Thursday, March 14, 2024

FOSTERING THROUGH THE NIGHT

 Night time is always worth plenty of thinking about in fostering, because for the foster parent it can seem a lonely time. We get plenty of support, there's always someone at Blue Sky, or whatever one's agency or local authorority is, we can phone or email if there's something. 

During the day.

But out-of-hours (night time), we inevitably feel a tad more alone. Blue Sky have a  24 hour service and that's great, I did call once, and got good advice, but the officers don't quite feel the same as the social workers who know your case inside out.

It's easy, sometimes, to get your foster child to bed. The process towards bedtime almost begins when they get back from school. Weekends are slightly different, but from the evening meal onwards, bedtime looms.

Some kids are cool and go upstairs fine. Some argue the toss wanting another half-hour.

One way or another we parents push a bit and get what we need. 

Then we come downstairs and settle in front of the telly.

But in fostering night-time doesn't end there.

99% of the time, the actual fostering does; the job is done until the following morning. But some nights it's different.

The difference is down to the fact that we know our own children and their sleeping patterns, and have learned them from the day they were born. We get their quirks of going upstairs, getting into bed, being left alone after the usual "Night night, sleep well, see you in the morning."

But when you foster, the evening routine has a twist on normal parenting, not  necessarily a twist for the worst, merely a new thing.

Put simply; we don't know how our foster children sleep.

Just think about the lighting thing;

Some like a nightlight, some like a landing light left on and their door half-open. Some like a full bedsite light on. I had a 17 year-old once, could only sleep with the main bedroom light and the bedsite light on.

Some need to go to sleep wrapped in a duvet on the sofa and get carried upstairs once they've gone.

Some simply fight sleep and are still flipping and flopping at 11.00 o'clock.

A quick story about a girl called Kathy who came aged 14. 

Sorry, this story is unsettling, but has a happy ending.

Kathy's father had been imprisoned, and before she arrived we knew and were informed about the reasons for his conviction. Her mother was limited, and deemed unable to look after the children.

Kathy displayed a need to have her bedroon door permanently shut tight. At first we didn't think anything about it. She would come home from school, go to her room and shut the door hard.

She'd eat with us, then go back to her room and get behind her door, which she shut hard, good as gold.

One night not long after she arrived she'd gone to bed, and my partner happened to go upstairs and ten minutes later she came stomping down in a right tizz.

Long story short; she was triggered by the sound of heavy footsteps outside her bedroom door.

In fostering we foster parents often put two and two together and get four.

We devised a way of going upstairs when it was our bedtime that helped Kathy's nightmares. We tried going upstairs softly softly; succes rate about 4/10. The we tried making abit of noise that was plainly us; 8/10.

Me: (quite loudly) "Here we go upstairs to bed, me and Jim! (not my partner's real name)..  me and Jim, Jim and me… night night anyone who can hear us, tomorrow's Spag Boll, get your order in at breakfast if you want garlic bread or dough balls. G'night all!"

It wasn't a cure-all. How could it be? We had been advised on Kathy's life up to coming into care. She had a mountain to climb and in fostering we foster parents often offer the first little ladder.

I believe our efforts to help her get a good night sleep helped.

We sleep a bit less in fostering. But we sleep better than many.













Saturday, March 09, 2024

EACH CHILD IS UNIQUE

 Remember when we had a working class, a middle class and an upper class?

And 'blue collar' workers and 'white collar' workers?

No?

I do. 

Ah, categorisation was easy not so long ago. Nowadays we have more 'demographies' than you can shake a stick at.

Thanks to fostering I've come to treating each person as an individual and finding out their personal story rather than pigeon-holing them. My thing now is to try not to jump to conclusions about a family because they live on a particular housing estate, or drive a Range Rover, which was a trap I used to fall into.

We looked after a lad, I'll call him Tyrone, who had been removed from his single mum. They shared a modest house on a notorious estate. Social housing. Blue flashing lights every Friday and Saturday night. Tyrone's mum drove a top of the range brand new 4x4 (probably on lease), had a 5 foot TV, and held down some sort of semi-executive financial job with one of the big supermarket chains. 

She was at war with Tyrone's father, a big man with a police record. I was asked to take Tyrone to Contact with his dad. That sort of thing isn't a problem for the foster parent, the routine is that you hand the child over to a Contact Officer, and when it's over they bring the child out to you. You don't have to even see the parents, unless everyone wants to and it's agreed and supervised.

Tyrone's dad lived elsewhere.

Tyrone used to be left alone in the house when his mother went out drinking every night and came home with different men and a multiplex of substances.

Tyrone was a picture of neglect; a child whose mother and father each made it clear to him that he was unwanted, a nuisance. I often wondered if his mum was glad of the respite when social services took him away, if you can believe that. 

We went to work on helping Tyrone develop a sense of belonging and self-worth. It's often a cornerstone job in fostering, and a mighty rewarding  one.

Contact is sometimes sweet, sometimes tricky; not always easy for the child; we foster parents make it work. 

The Contact was in the community hall in the centre of Tyrone's housing estate - a place some people used to call a 'sink estate'.

Tyrone and I arrived early and rather than sit in the car for half-an-hour I suggested we go for a stroll. This was Tyrone's home patch. We hadn't gone more than 100 yards when two young women, both pushing pushchairs, came walking towards us. As soon as they saw Tyrone they lit up and went;

"Tyrone! Hello mate! How you doing?"

Tyrone waved and they exchanged a few pleasantries. 

Tyrone and I carried on walking and went past a house with a low brick wall. Sitting on the wall was a large older woman and a smaller, younger, tattoed girl, both smoking. The same thing happened;

"Hello Tyrone! You alright kiddo?"

Another brief, friendly chat.

This happened over and over. Everyone knew Tyrone. Everyone knew everybody. Except me. I didn't get a word spoken to me, or even an acknowledgement that I was looking after one of theirs.

That's what Tyrone was; 'One of theirs".

Their community.

I could sense the distinct and heady fragrance of... family.

Tyrone didn't have a mum and dad. He had hundreds of mums and dads.

I live in suburbia. It took several years after we moved in before I got to know even the names of some of our neighbours and even then we only got formal, irrelevant chit chat. Tyrone had an entire village.

Tyrone came when I was newish to fostering. I'll give you a clue to how long ago;

10 years back I attended a childrens award ceremony for young people who were either in care or had been in care. My foster child at the time was getting a trophy. It was a great evening. It was at a posh hotel, so to make it a night to remember for our child we booked a suite at the hotel and stayed the night. He had sausage and chips from room service and watched cartoons before nodding off in his adjoining bedroom.

Next evening, while sat at our table waiting for our foster son to be announced I became aware of a pair of eyes on me. A big man, with a small smile at the corners of this mouth. 

Tyrone! 

I went straight over and caught up with him. Married, one child, good job as a self-employed builder. 

Tyrone was announced and went up on stage to collect his award.

Our kid went up after Tyrone and punched the air heading towards centre stage. You never forget moments like that.

So. Tyrone had been brought up on an estate that sociologists (remember them?) would have labelled socio-economic group "E", ("A" being Knighstbridge, "B" being upper middle class suburbia and so on). 

But in terms of communuty it was an A.

I don't know how much my fostering helped Tyrone on his way. I'm absolutely certain that the warmth of the community was a big factor.

So, from that experience onwards I try to make no pre-judgements about kids and parents based on their affluence or lack of it, or their job, or lack of one. 

Of course I reserve judgement on some of the things that happen in homes that children are removed from, but they are specifics and each deserves specific thought.

Each family is unique, each child even more so.

No pigeon holes.



Friday, March 08, 2024

DO WHAT YOU CAN

 As they grow up children develop two personalities, the public one that we all see, and the private one.

If the child belongs to us we get to know both of their personalities and how to manage them.

We usually know when our own child is upset about something but doesn't want to talk about it. We can often work out what it is; it might be a problem with a friend or a setback at school. Or maybe they've lucked out on their current Gamebox game.

We can work out that if the scissors aren't in their usual kitchen drawer someone's probably borrowed them to cut their own hair and haven't put them back. We usually know them well enough to say either;

a) "Your hair's looking nice"

Or

b) "Have you seen the scissors on your travels?"

Or

c) We say nothing at all, but have a quick shufti in their room next time they're out and check the bathroom sink for hairs as it's the favourite place for a quick trim, nice big mirror and a door they can lock.

We know them inside out and that makes parenting them all the easier.

Different in fostering isn't it?

When a new child arrives we've usually seen paperwork about their history, but that never prepares us fully for their actual arrival. From the moment they step through the door we begin a lightning fast learning experience; the more we can understand them, the better we can foster them.

We knew, for example, that one of Raphael's favourite meals was pizza, but didn't know that he never, ever, ever.. ate the crusts. That is, he never wanted to. We found out soon enough that he'd been forced to eat crusts. Crusts were some sort of trigger. He was frightened/repulsed by them. As soon as we made the discovery I took to snipping the crusts off with the same pair of scissors that had frecently gone missing. Raphael had borrowed them to  trim his own hair.

But he hadn't been with us long enough for me to know which response to the scissors thing of a, b, or c would be best. You don't want a pair of kitchen scissors to stay in any eight-year old child's bedroom longer than necessary, just to be on the safe side. Nor do you want to make a mountain out of a molehill. 

Didn't need to make the decision, as he came downstairs later the same day carrying the scissors by the blades and walking very slowly, with the scissors scrupulously  pointing downwards.

From his behaviour we began to learn that his parents had drummed certain things into him to make sure he was "safe". Yet social services judged that on their evidence his home, and his parents' parenting, was unsafe. Yet his parents, who we hadn't met yet, had strict rules about things they thought made proper parenting. They made him stay at the table until he'd finished every last crumb of his food, which they believed would somehow make him a better person.

They'd made Raphael brush his teeth to a slow count of one hundred to 'get rid of all the germs'. We drew this out of him when we asked why he brushed his teeth for an age three times a day.

Our social workers were professional about the nature of Raphael's parents' parenting, but advised us that our latest young arrival was being brought up in a household where he was subjected to extreme supervision. Social Services had been alerted by his school, where teachers had grown concerned about Raphael's anxieties. His constant hand-washing, his huge meltdowns if his painting wasn't a new Mona Lisa. 

Children (and adults) often fall victim to hyper-anxiety for almost no reason, but his school gently took him aside and became aware of the regime he was living under in his own house.

So, with Raphael, we went to work. We made small but important adjustments around the house to help him loosen up.

We'd leave the washing up, we'd not polish the cutlery at teatime, we'd leave his socks on the floor of his room. 

These were all things we were informed, had been taboo in his home.

How much of a help was our fostering, using this programme? We'll never know. At best, probably a bit.

We tried.

Bottom line is this; we worked our way into our foster child's personality, and unobtrusively tried to use what we learned to help him. You can't do much more than that.

Probably a maxim for fostering; "Do what you can for them, you can't do much more than that."







Friday, March 01, 2024

WHEN THEY GO HOME

 Middle foster child is getting ready to be returned home.

It ought to be a red-letter day for foster parents, because the job of fostering is, in a nutshell, helping the child's family come together again, with safety for all ensured.

It's always tinged though.

When the child is driven away from your home, posessions neatly packed in proper luggage, a few mementoes should be included. This one's going to get to keep a daft baseball cap formerly belonging to somebody who left it here after a gathering. The child likes to wear it backwards so the slogan faces forward; "I'm not arguing, just explaining why I'm right".

There'll also be a card from everyone in the house at the bottom of one of the bags so the child won't get it until they're unpacking. It'll consist of a few words from each of us, a few memories of happy days here, and best wishes for the future.

I'm going to write a paragraph about the time he got separated from us in a giant Tesco. He'd wandered off, or maybe we'd wandered off. We hooked up again after no more than a minute, and always knew where he was because his mobile phone had a wee app that allowed us to track his location. When we found each other again we all laughed. We said "We were getting a bit worried about you!" to which he replied "I was getting a bit worried about YOU!"

Brilliant moment. I'll also write a line about how much we'll miss him, but hope things work out better than ever for his future.

I'll probably mist up when waving goodbye, always happy about the emotions in fostering. Part of my sadness at slight loss are triggered by an experience outside fostering; and I can't remember if I've ever mentioned this on the Secret Foster Carer blog. Our next-door neighbours lost a child who died. They were - and still are, many years on - distraught and in limbo about the loss. They are wonderful people and utterly heroic. In the months afterwards I spent as much time as I could sitting at their kitchen table drinking tea and listening. They were hugely grateful, especially the dad, who struggled with the loss more than his partner and their other children, or so it seemed. From time to time he asked how come I could be so helpful about their loss, and I said I could only guess that it came in part from getting in touch with the sensibilities of loving care you need in fostering, plus the experience of exposure to family difficulties.

Here's one big thing about it; their child had his own bedroom, and the bedroom is still exactly as it was when the child left home to go to the party from which he never returned. Discarded socks are still on the floor, the bed's unmade, the door kept half ajar, just as it was when a police officer knocked on their front door to bring them the worst imaginable news.

When a foster child leaves to go home, it's nowhere near the loss our neighbours are still suffering, but you still miss them, and have to deal with an element of loss. I find it helps to return their bedroom to neutral as soon as possible, get it ready for a new arrival. 

The departed child is high in your mind until the phone rings and Blue Sky's placement team say;

"Would you consider taking a child who…"

Heady stuff.

My partner and I had a rough day the other Sunday; eldest foster child was feeling low, our eldest real child is not in the best place, the elderly dog we're looking after to help out a family member is going downhill fast. My partner has two close family members both needing profound medical treatment. It's harrowing how sometimes in life things bundle up.

We sat in the living room early last Sunday morning drinking tea, and found ourselves going through all the foster children we've had placed with us.

We went through the full list, remembering each of them easily enough, only struggling about the order they arrived here. We managed all their names, and swapped reminiscences of each of them; funny moments, poignant ones. We really enjoyed remembering them - memories are always a bit rose-tinted - and found ourselves laughing and privately reminding ourselves that fostering is the best thing we've done. We shared our fears that one or two of them might be struggling now, just as so many ordinary young people are.

By the time we were ready to flip from tea to coffee, we were feeling 1000% better.

I've got a painful shoulder at the moment, it spasms now and then, probably caused by picking up and carrying our sturdiest grandchild for the last year or so. My GP says it'll mend itself but in the meantime offered to prescribe Diazepam to relax the muscles. 

I declined. Fostering relaxes me - not all the time - but when I really need it, it's there for me.


Sunday, February 25, 2024

UNEXPLAINED TRIUMPHS

 Youngest foster child has come through a bad patch.

School wasn't working as well as it might and the child was reluctant to get ready in the morning. I often ended up going out the front door, and sitting in the car to give a sense of inevitability that the school run will happen even though the child is stubbornly sitting on the bottom stair not putting on their shoes.

These stand-offs were tiring, but are by no means confined to fostering. Our eldest birth child was much the same, and he ended up at a decent university so we're philosophiocal about the diehards who think that 6 or 7 hours compulsory daily schooling five days a week is an absolute, or else the child will end up on the scrapheap.

One difference between fostering and ordinary parenting is that when a child is in care the local authority has ultimate responsibility; so school attendance is carefully monitored. They need to make sure the child isn't being dropped off at the school gates then doing a bunk and spending the day hanging around amusement arcades or the shopping mall.

Every so often had no option but to concede and let the child stay home.

"Yikes!" goes an imaginary voice in my head, belonging to someone who's never fostered; "That's illegal!"

It simply isn't. If a child in care goes into a meltdown we have to look after the child - and ourselves. Everyone connected with fostering knows and understands that if a child is physically unwell they are kept at home. Judging matters when the unwellness is emotional, and whether it's sufficient to have the child stay at home for that day, is part and parcel of some fostering placements. But, as ever you're never alone in fostering. At times (as rarely as possbile) the foster parent concedes. Any suchlike abscence is carefully recorded and discussed with social workers.

I would get occasional phone calls from a LA officer whose job is to keep a checklist of school attendance figures for their children in care. The officer is polite and understanding. 

The foster parent does their best every day, but there are limits.

The child's schooling remains a top topic of conversation whenever the child's Local Authority Social Worker, or my Blue Sky Social Worker pay a visit (usually once a month). They need to be reassured that I'm doing my best to get the child to school, but that I'm also protecting the child from real or imagined demons, and also protecting myself.

The child needed to be pursuaded to get in the car, there can never, ever be any physical ushering - I don't even buckle their seat belt for them, that's down to them once the child is old enough, and if I have to wait another 5 minutes for that to happen, so be it.

Schoolday mornings were uphill for a while.

However…

This has happened since they went back from the last school holidays;

The mornings are easier!

The question is, of course, how come?

One of the great pleasures in fostering is joining up the dots. Sometimes me and my SW will while away an hour trying to piece together the reason for an improved behaviour, or attitude, or trait.

So what's brought about the new broom? The child in question is something of a closed book. Children in care often prefer to keep things to themselves. So TBH your guess is as good as mine, here come the possibles:

1) The child has settled their differences with another pupil or pupils who were making life hard in the playground.

2) One or more of the child's teachers doubled down to help the child.

3) The child started enjoying the social side of school - becoming part of a group, making a best friend.

4) The child began to show ability in some of the curriculum and took pleasure from success.

5) I'd ensured that life at home on a schoolday was as boring as possible: ie no daytime TV, no computer games (turn the wi-fi off), requesting help with drying the dishes and doing some hoovering. I'd even sometimes find some maths exercises or English comprehension on my PC and get the child to do a bit of homework.

6) Sensible rewards (late night bedtime on Fridays etc) for achieving the target attendance figure set by the school as part of the personalised plan all children in care have with their school.

I suspect the child started looking at the positives of school; not wanting to miss out on the social scene, the hurley-burley. The ups and downs of playground life. I even got the impression that the child would miss our regular morning routine tug of war to get him going.

Plus, I think, the child felt cared for that people were trying their best for him; respecting the child and their individuality.

Child now gets up and goes off roughly 50% more cheerful.

Still takes child an age to get their shoes on though...







Tuesday, February 20, 2024

MOMENTS THAT MAKE YOUR HEART GO ZING

 Fostering can be a delight, it can also be a slog. I doubt I'm telling anyone anything they don't already know.

It's human nature to dwell on the things that could be better rather than the things that are going great, and that's good because there's always something that wants improving. If we fostering folk went around with our heads in the clouds there'd be little or no progress.

Once a month (in my case) I get a visit from my Blue Sky Social Worker. It's her job to help me keep at the top of my game. It's also her job to help me see where I'm getting things right.

On the whole, fostering's rewards easily outweigh the uphill stuff. I've been fostering for a lot longer than I care to remember, and honestly love it so much I aim to go on 'til I drop.

I've enjoyed having countless experiences of helping other people's children steady their boat. Then they go - they almost always go - and you're left wondering how much good you were for them.

A couple of days ago a letter arrived addressed to me. A brown envelope, handwritten in a spidery scrawl, and a huge first class stamp. It was among the usual pizza deals and garden clearance flyers, so it instantly seemed special.

I opened it straight away. The letter had been put in the envelope upside down, a clue it was from someone who was not used to sending letters. It was two sides of typed A4. No address from the sender, it started like this;

"I hope this letter finds you. I've spent a long time (literally years) meaning to write to you. Please don't be worried that I'm stalking you or anything like that, I'm simply desperate to thank you."

I'm reading this and hooked obviously. I sit down at our kitchen table, no-one else in the house. I sit and read the letter and couldn't help weeping. The letter is at my side at this moment, I'm filling up now, writing these words.

It was from a girl who came to me briefly for foster care. I remembered her, but at first not with any great clarity. It was a long time ago - give you an idea, her letter said she now has two adult children.

She was, as I remember, my third ever placement. She was one of two sisters who had been removed from their parents because the mother had become unstable through some sort of mushroom drugs, which she acquired through some sort of religious cult that had got their hooks into her. The father wasn't on the scene, but when he had been, he'd been violent, maybe guilty of even worse physical abuse than that.

The girl was 16, her sister 14. 

We had a pretty full household at the time, and it was agreed the sisters could share a bedroom on separate beds, as they had done at home, but that Blue Sky and the sisters' local authority would look for somewhere else to take them on a semi-permanent basis. 

The younger one was a ball of energy, loved our home and our dog, she loved the freedom of not sharing a dwelling with a person likely to go weird at any moment. Mind, like almost all foster children, she loved her mum and cared about her.

They got on pretty good, as did the sisters and myself.

The older sister, who sent me this cherished letter, was quieter. Remote even.

A few days after they arrived, late one evening as I remember, she opened up to me. The house was quiet and we were alone in the kitchen, sat at the table.

She told me that she was pregnant.

Not only that, she told me that she hadn't told a single soul up to that moment. She chose me, she said, because I was the first, and up to that point the only, person she'd ever met that she felt she could trust.

I decided to let her talk, and, slowly at first, she did. Then the floodgates opened and I got most of the story.

Not all of it mind; she kept one or two big details to herself.

Reading her letter a couple of decades later I managed to remember much about that evening. It was a huge responsibilty she'd put my way, but I'd learned more than enough in my short time as a foster parent to know the key things. 

Number One; The child is paramount. I had to do eveything I could to help the child deal with where she was at that moment in time, which I remember trying to do. And help her for every moment of every day she remained with me.

Number Two; I knew I wasn't alone in dealing with this. I knew that first thing the following morning I would call Blue Sky and get advice, help and support. 

Number Three; The child was anxious that no-one else should know, but obviously I had to to begin helping her understand her options, help her begin to trust people who are trained and experienced. She was resistant at first but I made inroads.

We have a loud clock in the kitchen and it ticked away, I seem to remember that she and I talked well into the night. She hinted we both knew who the father of her child was, and that the conception was far from consensual.

That was a major issue, but I was a foster parent and resolving issues like this one would have to go upstairs - if you know what I mean. Thank goodness there are structures and experts.

We chatted about her plans, she said abortion was an option as the preganancy was still early, but out of the question as her family were all deeply 'religious' and although she found them extremely difficult they frightened her. I told her I would act as her sounding board until we could arrange professional counsel. I'd said that for me, she was the most important person in all this; that she mattered.

We talked about adoption as another option. I also told her that to the best of my understanding if she chose to raise the child herself there would be incredible support from the state, the NHS, the local authority, and even if necessary the law.

Back to the letter, which is still sitting at my elbow. 

She wrote I'd told her she had a responsibilty to herself, that she was young and the world was her oyster. She wrote that I'd told her that she deserved to walk along a beach in Thailand at midnight with someone she truly loved. I told her she was important too.

She wrote that those inspirational words meant a lot.

As the kitchen clock ticked she grew more and more at peace knowing she wasn't alone, and probably never would be again. She'd plugged into a wonderful network; namely the amazing world of care.

Her letter ended with the bit that makes me most emotional. She wrote;

"I never told you this but I decided that if I had the baby but couldn't keep it I'd ask you to adopt it".

Pause at that point for me to dab at the eyes, we don't want moisture on a keyboard...

The girl is now a woman. She assured me she's free of the people who made her life miserable as a child. She has two adult children, the eldest of which (the one I might have been asked to adopt, but of course it doesn't work like that) is about to qualify as a sports coach.

She finished by saying that she'd like to know if I recieved her letter - she put an email address at the bottom.

I emailed her immediately saying how much her letter meant to me, and promised to write her a proper letter back if she was happy to send me an address, if not, I'd email.

Children who pass through our foster care are often touched and uplifted by what we try to do for them. It's rare - but not unique - to get such a heartfelt gesture, so when it happens you absolutley have to cherish it, and return to it. Her letter will always have a place in my heart, my next job is to find a safe place in the house to store it away so I can re-read it when the going gets tough.

Wish I had more letters like that and less flyers from the latest Indian restaurant...









Tuesday, February 13, 2024

FOSTERING CHILDREN AND ….DEATH

 A foster carer who often offers wisdom on this blog, "Mooglet" commented on "Home From Home" that sometimes their dog is first to spot when a foster child is sad or troubled.

So, so true.

Not that foster carers are oblivious to a child's moods, far from it. It's the kernel of what we do.

But we also have to cook dinner, keep the house tidy, do the shopping…

…get the car through its MOT, find someone competent to fix the gutter, keep an eye on mum who's not getting any younger. 

I could go on.

We fostering people have to fit our fostering in with everything else life demands.

The family dog has only two distractions; a) her next meal, and b) walkies.

The rest of the time our dog's antenna is operating 100%. Meanwhile we fostering folk are trying to stay alert to our children's needs and at the same time wondering if the faint smell of drains from the kitchen sink needs sorting.

So, yes - often our dog can be first to sense there's a child with an unhappiness.

But it works both ways.

Children in care often make their first connection in their new home with…the dog.

Which is why we have a particular challenge in our home right now which is this.

We have two dogs; "Friday" a champion 3 year old Golden Retriever, kind as any saint. And a 14 year-old Bichon Frize. The breed is a toy dog, if you like, but irresistibly cute. They have a habit of cocking their head from side to side when you talk to them as if they're weighing up what you're saying.

Her name's Bella.

She's starting to die.

I'll not disturb you with the upsetting details, but she needs hand-feeding and sleeps above my head on the pillow. She gets lost in the garden. The wonderful vet has said, quite rightly that their job is to keep life going until suffering becomes too much. But the day will dawn.

My other half and I have, yesterday and no doubt tomorrow talked about paliative care, euthenasia, cremation.

We're also talking about how to include our foster children in this process.

It's a thing we've had happen before. We got it wrong last time and want to learn from our mistakes.

The dog - another Golden retriever called "Nugget" was incapacitated and her day had come. 

But, to be brutally up front, we screwed up by saying nothing to our foster child at the time, so they came home from school and we sat the child down and said that Nugget had gone.

He was upset in many ways, most of all, it seemed, he said he wanted to say goodbye.

The same child is still with us, and seems to know the current situation is heading towards another kindness trip to the vet.

He's not a massive talker, but he said this, from nowhere;

"I know you think I hate Bella, but I love her really."

He knows. We'll let him have a chance to say goodbye.

It'll be painful for him but noble.

The thing is this. Death is a towering concept for everyone. 

When you're fostering and asked to introduce children belonging to other people to the concept of death, it's yet another facet of why this job is so important, and sometimes so beautiful.