‘How about it?’ I asked my husband Mike and our long-term foster son Tyler.
Neither batted an eyelid, because it was the sort of thing they were both used to me saying – Mike because I’d spent most of our marriage persuading him to do things against his better judgement, and Tyler because in the year and a half he’d been with us he’d had ample chance to get to know how I ticked.
I looked pointedly at my watch. ‘Only they’re phoning back in ten minutes and we need to make an executive decision.’
‘I know,’ said Mike, equally pointedly. ‘And I know the one they’ll want. But hold your horses, Superwoman. Let’s stop and think first. Come on. It’s a bit short notice, after all.’ He held his hands up then, presumably seeing my expression, not to mention realising the silliness of what he’d just said. Of course it was short notice. It was an emergency placement! ‘Okay, point taken,’ he said. ‘But, like I said, we should still stop and think first. What with John being on holiday, and everything …’
The mention of the word ‘holiday’ was like rubbing salt in a wound. It was just what we needed, too, but currently couldn’t quite stretch to, our elderly car having recently gasped its last. Yes, we had a new(ish) one, but a car that starts is no match for a week spent on a beach, particularly today, which had dawned hot, dry and sunny but already saw me sweating over a hot stove.
It was Saturday and Tyler had half a football team coming over, not only to go to football, but also to eat the breakfast I’d impulsively promised them before going to footie practice: bacon butties, sausage sandwiches, the lot. That was the sort of hare-brained thing superwomen tended to do as well.
‘John’ was John Fulshaw, our fostering agency link worker, and when it came to taking kids on, everything normally came through him first. ‘I know,’ I said to Mike, ‘and in an ideal world we’d run it all by him, of course we would, but EDT need an answer, and they need it fast.’
‘They don’t have any other options?’ Mike asked, probably seeing his weekend disappearing.
I shook my head. ‘Nope. Well, they say not. Say there’s absolutely no one else to ask.’
‘Eight you say?’ Mike asked. ‘A boy? Eight years old?’
I nodded.
‘And just for the weekend?’ Tyler asked. ‘Because I’m on my soccer skills course next week, aren’t I?’ He grinned. ‘So I won’t be here to help you if he runs you ragged.’
I blew Ty a kiss, bless him. I’d forgotten about that. He was right. He was off at some ungodly hour on the Monday morning and, as he’d pointed out, would indeed be unable to provide an extra pair of hands if our potential house guest did end up staying longer.
I glanced at Mike. We both knew there was no such guarantee that he wouldn’t be, either. We both knew that ‘just a couple of days’ or ‘just for the weekend’ didn’t really mean anything in our line of work. The truth was that once a child was out of imminent danger, safely installed in an emergency placement, then, bingo, the urgency was over. Which meant that (sometimes fortunately, and at other times, unfortunately) the child who you’d agreed to take just for the weekend could end up being with you for weeks and maybe even months.
Which was fine. Fostering was what we did. Most placements were long ones. The problem lay in that word ‘emergency’, which meant little time to consider. No time for preparatory meetings, no chance to see if there was a ‘fit’. It was a ‘sold, sight unseen’ sort of situation, almost. Yes, you’d see the child, but they would be even more of an unknown quantity than the children you did get to see before you took them, and they could be complicated enough.
‘I think you should say yes,’ Tyler piped up. ‘Just go for it. Might be fun to have another kid around for a couple of days, mightn’t it? ’Specially another boy,’ he added. ‘Yeah, I think you should say yes.’
Mike rolled his eyes and grinned. We all knew the circumstances in which Tyler had come to us. ‘So let’s be clear,’ he said, holding a hand up to tick on fingers. ‘He’s eight. He’s attacked a social worker. And there’s an iron bar involved. What could possibly go wrong?’