Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
HarperTrueLife
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First published by HarperTrueLife 2015
FIRST EDITION
© Mia Marconi and Sally Beck 2015
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Source ISBN: 9780008105150
Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007584406
Version: 2015-03-06
Contents
I’ve always said that giving birth to a child does not make you a mother and simply fathering a child does not make you a father. What makes you a mother and a father is what comes next: sitting up all night with your little one while they’re fighting a fever; watching The Lion King on a loop; covering the kitchen with poster paint, sticky tape and cake mix; and endless visits to the park to swing your beautiful son or daughter on the same swing and slide them down the same slide. It’s repetitive and, dare I say it, occasionally boring, but that contact with your child makes them feel loved and valued. It’s called unconditional love, not childcare. But over the years I had begun to realise that not all parents are capable of loving their children, and that those children who enter the world cocooned by the love of their mother and father are the lucky ones.
Kira initially came to live with us for respite care, and she was a child who could not comprehend the meaning of the word ‘love’. Kira could have written a doctorate on rejection, but love was a mystery to her.
She came into our home one Friday night. When you work on the frontline in foster care you very quickly realise that the most urgent calls come on a Friday, usually just as you’re about to head out of the door to take your other kids somewhere, or as you’re snuggling up in bed with a good book. There’s something about having to face the weekend with a demanding child that galvanises people into action.
On this particular Friday I was trying to make dinner, surrounded by chaos. My own five children were demob-happy and already getting into the weekend spirit. ‘Mum, I can’t find my football shorts,’ shouted Alfie. ‘Mum, Ruby’s got my favourite pyjamas.’ ‘No I haven’t, she’s got mine!’ ‘Mum, Jack’s eating my slippers. Mum!’ Sleepovers were being planned and sporting activities discussed at top volume as usual, but through the noise I somehow heard the phone ring.
I picked it up. ‘Can you hear me?’ said a calm, professional voice that sounded vaguely like a social worker. I couldn’t, and took the phone into my quiet room, one that the children knew to stay out of. It was my room, peaceful, with warm red walls and a thick fluffy carpet, and as soon as I entered it I felt instantly peaceful. ‘Sorry, I can now.’
‘We need an emergency placement for the week. It’s respite for another set of carers. One of the carers has been in an accident. She’s broken her hip and is struggling to cope. Can you help?’
‘How old is the poor little mite? And are we her only option?’ I said, playing for time. As much as I wanted to help, all our weekend plans would take time to change and I had to be sure I could change them before I committed.
‘Kira is three,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you are the only option. She hasn’t been with these carers for long and she’s only just come into care, so obviously this is all incredibly disorientating for her. She can’t cope as they are in the midst of a crisis. She is quite needy and her behaviour can be challenging, and the carers are struggling with her. They say she’s being quite difficult.’
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