by Cathy Glass
‘They’ve been mainly around the girls. They weren’t going to school and two of them have been in trouble with the police. Caz was finding it a struggle to cope. She has various health issues, including type 2 diabetes and a heart condition, so we put in some support.’
‘Is Max’s weight due to a medical condition?’ Jill asked.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Jo said lightly. ‘His mother and sisters are all a bit chubby like Max. They like their food.’
I looked at her, amazed.
Chapter Four
A Healthy Appetite?
In my view, there is a big difference between being ‘a bit chubby’ or carrying a few extra pounds and being clinically obese. Jo carried a few extra pounds, as did Jill and I, and many other adults of our age. Aware of this and the need not to add more extra pounds, and hoping to lose a few, I limited the amount of sweet foods I ate, as I know Jill did too. I was astounded that Jo could dismiss Max’s size as ‘chubby’ and liking his food. Most of us like our food, but with so many enticing choices and food so easily available, we often have to moderate our intake for the sake of our health. However, it didn’t seem appropriate to raise the issue now, as Jo had dismissed it, so other than asking her if Max was following a diet – he wasn’t – I didn’t say anything further on the matter at this stage. There was a lot to get through and Jo was going to the hospital after she left us.
‘I’m anticipating Max will remain in care while his mother is in hospital,’ Jo continued, ‘and possibly for a while after she returns home, until she is able to cope again. But she’s not being discharged yet. She had toes amputated two weeks ago and her foot isn’t healing as it should. She can’t manage on crutches yet. When I saw her yesterday her blood pressure was up, so she won’t be discharged until that is under control again.’
Jill and I both nodded. ‘Is the children’s father living at home?’ Jill now asked.
‘Yes, although he doesn’t have much involvement in the day-to-day running of the home or looking after the children. That falls to Caz. Max’s sisters are older and reasonably self-sufficient, but obviously he needs looking after at his age.’
‘Does Max have any allergies?’ Jill asked, going through a mental checklist of issues that the carer needs to know.
‘Not as far as I’m aware, but I’ll check with Caz this evening,’ Jo said, and made a note.
‘Is Max up to date with his dental and optician check-ups?’ Jill asked. Again, another standard question. If the child isn’t up to date with these check-ups then the carer will usually book the necessary appointments and take the child to them.
‘Dentist, I would think so,’ Jo said, ‘as Max had some teeth out not so long ago, but I’ll ask Caz about the opticians.’ She made another note. ‘Now, school,’ she said, moving on. ‘The details are on the essential information form. His school is about a ten-minute drive from here. Max usually goes to breakfast club and Caz wants that to continue. She says he has a bowl of cereal before he leaves in the morning and then has a proper breakfast at school. It’s already paid for, as are his school dinners, as the family are in receipt of benefits. Max has been staying at after-school club until around four-fifteen, but that’s flexible. One of his sisters has been taking him to school and collecting him, but I’m assuming you’ll do that now?’
‘Yes,’ I said. That Max went to breakfast club and after-school club would help me enormously, for it meant I could take him to school first and then go on with Adrian and Paula. Then, at the end of the day, I’d do the reverse. The logistics of the school run are sometimes very difficult and I could find myself having to be in two places at the same time.
‘His sisters went to the same school as Max,’ Jo continued. ‘Although there’s a big age gap, some of the staff taught the girls so they know the family. Max is doing well at school and likes to read. His teacher, Mrs Marshall, is very nice and was a big help earlier when I had to tell Max he wouldn’t be going home.’
‘I’ll introduce myself tomorrow,’ I said.
Jo then went quickly through the essential information forms to see if there was anything she’d missed. I followed in my copy; I’d look at it again later in more detail. The box for information on cultural and religious needs showed that Max was British and nominally Church of England, and in the box for details of any challenging behaviour the word None had been written. Coming to the end of the form, Jo told Jill she’d make sure she was sent a copy and then passed me the placement agreement form to sign. This contained the consent I needed to legally look after the child and required my signature to say I would foster the child in accordance with the foster-carer agreement and fostering regulations.
‘I’ll put copies of this in the post to you both,’ Jo said as I handed it back. ‘I think that’s everything.’ She looked again at the clock. ‘Let’s show Max around and then I’ll be off.’ It’s usual for the social worker to see the foster carer’s home when the child is placed, and specifically the child’s bedroom.
I went into the garden and to the children. Max and Adrian were still sitting on the bench beneath the tree, talking quietly. Paula was now on the grass, stroking Toscha. ‘All right, love?’ I said to Max. ‘Jo is going soon so we’ll show you around the house before she leaves. You two can stay here if you want, as you know what the house looks like.’ Adrian obliged me with a smile.
Max heaved himself off the bench and plodded towards me. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘We’ll have dinner just as soon as Jo has gone, all right, love?’
He nodded. ‘Paula said we could have an ice cream.’
‘Yes, after dinner.’ It was a bit close to dinner now to have it before, I thought.
‘I like ice cream,’ Max said.
‘So do Adrian and Paula.’ I offered him my hand, as I would any young child, for comfort and reassurance, and he took it. Because of Max’s size it was easy to forget he was only six. Rotund, he looked more like a portly little gentleman – Dickens’s Mr Pickwick – rather than a small child. I could picture him in a waistcoat with a pocket watch.
Max also used my hand for a degree of support. I felt his weight, a pull, as we trod over the lawn towards the patio, then even more so as he hauled himself up the step. Taking hold of the edge of the patio door with one hand, he kept a grip on me with the other and levered himself into the living room with a small sigh, then dropped my hand.
‘How are you doing?’ Jo asked him.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘It’s a nice big garden, isn’t it?’ Jill said brightly.
Max nodded dispassionately, for of course the appeal of a garden to a child is that they can run and play in it, but Max’s running and playing was so severely compromised that the garden would probably be just another hurdle to overcome, rather than a means of having fun.
‘Cathy is going to show us around the house now, and then I’m going to see your mother at the hospital,’ Jo said. ‘As it’s getting late I’ll suggest to your mum she speaks to you on the phone tonight, rather than you visiting her. Is that OK?’
I was expecting a reaction – ‘I want to see my mummy’ or similar – as was Jill from the way she was looking at Max. But he just nodded stoically, apparently as accepting of this as he appeared to be of most things.
Jo and Jill now stood and I began the tour. ‘This is the living room,’ I said, addressing Max. ‘We use this room the most and often sit in here in the evenings to play games or watch some television.’ He nodded and I led the way out of the living room and into the kitchen-cum-diner, where I explained that this was where we usually ate.
‘Something smells good,’ Jill said, sniffing the air.
‘Dinner, I hope,’ I said. ‘It’s a chicken casserole. Do you like casserole?’ I asked Max.
His eyes lit up, and with the most enthusiasm I’d seen since he’d arrived, he said, ‘I love casserole.’
‘Good.’ I smiled at him. I showed them out of the kitchen, down the hall a
nd into the front room. ‘This is a sort of quiet room,’ I said. ‘If you want to sit quietly to read or think, or just be by yourself.’ It contained a table and chairs, the computer, sound system, bookshelves and a small cabinet with a lockable drawer, where I kept important paperwork.
There wasn’t much more to say about this room, so I led the way upstairs to Max’s room – clean and fresh but sparse, without any personal belongings. ‘It will look better once you have some of your things in here,’ I said encouragingly to him.
He looked at me, puzzled. ‘How will I get my things?’ he asked sensibly.
‘I’m going to ask your sisters to pack a bag for you and take it to the hospital tomorrow evening,’ Jo explained. ‘Is there anything in particular you want from home?’
Max looked thoughtful.
‘Like your favourite teddy bear or toy?’ Jill suggested.
‘Buzz Lightyear,’ Max said, referring to the toy from the movie Toy Story. ‘He’s on my bed.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ Jo said.
‘And my clothes. I haven’t got any pyjamas.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jo said.
‘I’ve got pyjamas you can wear tonight,’ I reassured him, although I knew the ones I’d taken out, which now sat neatly folded at the foot of his bed, would be far too small. I’d quietly change them later without a fuss.
Jo glanced out of the bedroom window and admired the view. This bedroom overlooked the rear garden, as did Adrian’s room next door. I then pointed out the wardrobe and drawers to Max, where he would keep his belongings, and the pinboard on the wall for his drawings. He appeared to be a sensible child, so this would be the type of thing he might be wondering. There were already some posters on the walls and I told him we could change them or add to them. ‘Perhaps some pictures of Toy Story?’ I suggested.
He managed a small, brave smile, bless him. I appreciated there was so much for him to take in – a new home with everything different from what he was used to, and new people with different ways of doing things.
I showed them around the rest of the upstairs: Adrian’s room, the toilet, Paula’s room, the bathroom and finally my bedroom. ‘This is where I sleep,’ I told Max. ‘If you wake in the night and want me, just call out and I’ll be straight round. All right?’
He nodded, and we returned downstairs. Jo went briefly into the living room to fetch her bag and then joined us in the hall to say goodbye. ‘His inhaler is in his school bag,’ she reminded me. Then to Jill and me, ‘I’ll phone about the issues we discussed.’
‘Thanks,’ Jill said.
Jo said goodbye to Max and left. Jill, Max and I returned down the hall and Jill went into the garden to say goodbye to Adrian and Paula, while Max flopped onto the sofa. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said again, this time with a little groan.
‘So am I,’ I said. ‘We’ll eat as soon as Jill has gone.’ It was nearly six-thirty, later than we usually ate, and I knew Adrian and Paula would be hungry too.
Jill came in from the garden. ‘Well, have a good evening then,’ she said to Max. He stayed on the sofa while I saw Jill to the front door. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow to see what sort of night you’ve had,’ she said. ‘If you need to speak to someone tonight, phone our out-of-hours number.’ I doubted I would with Max, but it was reassuring to know that twenty-four-hour support was always available from the agency if necessary.
Having said goodbye to Jill, I returned to the living room to check on Max, and as soon as he saw me he told me again that he was hungry. ‘We’ll have dinner now,’ I said. ‘While I dish it up, would you like to go into the garden and tell Adrian and Paula dinner is ready?’ I could have called them myself through the open patio doors, but I find that if a child is involved in the routine of the house, they feel included and settle more quickly.
Max was happy to oblige and hauled himself off the sofa, while I went into the kitchen. Taking the oven gloves from their hook, I opened the oven door and carefully lifted out the piping-hot casserole. I set it on the work surface and began dishing it onto four plates. The children appeared and I asked them to wash their hands at the sink before dinner. I finished dishing up and returned the rest of the casserole to the oven, then went to the table and suggested to Max that he might like to sit next to Adrian. We tend to keep the same places at the meal table. ‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Adrian said as they sat down, rubbing his tummy theatrically.
‘So am I,’ Max agreed, copying him with a rub of his tum.
I carefully carried the plates of food in from the kitchen and set them in front of each child. I added a basket containing chunks of warm baguette to the centre of the table and told them to help themselves. By the time I’d sat down with my plate Max had taken three large chunks of bread, which he propped on the side of his plate. ‘There’s plenty,’ I said, for I wondered if he thought I might run out. I’d fostered children before who’d been so underfed at home that they grabbed and hoarded food whenever the opportunity arose, although I didn’t think this was true in Max’s case – it seemed to be more habit.
We all began eating and for a while all that could be heard was the chink of cutlery on china as three hungry children ate. When a child first arrives mealtimes can sometimes be awkward for them. Eating is an intimate and social occasion, with unspoken but assumed rules that can differ from household to household. I didn’t even know if Max ate at a table at home; many children don’t. And sitting close to people you’ve only just met can be embarrassing and make you feel self-conscious. I’d looked after children who felt so uncomfortable to begin with that they ate next to nothing for the first few days, and it’s very worrying. Max showed no sign of being self-conscious, though, and ate confidently and heartily, mopping up the last of the gravy with another chunk of bread he took from the basket. Adrian finished at the same time and asked if there were seconds. He knew there would be.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I stood and picked up his plate. ‘Max, would you like a second helping too?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, and passed me his plate. Paula and I were still finishing ours.
I carried the plates to the kitchen, dished up seconds and also cut up some more bread, which I placed in the basket.
‘Thank you,’ Max said as I set his plate in front of him. He took some more bread, as did Adrian, and we all continued eating.
Paula is a bit of a slow eater and was still working on her first helping as both the boys came to the end of their second. Adrian sat back with a sigh of contentment and, patting his stomach, said, ‘I’m stuffed.’
‘Full,’ I corrected.
Max was looking at me expectantly. ‘Is there any more?’ he asked.
‘There is a little. But leave some room for the ice cream you wanted.’
‘I’ve always got room for ice cream,’ he said, with a small smile. It was a passing reference to him being overweight, but I didn’t comment. I checked with Paula that she didn’t want any more and then with mixed feelings spooned the last of the casserole onto Max’s plate.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He began eating with the same urgency as he had the first serving, although I couldn’t see how he could still be hungry.
Feeding one’s family is laden with emotion unconnected with the food itself. As well as providing sustenance, cooking is a labour of love, and while I was pleased Max was enjoying the meal I’d made, I wondered how much of a disservice I was doing him by allowing him a third helping and all that bread, given his obesity. Wouldn’t it have been kinder – and better for his long-term health – to refuse him a third helping and limit the amount of bread he’d eaten? But as this was his first meal with us I didn’t think it appropriate to do so now, as it would have drawn attention to his need to diet. Similarly, when Max finished his main course and asked if it was time for the ice cream now, I said yes and dished it up. Two scoops for each child, but I didn’t offer second helpings.
By the time we’d finished eating it was after seven o’clock and time
for Paula’s bed. I usually took the children up to bed in age-ascending order, so Paula, the youngest, would go first, then Max and Adrian. I explained to Max it was Paula’s bedtime and asked him what he usually did at home in the evening before bed. I try to follow the routine the child has been used to at home as much as possible to minimize the disruption. Max said he read his book and it was in his school bag.
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Adrian enjoys reading too. Perhaps you’d both like to sit in the living room and read while I take Paula up?’
Both boys fetched their school bags from the hall, sat side by side on the sofa and took out their reading books.
‘What are you reading?’ Adrian asked Max, interested.
‘James and the Giant Peach,’ Max said, showing him the front cover of the children’s classic. It was quite advanced for the average six-year-old; Adrian, older, had read it earlier in the year.
‘Are you enjoying the book?’ I asked Max.
‘Yes. I like Roald Dahl.’
‘So do I,’ Adrian said, turning to him enthusiastically. ‘James’s aunts, Spiker and Sponge, were horrible to him,’ he added, referring to James and the Giant Peach. ‘I’m glad he got away from them.’
Max agreed.
‘Have you read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?’ Adrian asked.
‘Not yet, but I’ve read George’s Marvellous Medicine, and The Twits.’
‘The Twits is so funny,’ Adrian laughed. And so they began a discussion about Roald Dahl books.
They paused to say goodnight to Paula and we left them sitting on the sofa, discussing books and with the still-warm evening air drifting in through the open patio doors. I was pleased Max liked reading. I try to interest all the children I foster in books – with varying degrees of success – but Max was one of the few children who’d arrived with a passion for them. It was only later I discovered that there was another, more disturbing reason for him wanting to escape into books.