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 fenced off 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 dry 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. The guns wewre kept under strict lock and key.

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 step-grandfather had been a farmer and had been involved in the fighting, siding with the losing side. He'd had a price on his head lodged by the incoming government.

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 common-or-garden 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 close-knit 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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