Lost in translation

I've been having a think. I really do need to get my mojo back and look for the smiles in life. The last post (Please Say Amen) was a bit of a downer and a huge thank you to those of you who read it and came to me with encouraging words (not everyone posts comments - some people actually do speak to me in real life). Being a foster parent can be rewarding and it can be bl**dy hard - excuse my French. Oooh, that reminds me...when I was a kid, I used to belt out that Beatles song called "Oh Blah Dee, Oh Blah Da" because it meant that I could say "bl**dy" and not get told off for swearing.

Anyway, I thought I'd look for some of the lighter moments. Just before our guy had his spin out (and got cruelly ripped away from us by a "Certain Government Department!!) he would often have friends over to stay. One of these is a lovely Vietnamese boy, J, who has limited English. There had been some talk about a mufti day at school with a super-hero theme. J knocked on my door and asked if I could buy him "clothes". I was a bit concerned and asked if his parents could take him to buy clothes. He said, "No, they no understand. I only one who use computer". I thought that was a bit random but agreed that if he had the money we could arrange something - especially after he flashed 160 bucks under my nose. I mentioned this to Beloved who organised J and his non-English speaking mum to accompany him to the mall on Thursday night.

Incidentally, did I mention that Armageddon was coming up and my son M had been hanging out for it all year? I relented and bought him the costume he'd been begging for. It cost loads but since I have a weakness for costumes resulting in two wardrobes bulging with "interesting outfits", I gave in so that I could add it to my collection.

Anyway, Thursday rolled around and Beloved rocked up to the Mall with J and his mum in tow. It didn't take long for my phone to ring. It was Beloved.
"Errr....what's this costume M's got?"
"Costume? Why do you want to know about that for" I know that's apalling grammar but I was a little nervous about talking to Beloved about M's costume. I couldn't remember if I'd actually told him I'd bought it - on account of how much it had cost (I just thought I'd slip it into my collection without anyone noticing).
"Well it's not "clothes" J wants, it's "CLOUD"! He wants a CLOUD costume like M's!!!"

Ummm...slight misunderstanding there I think.

Awkward....

Back to Armageddon, M wore the costume and now it stinks of his armpits. I'm not exactly sure how to wash it without damaging it. And as for the Cloud costume. When M first asked for one about a year or so ago I said I'd think about it. I planned on surprising him by making one for him but thought it was a bit out of character for him to want something so....fluffy. Thankfully I opened my mouth and suggested that I would need an awful lot of cotton wool to make a cloud costume big enough to fit him. Phew! Good save - he might have looked a bit silly walking into Armageddon covered in fluff. Not that any of the other sci fi fans looked silly of course!

Just one more thought on the horror of the past week. Can someone please tell me, if something doesn't kill you does it make you stronger? Or harder? I don't think I ever want to be hard but is that the only way to stop being hurt by a stupid CGD?

Never tick off your hairdresser

I’ve often contemplated what possessed me to train as a hairdresser. Considering I didn’t love the job, it all seemed pointless and I’m certainly glad I flagged it. But this afternoon I had an epiphany; everything just fell into place. All those pernickety clients, long late nights and dodgy workmates finally had a purpose. My creative skill was finally about to fulfil a greater plan that came into action today.

There are ups and downs in having fosties. It’s exciting to see growth and development in lives that once seemed so bleak. Usually it’s a “two steps forward, one step back” kind of progress and it can be really discouraging when it’s one of “those” days. The e-mail from the Deputy Principal had the ominous Subject Header “Another Bullying Issue” and said something along the lines of: “Yesterday I had yet another mum call me about N* bullying her son. As you can imagine she was pretty upset and angry and wanted answers. I’ve spoken to the boy who confirms that N has been constantly bullying him both verbally and physically by pushing and shoving. I have also spoken to N who admits his actions (he’s honest, I give him that). When I asked why he did it he said he thought it was fun!”

Uh oh...

Since the fosties were due for their haircuts I figured this would be an ideal opportunity for the offender to become a captive audience. I lured him into the seat with a beguiling smile and caped him up in pink (such a calming colour don’t you think?). He didn’t notice when I removed the #3 guard and slipped on a #1. After taking out a few chunks on one side I knew the time was right to put forward a suggestion to the boy: “Sit there and think about anything you might have to tell me.” Then I walked away. The look on his face was precious!

I think he was in shock. I started cooking dinner while he stared at his reflection in the mirror with huge, sad eyes. I put some washing on. I made a cup of tea. I read a magazine. He sat...

Half an hour later I decided he was ready - he’d decided he’d had enough! Eventually I found him hiding in his bed blubbing his little heart out. Ooooh, that sounds so bad! I am an EVIL foster mummy! He’s twelve years old and neglect during his early years has taught him a few tricky behaviours. We’ve seen huge improvements in the past 11 months but every now and then he slips back into it.  Ignoring the guilty pangs pricking my stomach I addressed the lump under the duvet. He cried all the way through the lecture.

CYFs have some strict guidelines about what constitutes abuse of kids in care: nothing physical, never lock a child in a room, no put downs....does a bad haircut count as ill-treatment? Oh heck! Could I go to JAIL for cruelty? What if I couldn’t get him back to finish the cut? Everyone would know I did it and my reputation as a hair stylist would be wrecked forever!

There was a long wait while he cried it out so I started a razor cut on his younger brother’s “Justin Bieber-inspired” hair. Funny, he seemed a little nervous.  Eventually N composed himself and it was a very subdued young man sitting in the chair for the rest of his haircut.   I think he would have preferred Edward Scissorhands standing behind him at that point but he was stuck with me. Fortunately I love this kid to pieces so silent remorse prompted me to give him the best haircut of all time. After a lengthy shower he emerged a different boy in both appearance and attitude. Let's hope it lasts.

N’s keen to go on the school camp in a few weeks so we still have some blackmail to brandish over him. Let’s just hope he can keep his hands to himself in the interim.

Farts and Burps

I mentioned that we have two foster boys, brothers aged 10 and 12 who have become part of our family over the last 10 months. Being a caregiver is certainly not all romantic good deeds. But I thought I'd share my "settling" technique:

Day 1: Everyone sitting around the dinner table - slightly uncomfortable.

Problem: Things are frosty and the ice needs to be broken. It's quite possible that the boys have never sat at a dinner table before and they need to become familiar with the etiquette required for such a situation.

Solution: Angela - the big-hearted caregiver extraordinaire - finishes meal and releases her best possible burp (actually, it wasn't that impressive but it sufficed for the situation), does a victory dance and announces, "I won!"

From that moment the competition was on and the after meal burp has become tradition - not that my own children will participate. They were mortified from the onset. Anyway, this has become a serious competition with rules such as, the participant must be at the table, touching the table cloth in order to qualify. I'll bet you were surprised just now when I mentioned that we have a table cloth. New Zealanders are very sophisticated you know. It's navy blue and plastic with melty bits and encrusted food but it is a tablecloth.

Now about the farts...I have a funny fart story. I'm pretty sure that EVERYONE has a funny fart story because farts are funny! If there's anyone who thinks that God doesn't have a sense of humour then they should ponder why he made us with a fart-function. I don't think I'll tell my fart story just yet. You should get to know me a little better first...