A BREAKTHROUGH IS A BREAKTHROUGH

 I'm told there are several categories of foster parents.

Actually there are probably thousands, as in everyone is unique, and there are thousands of fostering folk.

Not enough fostering folk to deal with the demand sadly, but that's another thing.

Each category of foster parents have a lot in common. Resilience, for example. Common sense. Pride in the job.

However there are differences that divvy us up a bit, and, such is human nature, each category feels protective and supportive of their own.

For exampe, carers who deal mainly in respite, or emergency care are drawn to each other at meetings and social events.

My schtick is treating each child as if they're my own, and therefore I'm always on the lookout for encouraging little developments.

When a child comes to me and our family, they are family until they go. 

It doesn't work for other carers, and that's to be respected. We all do a difficult job, and can only use the tools that life has given us.

Example;

One of our current brood of foster kids has a hard time engaging. It's as though she knows she's not much good at empathy, small talk and joshing, all the stuff many take for granted.

It leaves her sad, and us sad too. We know why she feels excluded, it's down to her rotten early homelife,

Anyway, this happened, the kind of breakthrough you live for.

One of our family's friends came for a cup of tea and a chat. She's younger than me, and has a 15 month old baby girl. She brought a wee Christmas present for each of our kids, a nice touch.

So, our hard-to-engage foster child shyly showed up and clearly planned to stay only long enough to be polite, then shoot off back to the safety of her bedroom.

But something happened between the toddler and the foster kid.

The toddler picked up a little plastic ball that had been lying on the floor and threw it across the room. Then the toddler pointed to foster child.

Foster child seemed to feel at ease with the toddler, who wasn't going to try to involve her in an intrusive conversation or patronise her in any way.

Foster child took the cue and went and fetched the ball, then gave it to the toddler. Who promptly threw it across the room then pointed at the foster child again.

This 'game' went on for 20 minutes, unti it was time for my friends to leave.

Foster child followed us out to their car.

When the toddler was strapped into her car seat she could just about reach the side window, and she pressed her hand against it looking for foster child. Who reciprocated, pressing a hand against the outside of the glass.

I remarked, as casually as I could;

"Looks like you've made a friend there."

Foster child said nothing, which is par for the course generally.

Obviously I'm doing cartwheels inside.

Then, to make matters even greater, as the friends drove away, foster child said to me, very softly;

"When are they coming again?"

It's now several days on from this fantastic moment and foster child has clearly made a leap forward, not that most people would notice, but fostering sharpens the senses alright.

I made a note of the event in my record book, as always a tad understated;

"Child X is starting to head in the right direction with social engagement."

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CONTACT - THE TRICKY BIT

 A reader contacted the blog a while back to agree that mealtimes, eating, and food in general seem to be pretty much the constant headache with most children coming into care.

But I find myself right now enmired in the other big one; Contact.

Contact, if you don't know, is a legal requirement. It's a perfectly well-meaning requirement too. 

It's just SO hard to make it work.

And tagged on to the end of every single Contact I've been involved in, is the TRICKY BIT.

Fostering folk, and in our case Blue Sky, beaver away to get the best from it for our children, but it ain't easy.

In a nutshell; a child in care must have contact with a significant other once a week.

Obviously parents head the list, but brothers and sisters are put forward too. Step-parents as well sometimes.

So; the idea is that chidren don't lose touch with their family, because one day, it's always hoped, they can be re-united with them and the bonds won't have been damaged too much.

In practice, Contact throws the child off balance. For a bunch of reasons;

Maybe their parents weren't very nice to them. Maybe the child was left believing that the break-up of the family was her fault. Maybe they're scared to go back at all. Maybe they don't understand why they can't go home with their parents and instead have to go back to a strange house.

Whatever the reasons, I find too often that the child makes progress during the week, then gets taken to Contact and ends up upset, confused and frightened, and the foster parents have to start all over again.

So, here I am now with a child who is transitioning from female to male, and making a damn good job of it. He's sensible, intelligent, self-aware and courageous.

But his father views his son's decision as a personal afront and continues to call him by the female name he was given (by the father), and refer to him as "she".

Nor surprisingly the child (late teens) is upset and hurt. I've heard raised voices (the foster parent is not permitted to be in the room when Contact happens).

Parents and children are often at loggerheads, nothing new there.

But in my view, in this case, the levels of anger and belligerance involved are unacceptable. There is a mediator present, my understanding is that they try to keep things civil, but when I drive him back to our house afterwards he's distraught.

If it was a workplace situation the father would be interviewed about his conduct, perhaps sent for guidance training. But parents and their children aren't colleagues of each other; parents have historically had almost absolute autonomy over their children, and for many it's a heady experience; to have near total control of another.

All the humble foster parent can do is help and support the child, in every way we can.

The TRICKY BIT?

Children coming into care always have issues with their parents, how could they not?

They often aren't aware of half of the issues they have, especially the younger ones.

They might be frightened of their parents, they might be angry with them. They might resent one or other of them. They might even dislike them.

But. And here's the tricky bit. As a foster parent, you have to skirt around being critical of the child's parents.

You can extend every bit of support you can to the child, but you stop short of dissing their mum or dad.

What do you say?

As little as possible.

If you say anything at all, it's usually best to hint at a bit of sympathy for the parents. Maybe "they're going through a rough time" - that sometimes works.

And then get the conversation back to distraction. Put the radio on and let them choose the music. Pull into a petrol station and let them choose a bag of sweets. Ask what movie they want to watch on Saturday, and whether they want pizza or a Maccy D.

Distraction. The foster parent's best friend.

For the record I learned it as a kid getting an injection for something or other. The doctor told me to look away, then she said "I'm going to count to three then I'll put the needle in. Okay?' I nodded. Then she said "All done!" She'd got me so focussed on hearing "One, two three" that she put the needle in and gave me the injection while I was busy steeling myself. I didn't feel a thing.

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WHAT DO FOSTER KIDS MAKE OF US?

 So, gentle reader, how's the housekeeping going?

If you're reading this a hundred years from now (that's one of the many strange things about the internet) you'll need reminding that the end of 2022 was the beginning of an austerity that might end up the worst since the depression of a hundred years before.

No point going over how come, but it's the reason I'm asking the reader of 2022 how their housekeeping is going, what with rocketing prices and declining incomes.

Blue Sky has made a cost-of-living payment to each and every one of their registered foster carers. It's a help, not only with the bills, but also to know that someone out there cares.

In our house yesterday one of our foster children finished an end-of-year exam and was let out early so brought a classmate home to revise. The two of them sat in the little room off the kitchen working on their laptops.

In their coats. 

The heating doesn't come on in our house until 4.00pm. I swear I thought I saw the mist of their breathe. No-one complained. They were revising.

What we foster carers need to be watchful of is the effect of the wider world on our foster kids, all of whom are already bruised and battered by their own smaller world.

Are they aware of the economic crisis, and does it worry them? Our young people know a thing or three about the world we adults have created and are going to bequeath them. They see their inheritance as a dying planet choking itself to death. Dreadful diseases cover the globe, families imprisoned in their own homes. War raging. Not just war; politicians and protesters raging. Workers raging. 

When I go shopping I often look out at people's faces. Dear God, we've become a grim and grizzly lot.

Surely it must get to the young, especially our foster kids, who deserve a bit of peace, and even a bit of hope for a better future?

We're having a chicken for Christmas lunch (if there are any left). First time in my lifetime we're swerving the turkey.

Instead of a pile of presents, we're doing a Secret Santa thing, with a max of two gifts per recipient. The recipient nominates what they want and stick to a budget.

Thankfully we've got a decent plastic tree and aren't topping up the box of decorations like we did previously, every year.

Our smart meter showed £21.87 for the 24 hours of last Saturday, when we have the heating on all day because everyone's in. 

In the UK there are tens of millions of households that have to choose; heat or eat. Households that can only pay the rent or pay their monthly mortgage fee by going without. Food banks are proliferating. 

We watched a perfectly well presented woman in our supermarket buy her shopping, then on her way out go to the tub where people can donate food for food banks. She picked up some tins from it, put them in her bag and shot off. The self-checkout tills are now festooned with cameras and individual TVs above every till so you can watch yourself being recorded and sense you're being scrutinised ed by security. This, I'm told, is because of the sharp incfease in shoplifting. But the thieves aren't crooks, they're people who can't afford food.

So, if you're reading this a hundred years from now let me ask you if the world has learned yet how to balance the books?

Here in 2022 there are over 108,000 children in care.

Do families in 2122 still rip themselves apart (the polite term is they are "chaotic")?

And if they do, does the country rescue the children still?

There's not going to be plenty of plenty in many homes over the coming winter of 2022. By plenty I mean extravagancy and waste; gaudy unecessaries, meaningless trinkets.

Maybe our hearts are better off when we're pitching in together struggling to make ends meet!

The two youngsters sitting together in our back room, revising for their future, buttoned up in their coats, touched my heart.

Their togetherness in austerity as they both strove for a better future was inspirational.

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THE WILD BLUE YONDER

 Ok, there's a lot wrong with this country.

But there's a lot more that's right with the UK, only it doesn't make the headlines.

Take, for example, the way the state cares for looked after children when their time in fostering comes to an end.

18 years of age is not grown-up enough to head out and try for a job, accomodation, and all the paraphanalia that amounts to independence.

No matter how a looked-after child has matured in fostering, it would be a disaster to send them on their way.

So. We don't. Not here anyway, I don't know what they do in other countries, but in the UK the young person is coached through the various processes such as job-seeking, flat finding, and all the paperwork that needs attending to in order for them not to end up in a shop doorway.

One fostering friend of mine has a child coming up to 18. She's been telling me about the fantastic things that are in place to help and support the young child.

First off; he doesn't have to leave fostering. His status changes slightly, but if he wants to stay, and the family want him; he does. His call.

If he stays he'll have access to some savings that have been made for him by the local authority, Blue Sky and us. It's not huge, but it's not chickenfeed either, maybe around £5,000.

The local authority step back from their role as the ultimate guardians of the child, and are replaced by a Personal Associate. My friend has met her, and she's perfect; she knows all about the system, and got the young person's confidence instantly.

If the young person makes it to Uni, his PA stays in touch. He'll still have a bedroom in his foster home he can fall back on. If and when he leaves education he'll be entitled to an LA flat at a good rent (£400-£600 pm).

He stays under the wing of the LA  until he's 25. 

And on his 25th birthday, if he wants, he'll have the right to buy his flat.

This young person is a gem. He's recovered from a really unpleasant early childhood, and is determined to make the best of the rest of his life.

But, my friend says, when the local authority and Blue Sky got together around her kitchen table to lay out the plans for him, she says he was absolutely made up.

The sense that one is not alone, and that a whole bunch of good people are on your side takes a lot of beating.

Good for them, and here's to fostering the UK way.

Nobody does it better.

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THE INSPECTOR CALLS

 When caring for a youngster with a standout issue it's easy to forget the whole person.

I've found that fostering a young man who is transitioning is demanding, but not so demanding as I would have imagined prior to taking it on.

The whole business is inspiring and enlightening.

The biggest downside is, and I'm being absolutley honest here; the mountain of paperwordk and bureaucratic hokum that stands in the way.

I KNOW that people create fake identities to commit scams, I KNOW that false passports are worth their weight in heroin. I know safeguards have to be in place against those crimes.

But I'm getting the impression that big organisations such as the NHS wish transitioning would go away. Many in doctoring resist the idea of a person having the right to be who THEY want to be. Many in the medical profession would prefer to stick to the system devised back when we lived in caves with the midwife having a peek down below within seconds of a person being born and making the decision for them that they'll be stuck with for life; "It's a girl!" 

Hey, it worked  just fine for thousands of years!

Did it though? Did it?

Our kid is great, he's just fantastic.

In fostering there are countless ways and means for the foster parents to get onside with the child. We have to remember we'll never replace the real parents in the chid's life, we don't want that anyway. But we have the obligation to act as a full-on suurrogate parent and that can lead us to hope, somewhere in our heart, that they regard us as proper stand-in 'mum' and/or 'dad'. They don't. Ever. At least not fully. It's a physical impossibility.

But. If we stay alert there are loads of ways into their heart. Reference; the skateboarding ad for John Lewis.

In the case of our tranitionsing boy, it's his very tranitioning that's bringing us close.

Teenagers don't chat much except to each other. They keep their own council from their own parents, never mind foster parents. But our lad enjoys frequent unschduled natters, mainly with me. 

And it's his transitoning that's the glue that bonds us. He is quietly made up that not only do I get it, I'm right there fighting for him every inch of the way.

However my fantastic Blue Sky social worker shows up for our regular supervision sessions and reminds me there's more to everybody than one issue, even if that issue is huge.

So I'm asked about his diet, his sleeping and his friends. We talk about his general moods and school life. We   duscuss his favourite bands, what TV he watches, how much time he's on his phone, and how we monitor his social life to ensure his safety without imposing unwanted  intrusion.

After each session I'm refreshed, and go looking for opportunities to broaden my lovely chats with him into other areas - being carful not to seem to be snooping.

Earlier this week we were talking about his thoughts on surgery. He wears a special piece of clothing across his chest which is obviously uncomfortable, and was a right problem during the hottest days of summer. As we chatted he was messaging somebody on his phone. When he finished and put his phone down I asked;

"How your phone holding up? They don't last forever."

He naturally warmed to this subject, in  no small part because he could sense the slenderest of chances he might end up with a Galaxy Supernova or whatever the latest gung ho phone is called.

As we discussed the various problems with his current phone I dropped the subject of Twitter in, by asking if  he thought Elon Musk would be good for it. He replied that he didn't know, or care. Reason being that he didn't bother with Twitter any more, Twitter is for old people. Nor did he bother with Facebook; same reason.

I was nosing around using the tectic those black and white TV detectives used to quiz people. Act like you're only vaguely interested but keep the conversation connected to what you need to discover.

I told him I guessed that Instagram was behind the times as well. I was correct.

Next bit; how to ask what social media he uses? One way or another I got out of him that What's App is still fairly cool ( I suspect because it's encrypted at both ends), but that the new kid on the block is Mastodon (I think that's the name). It's not only new and growing, it's got a number of features that Twitter doesn't. For one it's not owned by anybody. Second you can pick groups that are properly moderated, and inevitably it starts to build a picture of your likes and dislikes and starts recommending groups you might like. Lastly, and most importantly, he said, it's not stuffed with naff ads. To pay for the servers some groups ask for small donations.

I got the lowdown I needed as his carer, plus we bonded as two equals discussing an issue. An issue other than transitioning. A discussion which left him feeling empowered and appreciated because he was the authority.

I didn't do what Colombo used to do which was to head for the door then turn and go;

"Oh, there was just one little thing…"

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FOOD PROBLEM SOLVING

 The reason food is a big deal for children coming into care is pretty simple.

After the basics of air and water, food is the next most important thing.

Children of all shapes and sizes are brought into care for all manner of reasons, but there are some common factors.

We had a girl stay with us, her father was starting a ten-year prison sentence for what he did to the girl's older sister. The father and the mother were both profoundly deaf and had learning difficulties. Social workers discovered that they had a cooker in the kitchen with four hobs, an oven and an overhead grill, which had never been used, not once in 10 years. They only ate take-away, which they sometimes re-heated in the microwave.

We had another girl, a mother and baby (it's now called parent and child). This girl was a sofa-surfer. Thrown out by her mother on her 16th birthday (her child benefit was stopped so she was no use to the mother). She had only ever been served deep fried food. The mother had a deep fat fryer in the kitchen and everything - every single meal - was dropped into this vat of oil for 5 minutes. Since being chucked out of her own home the girl had come to rely on what she called 'ding meals'. A ding meal is a readymade meal or a pasty or a suasage roll, cooked in the microwave.

An eight-year-old boy was expected to cater for himself, so he lived on biscuits and crisps. But he'd creep downstairs early in the morning if his mother had used takeaways the night before because she always left the boxes and wrappers scattered around when she went to bed, and he might find some leftover chips or a half eaten burger. Pizza crusts were his favourite food.

And on I could go.

The only chid we ever had who was used to a proper diet was a lad who had been in foster care for several years. There'd been some sort of incident at his foster home, caused by a jealous relative of the carer, meaning he had to come stay with us while it was investigated. His carer was a wonderful ex-army officer, who knew how to serve up meat and two veg.

So the job is to wean them off bad practice, and feed their body and soul.

You have to work out ways to get them to like three cooked sit-down meals at weekends and a pre-packed lunch or school meal on weekdays, bookended by a sit-down breakfast and tea.

Luckily, the first few weeks after they arrive is the traditional 'honeymoon' period where they lack the confidence and trust in our response to rebel.

I find pasta and Dolmio a godsend, to them it's almost a fast food. I serve home-made pizza and bear the inevitable unfavourable comparisons to Dominos. My pizza's have hidden vegetables beneath the cheese. Sausages and chips work well, the vegetable needs to be baked beans, but you can try sweetcorn or a wee side salad.

I never dish up their plate for them. I put the food on the table in bowls and they're free to spoon whichever ingredients they want onto their plate. This goes down really well.All foster chidren, and I do mean all, love a bit of control.

My proudest trick is to put a bowl of fruit in their room and tell them it's theirs. The banana and handful of grapes go first then the apple. I don't put an orange in any more; they often don't know what it is or how to eat it.

Do I ever serve them rubbish? Of course! That what weekends are for. Depending on the age of the child, fish and chips or sausage and chips is the regular Friday night treat, and if Saturday night is a Disney animation it's Dominos.

Sunday lunch is Sunday lunch. A roast, green beans and carrots and of course roast potatoes. As long as there's a bucket of Bisto gravy it gets eaten, especially as it's the one meal where I serve a dessert. Nothing fancier than a big spoonful of vanilla or cholcolate ice cream, and there's never EVER any threat of "Finish your main plate or there's no pudding."

Snacks between meals need thought. I keep cans of diet coke at the back of the top shelf in the fridge, and they're for earned treats and emergencies. There are also crisps and biscuits, but I try to steer them onto rice cakes and a banana. The snack urge is most prevalent on coming home from school. I get my retaliation in first "Tea is at  half past five, would you like me to make you something to hold you?" If I get a yes, it's marmite or peanut butter toast.

At weekends they'll often try for a biscuit or crisps out of sheer boredom, I find that keeping them busy helps with those hunger pains.

If the foster mum or dad gets the battle of wits right, the child feels a) a new confidence that food is not being controlled by someone unreliable or sudden b) their sugar and carb intakes level out c) their growing bodies breathe a sigh of relief.

One thing worth adding; the fostering food bill is on the up. What with the economic situation we're all facing we're using up every scrap of food. Leftover meals and mysterious soups are regulars on our menu and we're hunting the best deals for takeaways, while also reducing the number of them. One last thing; we're cutting down on meat. We've found that by varying the pasta shapes and sauces it can be served three or four times a week. My current lot prefer green pesto to Dolmio, and are happy with spaghetti and grated cheese plus an egg stirred in so long as you announce its "Spaghetti Carbonara".

And let them skip washing-up duties, especially if it's 'spaghetti carbonara'. No-one wants to wash up a cheese grater clogged full of cheddar.

Next time; budgeting Christmas in fostering.

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THAT JOHN LEWIS CHRISTMAS AD

 Congratulations to the big shops that decided to hold back on the usual Christmas ads featuring vast banquets of luxury food. 

Not all did, and the ones that went the traditional way have ended up with egg on their face. Or maybe egg nog.

This Christmas is going to be an exercise in careful budgeting for millions.

We had a tight Christmas one year a while back. Other half had worked for a firm for a year on a promise of a share in the big payday they were planning. It didn't happen. We ended up raiding the coin pot in the kitchen to do our Christmas supermarket run.

Plus, we decided against stockings for the kids. But one lunchtime I weakened and went to one of our high street charity shops to see if I could get some decent knick-knacks for 50p. True story; guess who was in the same shop with the same idea; aforementioned other half.

So well done the likes of Tesco, toning down the notion of a ten-day blow-out and hang the expense.

Especially well done to John Lewis.

Now, I don't shop much in John Lewis. I find it a bit upmarket for my needs in there; all fancy linens and glassware. Not the stuff of foster homes. But they've absolutely nailed it with their fostering-themed Christmas ad.

I won't spoil it. But I cried out loud even before I'd seen it when I read a review of the thing.

It's about putting kindness above everything else at Christmas. 

It's 90 seconds long, and the first minute is a mystery. You wonder; "Why is this middle aged bloke doing what he's doing, out in the street, 'til it gets dark?"

Then you get the answer. 

It's a proper tear-jerker, a credit to the job of work they're applauding.

Us fostering bods.

Also a credit to John Lewis, who've led the way in Christmas ads for decades.

This one's their best.

Almost enought to tempt me to nip into a JL and pick up a couple of champagne flutes to toast their health. But not quite, not yet, not 'til the boat comes in.

Meantime everyone in fostering; the colleagues, the carers and the kids, we wish John Lewis a Happy Christmas.

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