EVERY CLOUD..

 Fostering has its many forms.

Once you agree to try for "approval" - a relatively simple and actually quite enjoyable process, you start to learn about the different fostering roles.

I mention this because, after decades in fostering, we decided to accept a request from Blue Sky to take a Parent and Child placement.

We 'd done standard fostering aplenty, done Respite  (where you look after a foster child whose foster parents need a break - maybe for a family wedding or even 6 nights in Malaga to re-charge their batteries).

There's Emergency, when a child needs a roof over their heads pronto.

And variations on the theme.

But for myself and my family, the Gold Standard in fostering I always saw to be Parent and Child.

Not our first sortie, we'd done it way back when it was called Mother and Baby; and that's pretty much what it remains, a young mother and her recently-born baby.

The pair have been with us for 16 weeks and last Thursday a Court sat to decide if the mother could keep her baby. All the many professionals who've been working on their case gave their thoughts and…success!

She can keep her son, but needs to agree to a plan to keep her progress on track. The plan will work the Court said, provided she stays with us, because, they kept saying, we're doing such a good job.

Praise indeed. Much joy and celebration. We now have a new shape to our foster-family and can roll up our sleeves for more challenges and tribulations.

But, have you noticed in life, and definitely in fostering, it's the little things?

Here's our big/little thing (well one of them anyway);

The young mum is great, really loving, devoted and keen to learn. The baby is robust and contented, but …

We'd forgotten what it's like to spend all day in that sort of semi-fug you're in when you were woken up half-a dozen times through nthe night by the most intrusive alarm bell known to nature, namely a crying baby.

We were waking up slowly in bed on the Saturday morning after we heard the good news. Drinking a cup of tea my other half describes as "blue" meaning strong. We've gone back to teapot and loose tea Makes a difference, especially if you want  the kick.

The way night-time works in this case is this; learing to look after the baby is the mum's responsibility, but one of our key duties is to ensure the baby's safetly and emotionalal wellness. We have a brilliant baby monitor that allow usis  to make sure she's getting to her son quickly enough and with the right soothing ways. If he's hungry we monitor the feed, then her technique for calming the baby and helping him back to sleep.  The camera is fixed, pointing to the cot, but we can hear what's going on.

By which time we're wide awake.

Nothing new for us, we've had babies of our own, we know the score, knew we'd have to have some waking nights.

Here's the funny bit, we were propped up in bed waiting for the baby to wake and the mother to get him changed, washed, dressed and ready for breakfast. Something ocurred to me; I said to him (other half, the rock);

"Y'know, they sometimes call it "sleep deprivation" nowadays; but it isn't quite as bad as I remember it.."

"I've noticed that" he replied.

Then he said;

"Give me yer teeth mother, I'll swill 'em".

Me "Eh?"

"It's easier because we're that bit older. Need less sleep as you go along."

He was right. 

Every cloud has a silver lining!

Mind, he still turned over and had another 10 minutes...

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FOSTERING OUR HOME TERRITORY

 As everyone who has ever fostered quicky learns, the business of "territory" around the house renews itself with each and every new child.

Each new child is allocated their own bedroom, that's a given. Our job is to arrange the bedroom so that the child sees it as their arbour. We try to match the child with the bedroom furnishings. We have neutral bedding awaiting, neither pink nor blue (it matters to many) and not Whinnie-the-Pooh in case the child believes themselves to be an adult. The storage places (chest of drawers, maybe a wardrobe) are empty and dust-free. There's a bedside light at a gentle wattage in case they need the light on to go to sleep.

And so on.

However…what about the remainder of one's home?

Ah. Here's where agile thinking is called for.

I seem to remember the poet Lemn Sissay writing how he'd been made to leave his foster home because his parents (devout Christians - I mention it because I believe Lemn did) discovered he'd taken a biscuit without asking (which he knew would be refused).

Territory.

We have to try to get it alright, and by "alright" I mean alright for all in the home, but most of all alright for the child. The reason I say most of all alright for the child is because we household family know where everything is and who "owns" what and in what way.

The new foster child has a lot to learn, and it's our job to help them with it.

Take our two new arrivals. Baby is 6 months old, but he still has his territory. Mainly a crib/cot, a high chair and a play space.

Mum is a different kettle of fish. 

She's 16. Is she a child or an adult? The answer is she flip-flops between the two.

She has her own bedroom which we've encouraged her to colonise to her needs and tastes, and by golly has she gone for broke. She even grazed our garage and found a storage cupboard in good nick which she installed to take more stuff.

She has the blinds of her choice, her rug to hide our carpet, her pictures in place of our prints.

It's the remainder of the house we have to be on our toes.

We have to tolerate her need to territorialise.

What does this mean?

In the case of this young mother, she puts stuff belonging to her and her baby in every bit of the house.

Boxes of baby things. Baskets of laundry. Tie-ups of used nappies. Carry-ons of snacks. Piles of unidentifiables.

She has placed them, unbeknown to her, in every corner of the downstairs.

Upstairs, the bathroom is now consumed by baby-bathtime toys and props.

Our Blue Sky social worker wanted to know all about this when she showed for her weekly support visit last Friday.

She said it was healthy because it signalled the young mother wanted to be part of our household.

Obs the SW was correct, and as usual, insightful and helpful.

Thus for the last few days where before I've cursed there'd been nowhere to put a saucepan in the kitchen or a cup of tea in the living room..now I view this inconvenience as a tiny sacrifice in the wider, bigger goal of helping the girl and her baby grow and become OK.

Phew, though...

But only in fosterting

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BABY STEPS

 Doesn't matter how grown-up a new foster child is, building a bond between child and foster parent(s) is baby steps.

What happened was this:

We have a new Parent and Child placement alongside a longstanding permanent placement. 

If you're new to the world of fostering the term "placement" is the professional phrase for a child coming into Care.

Our permanent child is nothing more or less than family, we've even written the child into our wills. This youngster is one of the greatest inspirations to everyone who crosses their path and a treasure of a human, we're so proud to call the child "ours" and can scarcely believe the gift. 

When Blue Sky rattle our cage with the accusation that we played a large part in the child's renaissance we scoff it off. We know it's a big part of their job to keep our peckers up (which they do), but hey I find nobody who's any real good at anything is much good at taking praise.

Little things though, we mustn't let them go unnoticed.

Baby steps.

So what happened was this;

Our Parent and Child are a young teenage mum and a 5 month old charmer of a baby boy. The mum, put bluntly, arrived with resentment that she and her baby were deemed in need of Care. She missed her real family (her mum, a stepfather and seven siblings). Understandable. She missed the chaos of her home, missed being allowed to spend all day, all week, all month, all YEAR in her teensy bedroom. She'd hardly been out and about for two years.

She didn't fit in to our family, and seemed as though she wanted that to be how things were and get the disparity acknowledged in case it might mean she could go home.

In fostering you get used to this one. The child sometimes acts like they aren't part of your family, which, of course is entirely authentic.

So, after a few weeks what happened was this;

She (the young mum) ordered herself a Maccy D something-or-other to be delivered. She'd been awake with her baby since 5.00am. She'd tended the baby beautifully with love and skill all morning. When the baby went down for his mid-morning nap she ordered her treat.

Then things got exciting.

I'd made myself a humble lunch; a wilting tomato from the bottom of the fridge on a slice of bread.

I plonked myself at the kitchen table. The young mum I expected to continue her act of not belonging.

She decanted her fast food onto a plate, I was waiting for her to do her usual and disappear to eat.

No.

She came and sat next to me at the table. And chatted.

Yes…chatted! Mujer a mujer (woman to woman). About nothing major. About Ariana Grande and how you pronounce her name. About Erling Haaland, what a human he is.  About whether she should bling up the baby's pushchair.

Then came the moment.

THE moment.

She finished her Maccy D thing. That is to say she left nearly half of it because she doesn't want to get huge. She stood up to put the remains in the bin and take her plate to the sink.

And…she reached across and picked up my empty plate.

Took both plates to the sink and washed them up.

In terms of triumph it was a world-record breaking gold-medal winning 100 metres dash with nobody coming second.

She and I were tied winners.

My heart; size of an airship.

Only in fostering.

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