some kind of ok.

ps: I'm only reporting facts about "Cairngorm'; please don't misconstrue I'm somehow down on the Scots. Guess what; they have reprobates in England, well, everywhere come to it.

Hey, my paternal grandad was a Glaswegan and a more noble man you could never dream up. Love us Scots!

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CAN COOL PEOPLE FOSTER?

 When one becomes a foster mum or dad there's a moment which reminds me of when I passed my driving test. My driving instructor drove me back to my parent's house - he said the L-plated car wasn't insured to for a qualified driver other than himself. I thanked him for helping me learn to drive and opened the passenger door. As I got out he called after me;

"Now go and learn to drive properly."

Great advice.

Similar to fostering, because no amount of theoretical prepping gets one fully geared up for doing the job properly.

Don't get me wrong, Blue Sky cover all the bases and couldn't do more to tool us newbies up for the gig. The sense that they're always there is, well, always there.

But when your front door closes as the social workers say their goodbyes having dropped off your first ever foster child, you're doing it for real.

Like most new foster parents I experienced a rush of several feelings; elation, trepidation, the joy/burden of responsibility, the rush of empowerment that the happiness of somebody else's dear child depended deeply on little old me…

And the emotions continue unabated, to this day.

What happened was this; during the holidays our middle foster child had some friends come for tea. By 'tea' I mean sitting around watching superheroes movies and playing computer games in the TV room off the kitchen. Oh yes, and eating and guzzling junk. But after all it's the holidays and it's what everyone else who had the chance was doing.

Our downstairs configures nicely for fostering. Our kitchen has a room adjoining with a big screen TV, a games console, an old sofa and a couple of armchairs that have seen better days. Perfect for 14-year olds to chillax. No connecting door. Open plan.

Perfect for me to keep tabs on everything while going about the catering; chucking fries in the air fryer, knocking out bowls of Jalapino crisps and so on.

One of foster child's mates appeared in the kitchen and asked' "Please can I go to the toilet?" I directed him to our downstairs loo. Two minutes later he came back via the kitchen. I was drying dishes while half-watching through to the TV, at a distance. Batman was having a pop at the Joker.

The youngster asked, out of politeness;

"Do you like Batman?"

Thing is, in fostering one to be on one's toes with the likes of Batman; some of the movies can be dark. This one was officially ok for people aged 13 and over, so got the green light.

One thing to remember with young people's culture is; it belongs to them.  Old fogies like me are not supposed to get it. If we do we're invading their territory. So I said something like: "Well we had a version of Batman when I was your age, but they've taken it to a new level these days."

Spot on, though I say so myself.

The young man and I had a brief chat. I asked him who was Batman's most dangerous enemy and if Alfred the butler was still solid.

He went back to slobbing out and I went back to hospitality.

A bit later on there was a lull in the noise of car chases and fighting.

I heard a small voice say to my foster child;

"Your mum's cool."

"Cool?" Me?

A thousand violins began to play.

First up; it meant that posssibly, somewhere along the way, my foster son had referred to me as "my mum". Confirmation of trust? Hope so.

 Whatever, maybe the friend simply assumed I was his mum,  but our kid didn't naysay him. This sense of belonging is mega if the child has any degree of permanence, and he looks like being long-term.

But, on top of that, our foster son's mate called me "cool".

This meant that, if I read it correctly, my foster son might have felt a tiny glow of pride in his "mum".

Our relationship may have ramped up a notch. But steady on; don't milk it. No, you act as if you never heard it. If anything, to keep onside, to retain one's core image of being no threat, you call through to the TV room "Is that policeman Officer Gordon?"

And what came back?

"Commissioner Gordon mum!"

"Mum"!

A shaking of heads all round; mum's cool, but only kinda... coolish.

Perfect. No toes trodden on.

A key role in parenting, letting them have their domains. Key in foster parenting too.

And a foster parent who's whistling off key. Whistling an out-of-date Johnny Mathis tune while emptying the bin...

A cool foster parent mind...

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FOSTERING INCOME

 Myself and my partner were talking about our impending income tax bill.

Both of us aren't accountants.

By a considerable distance, neither of us are accountants.

We use a small family-type firm of accountants whose office is about 300 miles away from where we live.

Sounds a bit odd, but when we joined Blue Sky they recommended them to us as a trustworthy and knowledgable firm of accountants who a) understand the particulars of the tax breaks that come with the fostering allowance b) know how to explain it to foster carers c) are accesible and d) are nice.

We've been with them for over two decades.

What I'm saying is that the things I can tell you about the income from fostering and how it's taxed is merely my own experience and a layperson's understanding of how it works.

The reason I'm willing to try to explain, for the benefit of people who are considering getting in to fostering, and maybe people who are already foster carers but a bit hesitant about how it works, is because I find we foster carers are often a bit embarrased abourt the money side of doing something that is basically a calling.

Everyone has to eat.

In a nutshell it seems that the tax collectors have been instructed by 11 Downing Street (the Chancellor of the Exchequer) to treat the money that foster parents are paid as an "allowance".

Not a payment.

Not a salary or a standard form of income that's subject to what the public know as "Income Tax".

An "Allowance" seems to be taxed differently from an "Income".

The reason me and my other half were discussing it is that a letter dropped onto our doormat from HMRC (His Majesty's Revenue and Customs) telling us how much tax we owed for the last 12 months in question.

The amount struck me as too small.

I phoned our accountants and they assured me the bill matched our accounts they sent to the Inland Revenue.

In plain English, succesive governments are so much in need of foster carers they all but waive income tax from the allowance.

My own personal theory as to how this comes about is tied up in this simple notion. Foster parents have a foster child in their home, if fostering were classed as a job of work, the foster parents would be 'working' 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We don't clock off at 5.00pm and chill. We're on call. It's rare but if there's a need for support in the night you do it.

So if fostering was classed as 'employment' we'd be doing a 168 hour week. Of course, it's nowhere near like that, but if you argued it in a court or a tribunal, you waltz it.

So if our remuneration from fostering for a 12 month period is £20,000 and our hours are (technically) 24/7 every week, our hourly 'pay' would be approximately £3 per hour.

A long shortfall on the national living wage...

The National Fostering Group offers this advice:

In general, foster carers’ pay isn’t subject to income tax. This is because the Qualifying Care Relief tax scheme is quite generous, so you won’t normally have any taxable profit. However, you will still need to do a simple calculation at the end of each tax year to see what your tax threshold is for that tax year and whether or not you have gone over it. If you have, this is called taxable profit and you may have to pay tax.

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