and the occasional rant.
Enjoy!
I'm Mark. Older than you imagine, pescetarian, husband, father, professional parent & pedant.
I post some original stuff and a bunch of other things that I like. If you own the rights to something you see here and you're not happy about me sharing it, let me know.
Vegetarianism defined
- Young 'un: So you don't eat duck or chicken, or lamb, or pork, or beef, or sausages, or duck, or bacon, or anything like that?
- Me: No. Actually, there was an easier way to say that.
- Young 'un: How?
- Me: Well, what's the one word that means all of those things?
- Young 'un: Err...
- Me: It begins with "M"...
- Young 'un: Muffins?
- Me: .... <face plant>
Gordon Livingston
(via sometimesagreatnotion)
And I want one of these for bedtime. When I say BED, I mean it!
This is especially true in the case of the young ‘uns we look after. Most have poor, or dysfunctional attachments. Some have no idea how to show or express emotion. Some are so unfamiliar with the feelings that go with secure attachment that they reject it in fear.
And for those who don’t understand what we do; you try holding on to these kids before you criticise. See how long you last.
(Source: youjustinspiredme)
The joy of fostering, (part 897)
It hasn’t rained for weeks, and today the the young ‘uns decided to empty what little rainwater I had left so they could play with the tubs I’d collected it in.
Nature Notes
- Young 'un: What are those driller birds called? You know, the ones that drill with their peck?
- Me: ....<can't talk for laughing> ....
National Trust aims for nature generation
“More children go to hospital having fallen out of bed than having fallen out of a tree”
Can anyone think of a great treatment for this epidemic? *cough*
“The Trust’s director general Fiona Reynolds said children needed freedom to discover nature for themselves.
…
“The campaign will help children to get outdoors and connect them with nature, including things that can be done at trust properties, to try and stimulate a nation of nature-lovers.”
In recent times, a number of agencies have warned that children in the UK and other developed nations are spending ever less time in natural surroundings.
A 2009 report for Natural England showed that only 10% of children now experience woodland play, as opposed to 40% of their parents’ generation.
This retreat has even led to suggestions of a new quasi-medical syndrome, nature-deficit disorder.”
Just what we need; yet another disorder. That said, there is considerable truth here. We look after children and, almost without exception, none of the youngsters that come to us is equipped with any experience of the great outdoors.
The nearest thing to outdoor play that some have experienced is purely structured - play parks with overgrown climbing frames. Whilst they have their place, it’s not the same as going to the woods and making your own fun.
For us, the eye-opener came some years ago, when we took two eight and nine year old brothers to the woods. Two youngsters full of street savvy and fast talk simply had no idea what to do, nor how to react. They simply froze in what appeared to be near terror. The eldest never overcame that unease in the time that he stayed with us, but the youngest thankfully developed a lust for the outdoors and thrived on the sensory experiences we provided.
Others have come and gone since and the clutch we have now have become adept at being outdoors; they’re happy to explore and play in the biggest free playground of them all.
At their ages, I lived in the west country on the edge of Dartmoor. My folks took us out every weekend, sometimes to the seaside and often up onto the moor, a bleak and desolate wilderness. I loved it; one of the benefits was a lasting gift - an affinity for the wide open spaces away from the madding crowds.
I often hear young parents complain that everything their kids want to do is so expensive. They are, to me, the product of a lost generation. Even here in rural Kent, where it almost beggars belief that children could grow up insulated from the world outdoors, there are people who have done just that. They have no more connection with the natural world around them than any inner city kid. They genuinely lack the basic knowledge that should allow them to take their kids into the countryside and just have fun.
It’s a huge loss. The farming community has shrunk almost to the point of extinction as modern mechanical methods eradicate the traditional skills handed down through successive generations. I was shown over the “flight deck” of a modern tractor a few years ago. I thought air-conditioned cabs and stereo were the pinnacle of achievement; how wrong I was. The modern tractor driver almost needs a degree in computer science. They have GPS navigation systems that map and plan the most effective patterns. The crop planting and harvesting is computer controlled and links to a dynamic library of yield information that automatically increases or decreases seeding density according to the previous year’s results. Nonetheless, for all the technology, the modern farmer is more ecologically aware than for generations, which allows an extraordinary diversity of wildlife to coexist.
And it’s all there, right on our doorstep, absolutely free. If you’re lucky enough to live near the countryside, take advantage. Get the kids out there. Turn off the aircon and roll down your car windows. Smell the scent of freshly ploughed fields. Yes, even with well rotted manure; it’s all part of that rich sensory tapestry.
And you know what? Even if they come up with a scratch and sniff X-box, it’ll be nothing like the real thing. It certainly won’t cost you fifty quid a game.
Looking for help with drugs
Yes, I thought that might get your attention, although it’s not strictly true. However, now you’re here, perhaps someone can help me.
One of the young ‘uns we look after was describing life before they came into care. I can’t disclose the full horror here, but one incident involved the children being at a drug dealer’s house. Apart from weed and injecting paraphernalia, they said some of the ‘adults’ were putting a white powder into cigarette papers, twisting the top to make a little ball and then swallowing it.
I have no idea what they were doing. Can anyone out there clue me in?
Now I’m an ogre.
Responsibility just landed with a crash. Someone isn’t going to their youth group tonight because I’m writing letters to their school about the late attendance issue instead. Now we have tears and I just matched the popularity of a turd in a swimming pool in one fell swoop. It’s a tough life.
It’ll be even tougher if I get a £50 fine.
The joy of fostering…
We just had a warning that the education department may fine us because a certain young person has arrived late for school. Twice.
Nothing like an incentive. At least they actually went to school. I can feel the onset of a withdrawal of privilege…
Bonfire update
Remember, remember the fifth of November. Well do you? If so, you’ll recall that two little sticks of dynamite crash-landed here then.
Now, here’s the question. The social workers had another carer lined up, but that would involve yet another move, which is disruptive at best and damaging in the worst case. So they asked us if we’d consider keeping them, and we had a tough decision to make.
In some ways, it’s a no brainer. They’re lively kids who haven’t had the benefit of consistent boundaries, but there’s nothing (so far) that you wouldn’t expect from any children their age. They’re actually quite well mannered, and they seem keen to learn.
The downside is that we lose the emergency bed role, which we’ve enjoyed. It allows us to work with a host of different young people, each with a different story. For sure, some of them (especially the older ones) are bouncing because they chose that route, but there are two sides to every coin. At least we can have adult conversations with teenagers, who for the most part comprise the emergencies.
The emergency bed is a tie, though. We’re on call 24/7 for six weeks at a stretch with a two week break in between. The calls almost always come after midnight and the disruption is a pain, especially when you have a day job too. Having said that, there’s an enhanced pay package that goes some way to off-setting the hassle.
If we say yes, we wind up taking a significant pay cut, but losing the unpredictability. We also have the tie of managing two children that are considerably younger than our regular age range - and we’re not getting any younger. Heck, we’re more than old enough to be their grandparents.
We’ve already given the social workers our decision, but before I tell you what we decided, I thought it would be interesting to know what you guys would do in our shoes. Never mind philanthropy; be honest. What would your call be?
English lessons
- Young 'un: What's the word for big letters?
- Me: Big letters?
- Young 'un: Yes. You know, when you write you put big letters first.
- Me: Ah, I understand. What do you think it is?
- Young 'un: Well I know, but I can't say it.
- Me: How about you try?
- Young 'un: Catapult letters?
My mum can take care of me
Thus spake an indignant young person, who cannot understand why they can’t go home. The facts that the child is from a family of Victorian proportions and that every sibling is in care, are, of course, entirely irrelevant to a young person who has experienced no functional adult role modelling. The little background of which we are aware is appalling, but that’s normality for the child, who only wants to be with mum. It’s heartbreaking at times and it’s easy to understand how the anger and frustration boils over when you’re so small and feeling totally out of control.
Never mind. We’ll start at the beginning. Here’s the ground. First lesson; keep in touch with it at all times.
Dynamite? What else on Bonfire Night?
It seems ironic that we took a call on the eve of Bonfire Night about two young ‘uns that were described to us as “dynamite”. We’re back on call for emergencies and the duty worker called us up to ask if we could take twins, who were at that moment trashing their carer’s home.
Of course, the answer was yes, and they duly arrived this morning. Their combined ages barely breach double figures and it’s difficult for the uninitiated to understand how two angelic looking kids can wreak so much damage.
We’ve been there too many times before to fall for it. Welcome to Boot Camp, guys. Here’s where you learn how to behave, about the benefits that good behaviour can bring, and the meaning of action and consequence. You want fireworks? Try me.
Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move away. The moments that used to define them—a mother’s approval, a father’s nod—are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives.
“The moments that used to define them…”
For so many of the young people who come to live with us, those moments have never existed. They have nothing to strive for, except their own survival, despite everything that life dealt them. For them, a mother’s approval might only be signified by the absence of a slap or beating, and a father’s nod - what’s a father?
That’s not to say they’re all like that. Their stories are myriad, but there’s tragedy on an unimaginable scale in so many of their lives. We’ve become inured to it over our time as foster carers - we couldn’t do what we do if we felt their pain all the time - but we’re not immune. It projects as secondary trauma, and there are times when the burden feels too great, even for us. So what then must it be like for them?
We can never be the parents for whom these children yearn, although we do our best to provide love and consistency. Sadly, neither can the parents, but for very different reasons. At least we can deliver some of the moments they deserve, when against all the odds, they achieve.
