So it's been a long, long while since I posted in this blog since Fritha has had to wait a long, long time for the adventure to start. But start it did, all of a sudden, with around ten minutes notice, a month before Christmas. As a back up foster carer I have had the opportunity to become involved in this new and fragile relationship between Fritha and her foster daughter, M, and to help out practically, when they need me. Now we are two months in and holy moly wow, have we learned a lot. Namely;
The police are really lovely.
Since M exploded onto the scene Fritha has been involved with the police force more times than most people will ever be. (Quite funny when you remember that she was all sniffy about dating a copper back in the days when she lived with us.) Anyway it turns out that they are legends. M ran away all the time in the early days and it was a matter of course to call 111 and inform the police. Nowadays Fritha calls them if M hasn't turned up by curfew. And when the screaming and abuse coming from this cut up and hurting little person is threatening to wake or disturb the neighbours on Fritha's busy street. The officers are always super nice and friendly and say things like "we're always here to support you you know. You're not in this on your own." This has been an unexpected extra.
Teenagers aren't as scary as they seem.
So Fritha was never intimidated by teens, (she isn't scared of anything except the tv remote), but I always have been. I'm not worried they're going to rob me or anything, doubt they'd want any of my endless crap, but I just don't know what to say to the enormous beasts. I mean what do you talk about with someone who is going through that really quite shitty stage of life where you have no idea what is what and constantly worry that everyone is staring at you and caring about your hairstyle. But having been forced into a relationship with a thirteen year old I am now far less intimidated, and far more endeared.
Kids are even more resilient than we realise.
M has had all sorts of pain to endure in her short life. In addition to the angst that comes with being moved from foster home to foster home, she feels rejection I cannot even fathom ever being on the receiving end of. Her behaviour reflects her past, yet as the relationship strengthens, as Fritha earns her trust, bit by bit, the angst is melting. She is not a normal teen, yet she is the epitome of one. When feeling like she has no future, she worries about phone chargers and hair dye. Whilst reeling from her very core from rejection, she frets about eyeliner and train times. When on my sofa and playing with my children, she is one of them. Only caring about which cartoon to watch next and whether to have beans or peas.
The system needs improving.
M came to Fritha under a complicated and long winded section of something or other which means that M has not been removed from her home - but offered up. By her home. Given up willingly, into care. At any point, she may return to her home environment. Which she sometimes does, and who can blame her. But it makes things very tricky for Fritha. All the lines are blurred. Sometimes she will search the streets for hours, supported by the police, when facing another no show. Only to find that M has crawled back home for a while - until home ejects her, and then Fritha is left to pick up the pieces. The rejector has all the rights. Fritha has to fit in with her whims. The social workers are over worked and underpaid and absolutely terrified of taking responsibility for M. Of putting their name onto this complicated case. Rarely are Fritha's calls to them returned. After all their drilling and interviewing and grilling, Fritha has been chosen for her integrity, strength, and stickability. Maybe that is one of the reasons they chose her, because they knew she could and would handle this without their support.
Fritha is incredible.
We all knew this anyway but now she is just mind-blowing. Fritha is teaching M so many things; to articulate herself so that her pain comes out in its rawest form, so that she says what she thinks, so that it can be addressed and, slowly, slowly, fixed. As well, she is teaching her to sew. How to treat others. That cups need to be washed up. About give and take. Manners. How to make a sandwich. How to express gratitude. She is offering her joy. Rarely is it given back - boundaries are put in place and pushed against, time and time again. It is exhausting and wearing and tiresome and restrictive and painful and tough. Dates are put on hold. Nights out are cancelled. Meals go cold. Not once however, not ONCE, has she complained. She takes it in her stride. All part of the deal, she says. I am left weak with admiration. Fritha is the sweetest and kindest and toughest punchbag I know. But when her work reaps its rewards, which is sometimes does in a smile, a giggle, a word, or an action of kindness, she knows that it is all worth it.
Fritha is not yet a mother and yet she is. A mother whose strength and wisdom and patience I am learning from every day. And M is only the first. She is just the first child to have been saturated in Fritha's love and care. This is just the beginning!
