all kinds of writing
all kinds of writing
About thirteen years ago, give or take, Iain and I underwent a monumental change in our lives. Our daughters were growing up fast: Helen was about to be married, Carolyn was away at university in Aberdeen, and Lauren was in her final year at school. Life was sweet. Comfortable. The future stretched before us, a sun-drenched idyll (OK, slight exaggeration there given that we live in Scotland) where we would rediscover each other after the mayhem of raising a family, take extended holidays abroad, look forward in the fullness of time to another generation arriving to liven up our dotage.
And then we did something that really set the cat amongst the pigeons. We brought a troubled thirteen-year-old boy to live with us. Thus began the roller-coaster of a ride that is fostering–but not just any old fostering (if there even is such a thing): we sought out the kids no-one else wanted, the ones with a track record for trouble. And over the years that followed we set out to try to turn them around.
One day a kid came to us on an emergency. He was undersized, mute, and scared stiff. ‘Can you keep him for two weeks?’ we were asked? ‘While we find him a permanent placement?’ Of course, we said. Love to. No bother at all.
Two weeks became four. Then eight. Then twelve. After that we stopped counting in weeks. The boy who didn’t speak became the boy who threw the most monumental temper tantrums known to man. Our days became a whirlwind of the usual teenage challenges married with sudden unexpected outbursts that saw walls punched, china smashed, remotes flung across rooms–all set to a soundtrack of a deep-throated growl that would rise in a crescendo to a roar of rage. And often all before breakfast. On one notable occasion we were woken by an explosion in the garden that resulted from an illicit attempt to cook onion rings at one a.m. and resulted a week-long ‘holiday’ for our boy courtesy of the burns unit at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee. In the maelstrom that our peaceful lives had become, we clung to each other and prayed for the strength to hang on in there.
Five years on from that boy arriving in our midst, he is teetering on the brink of adulthood. He’s studying at college and has his sights set on university next September, whilst at the same time holding down a full-time job as a chef in a local restaurant. The scar on his hand is a timely reminder of the night he almost burned the house down. The night he took us to the edge of the abyss. The night, as it turns out, he grew up (although we don’t recommend setting fire to your recalcitrant teen as a parenting tip, however tempted you might be).
Fostering has taught us innumerable lessons. That limits are elastic. That peace and quiet should neither be underrated nor taken for granted. That what you sow will one day be reaped, by other people if not you. That we are stronger, braver and more foolish than we could have begun to imagine.
That children aren’t always born yours, but become yours.
Rocking the Boat
Thursday, 15 February 2018