Our Fostering Journey; Love Loss and New Beginnings

Friends of ours had become foster carers. We watched in awe. It was something we had considered. The radio and TV adverts had pulled at our heartstrings, and I had been so surprised when Steven had come home one day and suggested we consider it. But it seemed like something other people did, and having so many challenges of our own, I assumed we wouldn’t be allowed to do it. We had wanted more children but had opted out of this, as the chance history would repeat itself was too high. But watching someone so close to us in this role and seeing how the process worked had made it seem more possible. So we tentatively contacted our local council about fostering.

It didn’t take long for them to get back to us. There was an initial meeting where they gave us basic information about fees, expenses, and expectations. We could ask all the questions we had around sleeping arrangements, choosing ages that might suit us, parental contact, etc. So far, it didn’t scare us off, so we were invited to a two-day prep group for new prospective carers. We went through the training, unaware that we were being watched and reported on. But whatever we were being assessed on, we must have passed, as soon our assessment started.

This was a long process. No stone was left unturned. Many meetings in our home, asking lots of questions about our families, our histories, and our personal background. They spoke to us together and apart. They spoke to our children, our parents, and our friends. We had to have full medical checks, police checks, credit checks. We had to provide insurance documents, mortgage statements, birth certificates—you name it, it was all covered. Everything except the colour of our underwear. But it was understandable; if we were to be given vulnerable children to care for, then every step had to be taken to be sure we were safe.

Our own struggles with our own child didn’t seem to be an issue. If anything, our experience was a strength. It took about a year in total to go through the process; the last hurdle was to go to a panel. This was daunting. A room full of panel members would interview us and decide if we would be approved. It was exciting but terrifying. When we left, my legs were like jelly. But the news came in that we had been approved to care short-term (now called interim care) for one child between the ages of 0–7. It was recommended that we only have children younger than our own.

There were no children that matched with us at this point, so we just had to wait. Our girls were so excited. We were too. Our rose-tinted glasses were firmly in place. They were older now, 11 and 13. They got on a lot better now, although there could still be many fights and meltdowns. They tended to get along better when there was a friend over, so the hope was that this wouldn’t be a win-win.

Months passed with no news. We got the bedroom ready and collected different sizes of clothes and toys here and there. When the call eventually came, we were ecstatic. Our first foster child was a two-year-old little boy. He was adorable. We were all instantly smitten. He only stayed a few weeks before returning to his birth family, but what an eventful few weeks, with a rollercoaster of emotions. He was, of course, frightened to be in this new house with these strange people. But it didn’t take him long to get to know us and build connections with little in-jokes, silly songs, and sayings that we still talk about fondly now. He used swear words that would make your hair curl and could go into moods that seemed to come out of nowhere.

It was a short stay and a great first experience for us, with a lovely outcome seeing him return to his dad. I will never forget his joy and excitement when we told him he was going home, and we waved him off in the social worker’s car. I’m sure he has no recollection of those few weeks with us, but they are imprinted in our family as a core memory.

We had many different experiences in our seven years of fostering—from a premature baby born drug-addicted, a newborn relinquished at birth, to children whose parents were struggling with addiction or mental health. Some were able to return home, some went on to aunts and uncles. We supported a few adoptions. This could be joyous but also tinged with huge loss and sadness, for the birth family and for us. But seeing the child connect to their new family over the transition period felt like a huge honour to be part of. Some children came for a day, some stayed for years. Some left and came back again. Nothing can prepare a foster carer for the reality of the role—the extreme behaviours or the overwhelming fear the child can often be in. The heartbreaking stories and horrific allegations they can sometimes disclose. My own girls could struggle with all of this. They were understandably jealous of our attachment to these children at times but also became so attached themselves.

Every one had, and always will have, a space in our hearts—forever a piece in our family’s history. They were never ours to keep, just ours to nurture for however long they would stay. The hardest part was saying goodbye. It surprised me how much I would crave that child after they left. Even if a similar child took their place in our home, the need for their smell and their unique personality lingered. We have been lucky to maintain some kind of contact with most of the children we have cared for and know a little about how they are getting on. I think of them often and still have all their photos on my walls. I hope that as adults they may seek us out. A few have found us on social media. Our door will always be open.

Walking away from foster care wasn’t easy. As challenging as it was, it was also massively rewarding and slightly addictive. The buzz of excitement when that call came in with news of a new child needing our care. Seeing them start to feel safe and getting to know their little personalities. Witnessing their transformation as they begin to feel secure—there is nothing like it. But it can be so restrictive: not being able to plan anything, never knowing what the child’s plan might be. Holidays are tricky; nights out impossible. Babysitters could be an issue, with many children too afraid to be left with anyone else. The lack of sleep and, oh boy, the washing. The never-ending washing.

The final straw came for us when social work started shaming carers who were overweight. Steven had always struggled with his weight. But now, at the yearly review, the medical advisors were telling overweight carers to go on a weight-loss programme and expected Steven to report back to be checked on for weight loss. There was huge uproar about this amongst the foster carers. Some social workers had handled it better than others. Sadly, it wasn’t handled well by ours, creating a lot of shame and embarrassment all round. No job is worth that. We loved fostering, but I couldn’t expect Steven to be put through this every year.

So this was the beginning of the end for us. The girls were finishing school, our parents were getting older—it was time to move nearer to them to support them. So, with a heavy heart, the plan to retire from fostering was put into place. We already knew when our last wee guy came that he would be the last one. I hadn’t realised that what he would teach me would set me on my next journey.