Cathy Glass - Cruel to Be Kind

‘I wish I had Buzz,’ Max said as he climbed into bed, referring to his favourite toy.

‘Jo is going to ask your sisters to pack it, so you should have it tomorrow night,’ I reminded him. Then I had a thought. ‘Just a moment. Stay there.’

I left his room and went round the landing and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Adrian, could Max borrow your Buzz Lightyear? Just for tonight.’ Like many children, he had a collection of Toy Story toys.

‘Yes,’ he called. ‘It’s in the cupboard in my room.’

‘Thank you.’

I went into Adrian’s room and to the small built-in cupboard, which contained many of his toys. Buzz sat next to Woody on one of the shelves and I carefully lifted him down. I carried him into Max’s room and his eyes lit up. ‘Buzz!’

‘Adrian said you can borrow his for tonight. Where would you like him to sit?’

‘Just here,’ Max said, patting a place on the bed beside him.

I positioned the toy as Max wanted and then asked him if he needed anything else. He shook his head.

‘Goodnight then, love. Sleep well. Would you like a goodnight kiss?’ I always ask the child – for while a kiss is a sign of affection, it’s also an invasion of their personal space and can make them feel uncomfortable – apart from babies and toddlers, whom I kiss and cuddle spontaneously and often.

‘Don’t mind,’ Max said.

‘Does your mum kiss you goodnight?’ I asked.

‘No. She watches television when I’m in bed.’

‘OK. Night, love.’ I kissed his forehead, and reminding him again to call me if he needed me in the night, I came out, drawing his door to behind me.

Adrian had finished in the bathroom now and was in bed, waiting for me to say goodnight. I lay beside him and we had our usual hug and chat, which tonight was mainly about school and the long summer holidays that would start at the end of the month. A quarter of an hour later I kissed him goodnight and left him to go to sleep. I checked on Max and Paula, who were both fast asleep, and went downstairs where I tidied up. Then, with a cup of tea and my fostering folder, I sat on the sofa in the living room and began writing up my log notes. Foster carers are required to keep a daily record of the child or children they are looking after, which includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing, education, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. When the child leaves this record is placed on file at the social services. As I worked the phone suddenly rang and I quickly snatched it up, hoping it hadn’t woken the children. It was nine forty-five, rather late for a friend to be phoning for a chat, as most of my friends had young children.

‘It’s Caz, Max’s mother,’ she said, clearly annoyed. ‘I thought Max was supposed to phone me.’

‘I’m sorry. I was under the impression Jo was going to phone me with the arrangements after she’d spoken to you.’

‘And she didn’t?’

‘No. I expect something came up and it slipped her mind.’ I heard her tut. ‘Max is fine,’ I reassured her. ‘He ate a good dinner, had a bath and is now in bed asleep.’

‘So I can’t speak to him if he’s asleep.’

‘I’d rather not wake him, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry. It was getting late and with school tomorrow I thought he should go to bed.’ In fairness to Caz, she had a right to be annoyed; she’d been expecting Max to phone her and due to a breakdown in communication, he hadn’t. I was now expecting a rant, but she said, ‘OK. Tell him I phoned. Goodbye.’ And the line went dead.

A little unsettled and concerned that we hadn’t got off to the best start – again – I picked up my pen and finished writing my log notes. Then I read the essential information forms, noting where Max’s school was. A little before ten-thirty I returned the folder to the locked drawer in the front room, put Toscha to bed and went up myself. I checked on the children, who were all asleep, and then washed and changed and got into bed, leaving my bedroom door open so I could hear the children if they woke.

I never sleep well when there is a new child in the house. I’m half listening out in case they wake, frightened, not knowing where they are and needing reassurance. With Max there was the added worry that he might need his inhaler in the night. He hadn’t needed it all evening so I was hopeful he’d have a good night. I’m a light sleeper and would hear him if he was restless. His inhaler was in his school bag in the hall and I could easily pop down and get it if it was needed. Jo was going to find out more about Max’s condition and the directions his mother had been given regarding when the inhaler was to be used. If his mother had stayed on the line a little longer and had been less hostile, I could have discussed it with her. In the meantime I would use my judgement and common sense. All foster carers have first-aid training and I’d fostered children before who’d arrived with inhalers.

During the night I was repeatedly woken by Max, not because he was frightened or needed his inhaler, but because of his snoring. I’d never heard a child snore so loudly. In the still of the night, with the bedroom doors open, it echoed along the landing, creating a rhythm of its own. Beginning with some snorts and grunts, it rose with each breath to a crescendo, and then there was a short silence before it began again. I was so concerned he would wake Adrian and Paula that I closed their bedroom doors. Each time I went into Max’s room he was flat on his back, fast asleep, mouth open and snoring heavily through his nose, although his chest sounded clear. He wasn’t too hot and the room was well ventilated, so there was nothing I could do. If I tried to move him onto his side, which might have helped, I ran the risk of waking him with a start. I knew that snoring could be linked to a number of medical conditions and I would raise it with Jo when we next spoke.

At six o’clock, with very little sleep, I was out of bed earlier than usual to begin our new school routine. I showered and dressed, brewed coffee, fed Toscha and let her out for a run. Then at seven o’clock I returned upstairs to wake the children.

‘Did you hear Max snoring?’ Adrian asked me as soon as he was awake. His room was right next door to Max’s.

‘Yes. I hoped you hadn’t been disturbed,’ I said, concerned.

‘It’s OK. I wondered what it was to begin with, but when I realized it was Max snoring I went back to sleep.’

‘Good.’

Paula didn’t appear to have heard anything, and when I asked Max if he’d slept well, he said, ‘Yes. It’s quiet in this house, like you said.’ Not for me, I thought.

‘Do you know you snore?’ I asked him lightly as I placed his freshly laundered clothes on his bed.

‘Yes. My sisters say they need earplugs.’

I smiled and left it at that. There was nothing Max could do about his snoring, and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed by it. I asked him if he needed any help dressing, although I was pretty sure he didn’t, as he seemed to have good self-care skills. However, children can panic in an unfamiliar setting if they are asked to do something they are not capable of. It’s a horrible feeling and one I can remember from being a small child at school. I’d been asked by my teacher to deliver a message to a teacher in another classroom. This was a responsibility coveted by the class and I felt proud to have been chosen. But once outside the classroom I realized I didn’t know where the other teacher’s room was and I panicked. Instead of going back into the classroom and asking where I had to go (and feeling a bit of a fool), I began wandering around the two-storey building, hoping I would stumble across the correct classroom. I didn’t, and I must have been gone for a long time, for eventually two other children from my class were sent to find me, and they then helped me deliver the message. Of course I felt silly and self-conscious when I returned to the classroom, as everyone knew I’d got lost. With this in mind, I never assume a child can do something or knows something, even if it is obvious, until I am certain they are up to the task. We all acquire skills at different rates and it’s crushing to have one’s lack of knowledge highlighted through failure.