Friday, June 23, 2017

Shoes



I took you shoe shopping this week. Between you and all the others I've spent plenty of money in that small Clarks store over the years. In fact we visit so often that the shop assistants recognise us and always comment on how much you've grown. We are what you might call 'regulars'.

Somehow, I remember your shoes. The first pair of Crocs wellies, with handles, that we've had to replace with identical versions every winter since. The gorgeously cute red Converse that I just couldn't leave in the shop. You loved them, and so did I, but I soon got tired of tying and re-tying the laces.

The blue trainers with the planes on and the red trainers with the dinosaurs. The rubber sandals in varying sizes that you wear when we visit Mamy and Papy so you don't slip at the side of the pool. The sensible walking sandals that you insist on wearing with socks.

I remember the awful day when you first hit a size 10 and the Clarks assistant told me the array of cute shoes I was fixated by were no longer available to us. She showed us a shelf of boring school shoes. You were three years old. She rummaged around and we managed to find a pair of blue suede boots with lime green laces. They were so expensive but I wouldn't have you in black lace-ups at that age for anything.

Then there was the time when the shop assistant struggled up the stairs with a pile of boxes, only to tell me that the shoes in the first box were in the sale and were only £10. I told her to put the other boxes away figuring that even if I didn't really like the bargain pair, we'd need new ones in three months anyway.

Your first shoes were special. First shoes always are. We arranged to go for your first shoes on your first mum's birthday, making a day of it at the shopping centre. You were just turning 11 months old and had taken your first steps a couple of weeks previously. Your mum was proud, holding you on her knee while the shop assistants fussed and the support worker and I looked on. I remember those shoes - little navy blue crawlers with two velcro straps. You toddled about the shop while we all oohed and aahed. Then they took your 'first shoes' polaroid while you sat on your first mum's lap.

Just a few weeks later you went to live with your first mum again, everyone hoping for a happy ever after. When it all fell apart, you came back to me wearing red slippers. I don't know what happened to those little blue shoes.

This week we had a new first - your first football boots. And for the first time, the number stopped steadily rising, going instead from 13 to 1. You're getting a big boy now. I can see black lace-ups in our future.

Friday, June 16, 2017

Music Therapy

We have had three sessions of Music Therapy.

Our therapist, a little, sweet lady, arrives at our door each time loaded down with musical instruments of all sorts. The first week, OB pronounced the selection "baby instruments" and would barely touch them. A couple were tossed disdainfully to the floor. I had quite a few internal kittens because I know how much they cost.

The second week, undeterred, our sweet therapist arrived at the door with two djembes and a guitar. OB declared that drums are boring and he hates them. This despite the fact that he's had a drum kit since he was two and still enjoys a good thrash about on the junior kit I got him for his 5th birthday. He then proceeded to spend the first 10 minutes demanding sweets as he was starving. We managed to get on to a couple of games, mainly competitive, but some fun was had. The therapist called it a day after half an hour.


The third week, djembes again. More complaints of "Boring!" Also, lots of 'poo poo' talk. Also, a sly kick to my leg as he walked past, which the therapist saw. There was some talk of 'kind hands' and an assertion from her that it's never ok to hurt mummy. The backup is always welcome to be honest.

At some point, OB made a mean comment about me and the therapist responded by asking him to name things that I was good at. Let's just say that what followed was not a great self-esteem moment for me! I was asked to contribute some things that OB was good at (which was easy - there are loads of things) and eventually the therapist did get OB to grudgingly admit that I was good at cooking. This is patently untrue. I am a horrible cook. Not sure whether OB is deluded or was just making something up to get it over with!

Having said all of that though, we did play some games - making sounds of different animals on our djembes - the therapist sang silly songs and made us both laugh, and OB, despite insisting that he wasn't doing any of it, actually did all of it. We made it to 47 minutes.

As I helped her load the djembes into her tiny car, I felt compelled to apologise to the therapist for OB's rudeness. She didn't seem to know what I meant. "He's six!" she exclaimed. Now I wonder whether expecting my six-year-old not to say "It's boring" and "I'm not doing it" throughout the session means I'm setting unrealistic standards.

However, she also said that she is really impressed by OB, that he's doing really well and she thinks we have, and I quote, "a fantastic connection". It does make me wonder what her sessions with other children are like!

We have had three sessions of Music Therapy. We have nine more to go. When we started, I said I wanted to deepen the connection between me and OB, and bring a bit more fun and playfulness into our lives. Despite it all, I think we're doing that, and even if the effect only lasts for the length of the sessions, it's 12 hours (give or take) more than we would have had otherwise.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Trauma



I was talking to a friend this week who works on the pastoral team at a large local high school. A young girl from a neighbouring school was killed in the Manchester bombing on Monday. Some of the students at my friend's school had been in primary school with her, while others knew her socially or lived near to her. Some of the pupils and staff from his school had also been at the concert, and had thankfully escaped unharmed.

The terrible deaths of so many people at the Manchester Arena will have touched many communities around the country. Even for those of us who had no direct involvement, the shock of the events last Monday night still reverberates. Many of us have been to the Manchester Arena. Many more of us have attended some gig or other in our lifetimes. No doubt scores of schools and teachers around the country have been counselling, supporting and explaining in the wake of this horror.

My friend also told me about another boy at his school. The day before the Manchester bombing, this young lad had come home to find his dad dead on the floor. He was back in school on Monday, anxious to escape the house and get away from the trauma of it all. Again, the staff and students rallied round.

It reminded me, if I needed reminding, that trauma affects so many children in our schools in different ways. It can come as a result of a sudden event, like this young lad or those young people at the Arena, or it can build up over months and years of abuse or neglect or frightening experiences.

In the last week, the word 'trauma' has been spoken or written about many times. Broadcasters have discussed the effects of trauma with specialists, talked about how it is best managed, explained to us that what is needed in the early stages is a nurturing environment and openness, while some people will need extra support to begin one or two months later if they are still suffering the after effects once the initial shock has worn off.

I am glad to see these discussions taking place, and I am just as glad to see news articles and opinion pieces praising the teachers who have been there for hundreds of frightened, grieving kids all around the country. I'm sure none of them said anything like, "School is for education, it's not a counselling centre," or "It's my job to teach, not to be a therapist." I'm sure none of them said that.

So I have to wonder why, when so many children are entering the school gates daily with a huge dose of trauma in their backpacks, I've seen these words written in response to their trauma by teachers in blogs and on social media - "It's not my job". We are talking about children who have witnessed and experienced horrific domestic violence, or who have been left hungry many, many times, or who have been left alone, terrified for hour after hour, or who have been suddenly taken from their families, their homes and everything familiar to them at a moment's notice. We're talking about children so young that they don't have the communication skills to even engage in counselling to work through their trauma, children whose conscious memories may not even be able to recall the events that led to their bodies and minds repeatedly betraying them, children who find their hearts beating, ears ringing, sweat pouring at triggers they can't even identify.

Maybe it's harder to empathise with their experiences. As adults, we can all, perhaps, imagine ourselves in the place of someone who experiences a nasty car accident, or who is attacked on the street, or who is driven frantic over their missing child. Childhood neglect and abuse is perhaps more difficult to identify with. So maybe it's about empathy. Or maybe we just don't want to go there in our minds. We want a happy ending, where the trauma stops once the traumatic experience stops. Except we know it doesn't. The broadcasters and experts have told us that.

No adoptive parent, foster carer or guardian wants their child's teacher to be a counsellor, or a therapist. We understand that they are not trained for that - indeed, it is not their job - and amateur therapy is hardly desirable. What parents and carers of children who have experienced early loss and trauma want is simple: acknowledgement. Trauma is real, and its after effects are real, whether it happens at 2, 12 or 20, whether it comes as a sudden, traumatic event, or builds up over time through repeated actions or inactions. Let's make our schools a safe, nurturing place for all children who have experienced trauma. Who would not benefit from that?


Saturday, May 6, 2017

Crossover


I took OB to see the school nurse this week. The appointment was triggered by the education team at the LA because it had come to their attention that OB was being electively home educated. To be honest, I was pleased the appointment was made, and happy to attend. I took him to have his hearing checked myself, and am planning to take him for a vision check in the near future. I don't want him to miss out on the health checks he would have received as a matter of course if he had been in school.

It's never really obvious what to expect at these sorts of appointments. The invitation letter had been characteristically terse and to the point, so it was tricky to prepare OB for an appointment that I felt sure would involve some scrutiny of him personally and therefore be well outside his comfort zone.

When we arrived at the clinic, there was nobody else there at all. The nurse bounded in, seeming very pleased to see us (it later transpired that hardly anyone turns up to these appointments!), and then stared at me for a moment before asking me if I was a foster carer. It turns out she had previously been a LAC Nurse.

It can be strange, and sometimes disconcerting, when two worlds collide but, as the appointment went on, I began to feel very glad that this person had not only met me before, but also clearly knew and understood some of the additional issues we face as an adoptive family.

The health check included the basic height and weight check that I had been expecting, but after that it mainly seemed to focus on behaviour. The nurse asked me a lot of questions about OB's behaviour, right in front of him, which I found pretty difficult to answer without getting into areas I didn't really want to bring up.

Added to that, both of the children were reacting as usual to me actually attempting to have a coherent conversation with someone other than them. At the point at which I was trying to explain how we had accessed post-adoption support (using as many acronyms as possible in the hopes that OB wouldn't cotton on!), Birdy was under the nurse's desk trying to steal things out of her bag, and OB was lying on the floor near me fake-laughing really loudly!

How grateful I was, at that point, to be speaking to somebody who already knew all the acronyms and to whom so much could just go unsaid. She didn't bat an eyelid at OB's antics, and put some video on her computer for Birdy to watch so that we could actually speak to each other. She understood my concerns at filling in the 2-page form about behavioural issues, and reassured me that my honest assessment would not trigger a deluge of inappropriate interventions.

As a home educator, whenever I attend any meeting with 'the authorities' I know that I am under scrutiny. I know that what we do is out of the norm, and that some are suspicious. I know that some children, sadly, do slip under the radar. This is why I make it my business to co-operate fully with the LA, to attend all the appointments, to be as open and honest as possible. I hope that in doing so, the difference between those who electively home educate, and those who just opt out and drift away will be reinforced in the minds of those whose job it is to keep their eyes open for signs of trouble.

However, I am also aware that this can come with a risk; that it exposes us to all sorts of 'authorities' who may have precious little understanding of the particular challenges that we sometimes face, and who have fairly extensive power to intervene in our lives. I mean, how would the average person react to the sight of a 'home educated' 6-year-old lying on the floor of the nurse's office making robot noises and emitting great guffaws of forced, fake laughter?

At that appointment, I was grateful for the 'crossover', grateful not to have to try to explain why I prioritise attachment over KS1 attainment descriptors, grateful not to be forced to go into personal details of my son's history while he was in the room with me. I was grateful to be with someone who just 'gets it'.

And, as a measure of how well she 'gets it', the nurse handed me a sheaf of leaflets as I left. These are guidance sheets produced by the local CAMHS to assist those parenting children who have experienced early trauma, abuse and neglect. They cover eating difficulties, attachment difficulties, empathy, stealing behaviours, lying behaviours and the importance of play. They are very, very good. It made me wonder why, as a LA foster carer, I had never seen them before!

Friday, April 21, 2017

It's Just Parenting

I read an article this week that re-ignited all my deep feelings about the ups and downs of my time as a foster carer. The writer, who is herself care-experienced, was expressing dismay at the desire of some foster carers to seek employment rights. Please do go and read it here - the views of those who have lived their lives in our care system need to be heard.

They need to be heard, even if they are just one side of the story, even if they upset us, even if they destroy our cherished notions of how the world works.

The basic premise of the article is that children need foster carers who will be there for them, who will make them part of their family, who see them as much more than a 'job' and who see their care as a joy, not a 'career'. I wholeheartedly agree. I couldn't agree more in fact.

I don't like to see hoardings advertising a 'career' in fostering either. Equally I'm not keen on those adverts that imply that having a spare room is basically the only asset you'll need as a foster carer. I can easily see that comments about foster carers needing holidays and 'rights' can sound heartless to young people who need security, nurture and, yes, love. But the truth is, while a child may just want a family, what the foster carer's agency expects from them is much more complex than that. Creating a family life for a child in care requires more than just basic parenting, however much we wish it could be otherwise.

This post is not going to be a list of the ways in which being a foster carer, and especially a short-term carer, is not at all like being a regular parent. I've already written that post - it's here . . . oh, and here as well. And I'm not going to write about all the ways in which a foster carer's agency can mistreat them, take them for granted and frustrate their every effort to be the family a child really needs. You can read about that here if you're in the mood, and in many other cries of frustration scattered around my blog archives.

I'm not going to write about that today because my mind is filled up by something that struck me when I read the article. This writer, a care-experienced person who presumably knows what it is like to live with a foster carer, thinks that fostering is basically just 'parenting'. I have thought about this a lot over the past day and have come to the conclusion that if any of the children I have fostered grows up to think that I was just 'parenting', and if my own adopted children think that all I do is 'parent', then I will be pretty happy with that.

I will be happy because it will mean that their memories of their childhoods are not populated with social worker visits, reviews and meetings. It will mean that they have forgotten, or never noticed, the daily logs, the training I went on, the supervisions and appraisals I had or the nights I spent reading books and articles about brain development, trauma, attachment, developmental delay, sensory processing and all of the other things you suddenly have to become an expert on so that you can do 'parenting' with children who have experienced such loss and trauma.

It will mean that they have not seen how carefully I minimised triggers, managed our environment or planned for our daily lives, our holidays and day trips so that they could be the source of good memories, rather than meltdown-fuelled catastrophes. It will mean that they don't remember how many emails and phone calls I had to make to get permission for them to come on that holiday with me, or how many times I advocated on their behalf with social workers, medical professionals, education professionals, or how many times I waited by the phone for news that would transform all of our lives.

I hope that it would also mean that they lived through a time where they lived with one family but visited another three or more times each week and managed to come out of it feeling as though they had two families and not no family. I hope that it would mean that they never saw the behind-the-scenes work that went into making this happen.

In short, I hope that it would mean that they have grown up believing themselves not to be 'damaged goods' who needed a 'therapist', but 'children' who needed 'parenting', for that is what they are. 

So yes, despite a huge part of me wanting to cry out to the heavens about the realities of being a foster carer, of welcoming children into your family, caring for them for a few weeks or months and then saying goodbye to them again, of giving your heart and soul to the children, and your life to the fostering agency, I find myself instead hoping that all the little ones that have been through my home will one day say, "It's just parenting."

Thursday, April 13, 2017

An Open Letter to the new President of the ADCS from a Foster Carer

Dear Alison Michalska,

I was interested to read that you recently gave your inaugural speech as incoming president of the Association of Directors of Children's Services. However, I was extremely disappointed to read some of the comments you made in which you seem to be saying that the concerns of foster carers, the volunteer backbone of children's social care, are "irritating" and that solutions proposed to some of the very real problems faced by foster carers are "slightly mad notions" and "nonsense".

I can only hope that it did not occur to you how patronising your tone might appear to many foster carers who would hear your speech or read accounts of it in press reports. While many of us struggle to earn the respect of the social workers we work alongside, it is so disheartening to see that somebody in your position of authority is able to speak of our concerns in such a dismissive way.

Like many other foster carers, I share your concerns about professionalising foster care. In over two decades of my working life, including many years spent as a teacher, I have never joined a union. I've never even considered it until now. Nobody knows better than foster carers that what we are trying to provide is a family for children who, for whatever reason, cannot live with their own. We work hard to achieve that, within the limitations created for us by safeguarding and health & safety considerations. I would not be willing to compromise this priority in any way.

And yet foster carers are becoming increasingly 'professional' in their approach whether we like it or not. It has become necessary. The role description provided to me by my LA includes the word 'professional' several times. As a short term carer for pre-school children I am expected to participate in a scheme of continuing 'professional' development with a minimum of five training events per year. I must interact with everyone from birth parents to paediatric consultants with a 'professional' approach. I must conduct myself 'professionally' at meetings and reviews. I have monthly supervisions and a 360 appraisal every year. I am told that I am a valued member of the team around the child.

Over the years I have worked hard to improve my knowledge and skills with regard to speech development (teaching myself Makaton along the way), neurological effects of early trauma and neglect, FASD, the effects of maternal drug abuse on a newborn baby, attachment, theraplay, sensory needs, joint hypermobility, therapeutic parenting and much more, all to meet the needs of different children in my care. I have attended training provided by my LA, paid for additional training out of my own pocket, read books and scholarly articles and interacted with hundreds of other foster carers and adopters in order to improve my practice. I can honestly assure you that my knowledge in these areas far outweighs that of my supervising social worker. Yes, not only am I 'professional', but I have also become a 'specialist'. The very things you are concerned about are already happening.

You find yourself "irritated" that proposals to improve the current situation for foster carers "take no account" of whether changes would improve the outcomes for children we care for. Perhaps I can explain. My local authority has spent a good deal of money training, supporting and developing me in my role as a foster carer. And yet now I find that I simply cannot pay the bills. As a single carer I cannot hold down a job while I foster as the demands of the fostering service on my time are simply too unpredictable to fit with other work. Three contacts per week during office hours? Meetings arranged at the last minute with mandatory attendance? Contacts changed at less than two hours' notice? Mandatory full days of training and no help with childcare? Children arriving into my home within an hour of the first phone call? My family and friends have told me that the thing they find most shocking about my role as a foster carer is the extent to which the LA dictates my whole life.

We would manage with the help of the benefits I am also able to claim if fostering wasn't so unpredictable. My LA has recruited far more pre-school carers than it needs so I can go weeks and months with no work. There is no retainer. There is no option for me to enquire whether another local agency needs my services. There is nothing to plug that gap. I have had to find paid employment. I am no longer fostering, although I stay on the books in the hope that I can return in the future. And this is how improving the situation for foster carers will improve the outcomes for children: it means that expensively-recruited, expensively-trained, experienced and skilled foster carers will be able to continue to foster.

Some time ago I read a lot of stories about the difficulties that 'hot-desking' was causing for social workers. A report by the Centre for Research on Children and Families detailed how hot-desking was adding to stress and uncertainty in what was already a stressful and uncertain role. Other stress-factors highlighted were removal of parking spaces near to offices, inefficient IT systems and noisy offices. The conclusion was that organisations should prioritise improving the workplace environment. And why? Because it stands to reason that social workers who don't feel valued, whose role is being made harder by inefficiencies and whose stress is increasing as a result will find it far more difficult to carry out their role to a high standard.

If this is true of social workers, why would it not be true of foster carers? And if hot-desking increases stress, then think what the possibility of having no work next month and no idea when you will work again can do to a person. Imagine how that stress is compounded when you have been up night after night with a withdrawing infant, or spent the early hours cleaning faeces from a child's bedroom wall.

Times have changed. The rosy, somewhat old-fashioned image of stay-at-home-mum or empty-nester foster carers providing bed and board to a child in need ought to be consigned to history, especially in the demanding and ever-changing role of short-term, emergency and therapeutic care. There is a huge shortfall of foster carers. Many children who come into foster care have complex and challenging needs which demand skilled care and a huge investment of time. I personally know many former teachers, nurses and members of other caring professions who see fostering as far more than just a nice thing to do with a spare bedroom. For us, it is a professional role motivated by love, compassion and a desire to see the very best outcomes for the children we care for. In foster care, as in social work, professionalism and compassion are not mutually exclusive.

As foster carers, we rely utterly on social workers for support and guidance both for ourselves and on behalf of the children we care for. It has saddened me to see the concerns of foster carers so publicly belittled and dismissed by somebody with such influence over social workers as you have in your role. I do not know if the solutions that have been proposed by many foster carers are the right ones, but I do know that much dissatisfaction is created by a sense that our role is not understood or fully valued by those we work with. The tone of your remarks has done nothing to assuage that concern.

Sincerely,

Suddenly Mummy
A (former?) Foster Carer

Monday, April 10, 2017

Sensory Processing: After the Assessment Part 2

According to the occupational therapist, 'core strength' is, well, core. And OB doesn't have enough of it.

This was one of many things that came up during the assessment - you can read the rest in my first post about the results of the assessment  - but I thought it deserved more than a passing reference as it's a whole different kettle of fish from his sensory quirks.

Most of you will know that I have had OB on and off since he was a very small baby. He first came to me at four and a half months old. We had a rocky 'on and off' period after that before he came back to stay at 13 months. While this is wonderful in too many ways to list here, it does mean that sometimes I have a wave of self-doubt about his 'early childhood' which, after all, was mostly spent with me.

Core strength is one of those areas. I had read that poor core strength in children tends to be caused because they were left lying down too much as babies. Well, OB spent most of his babyhood with me, so I immediately felt the guilt rush in. Did I leave him lying down too much? Was he not rocked enough? I cast my mind back and felt awful about every moment he spent in his cot or on his back on his playmat. I bitterly regretted not trying harder with 'tummy time' despite it being such a trial for him.

However, the OT explained to me that core strength starts with neck strength; that from a child's earliest moments, each gentle movement, rock and sway lays the foundations for good neck strength, which in turn is the foundation for good core strength. If he was left lying around for prolonged periods in his first few weeks and months, not rocked enough, not cuddled or carried enough, then he wasn't developing his neck strength. It started in his first weeks and months. Including 18 weeks when I didn't even know him.

Core strength is the foundation on which limb strength and gross and fine motor skills are laid. No wonder tummy time for OB consisted of him repeatedly bashing his face on the carpet until I took pity on him and picked him up. Crawling builds core strength, but is difficult if you're not strong enough already. OB sat at 8 months, crawled at 9, stood at 10, walked at 11. As the OT said, why bother prolonging the crawling stage when standing is far less hard work.

None of this is the end of the world. OB can sit, walk, run, skip and, recently, hop and Heely. It's all good. What it means is that he has rotten seating posture, an erratic gait and a tendency to occasionally fall off things and over things. His balance isn't brilliant, which doesn't help with the bike riding. He absolutely looks the part at football and his dribbling skills are coming along, but if he has to kick the ball with any force, it's best to take cover as it could go in any direction! Thankfully, it doesn't tend to go too far. I suspect this is what also lies behind his decidedly pigeon-toed approach to walking and running.

If we weren't having the OT assessment anyway, most of this would probably never have come to light. I suspect OB would have gone on to live a long and happy life none the wiser, although a career as a Premiership footballer might have been out of the question. But, as we do now know, we'll set to work on the exercise sheet we've been given and see where it takes us. Probably not the Premiership still, but you never know!