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 their job to keep our peckers up (which they do), but hey I find nobody who's any real good 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 hadn't 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 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.