Mummy Told Me Not to Tell (7 page)

‘Yeooooow,’ he went at the top of his voice.

‘Ssshh,’ I said again.

‘Yeoooow,’ he continued. Then, bringing his chin down towards his shoulder, he tried to bite my hand.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘No, you mustn’t bite. It’s naughty.’ He snapped again at my hand, which was safely out of reach. ‘No, Reece, don’t bite.’

‘I can bite, I’m Sharky.’ Which I had guessed and ignored. ‘Want to get in here,’ he said and, pulling away from me, he thumped on the living-room door with his fist.

‘No, Reece,’ I said. ‘Now quietly. We are going back to your bedroom, where you can play until it’s time to go downstairs. It’s too early. It’s not morning yet.’ I knew there was no point in suggesting he went back to sleep, as he had clearly had enough sleep and was now completely recovered from the previous day’s exhaustion.

He thumped on the living-room door again; then, with his mouth wide open, he tried to sink his teeth into the metal doorknob. The resulting sound of his teeth on metal set my own teeth on edge, and I thought it would do nothing for the enamel on his.

‘No, Reece,’ I said. ‘Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself. Come back to your bedroom.’

He turned and, breaking free from my light hold on his shoulder, was off down the hall, and then up the
stairs. I caught up with him on the landing and, taking him by the arm, went with him into his bedroom, where I closed the door.

‘Yeoooow! Crunch!’ He went at the top of his voice. ‘Yeooow! I’m Sharky.’

There was a great temptation to say, ‘Well, Sharky had better play quietly with his toys,’ but I didn’t. ‘Reece,’ I said, again taking him by the shoulder and trying to get him to look at me. ‘Reece, I need you to be quiet, love.’

‘Yeck! Yeck! Crunch!’ he went.

Not letting go of his arm, I took the lid off one of the toy boxes and drew him down, so that we were both sitting on the floor. ‘Here, look at all these lovely toys. Let’s play with them,’ I encouraged.

Reece pulled in his cheeks to make his mouth narrow, which highlighted his front teeth. He then began making loud sucking noises, which I guessed were supposed to be an impression of a shark. I ignored it and continued sifting through the toys, hoping to gain his attention.

Half an hour later I was still there, seated on the floor of Reece’s bedroom in my dressing gown and trying to engage him in the toys and books. Reece whooped and yelped, snapped his jaws at invisible passing fish and every so often tried to jump on the bed or leave his room. It was imperative that I kept going until I had achieved what I had set out to: Reece remaining in his room and playing until I had washed and dressed and was ready to go downstairs. If I gave in now, it would set a precedent for all the future mornings and would
be harder to change at a later date. As with so many behaviour issues, retraining relies on consistent and firm boundaries — i.e. endless repetition of the expected behaviour.

‘I need you to play in your bedroom until I say it is time to get dressed,’ I said over and over again, while picking out another toy or book, or starting a jigsaw.

Eventually, after another fifteen minutes, when Reece was probably as bored as I was with the sound of my voice repeatedly saying the same thing, he started to dive into the box of small McDonald’s toys of his own accord and began playing with them. I stayed for another five minutes, and then said: ‘Good boy. Now you carry on playing while I get dressed.’ I came out and closed the door.

I waited on the landing. A minute later Reece flung open his bedroom door and was about to zoom off again. I lightly caught hold of his arm and led him back into his room, where I resettled him with the toys. I told him again what I wanted him to do — to play quietly while I got dressed – and I came out and closed the door.

I waited on the landing and a minute later Reece appeared again in what I took to be full shark attack, snapping and yelping at the top of his voice. Again I returned him to the toys in his bedroom and, restating what I wanted him to do, came out. He reappeared and I resettled him, time and time again, doing what I had anticipated having to do the night before when I’d put him to bed.

Finally at 6.30 a.m., an hour and a half after Reece had first woken and got out of bed, he was playing
with his toys in his bedroom, and I had the time I needed to shower and dress. He wasn’t particularly quiet — he was making noises which sounded as though they could be part of the pretend play – but at least he was doing what I’d asked. I knew I would probably have to repeat the resettling process every morning for a week or more, but the investment of time and effort now would reap rewards later, when Reece would wake and automatically play with his toys until I told him it was time for him to dress and come down for breakfast.

It was Friday, and a school day, so I woke the girls at seven (being teenagers, they had managed to go back to sleep despite all Reece’s noise). Then I knocked on Reece’s door and went in. He was seated, as I had last left him, cross-legged on the floor, now surrounded by the entire contents of both toy boxes. I told him he was a good boy for playing nicely in his room; then I said that although it was still early, he could get dressed and come down if he wanted to, or he could stay and play with his toys.

‘Telly?’ he asked. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I wanted him watching television at this time in the morning. It could become a habit, which certainly couldn’t continue when he started school.

‘OK, but only for a little while.’ I switched on the television and found some children’s programmes on BBC2 which Reece recognized, presumably from having watched the series before. He immediately fell quiet, completely transfixed and absorbed by the screen. I could see only too clearly the great temptation of
leaving Reece in front of a television for longer periods than were good for him.

Half an hour later, with the girls washed, dressed and having had their breakfasts, I knocked on Reece’s bedroom door and went in. He was, as I suspected he would be, still seated in the same position on the beanbag and riveted to the children’s programmes.

‘Good boy, Reece,’ I said. ‘I want you to switch off the television now, get dressed and come down for breakfast.’

He didn’t answer, so I repeated the instructions; then, taking out clean clothes from his wardrobe, I repeated the instructions again. He still didn’t answer, so I explained again what I wanted him to do. Then I switched off the television. As soon as the screen went blank Reece jumped up from the beanbag and began stamping on the piles of small toys that littered the entire floor.

‘No, Reece,’ I said. ‘You will break them.’ I knelt down and, taking him gently by the arm, drew him down beside me. ‘The first thing we are going to do is put these toys back into their boxes so they don’t get broken,’ I said, and I began putting them away. Reece was beside me watching. Then as I leant forward to retrieve another toy, hoping he would follow suit, he cuffed the back of my head with his open hand. ‘No, Reece,’ I said. I took hold of his hand and directed it again to the toys on the floor.

‘Want me breakfast now!’ he yelled.

‘You will have breakfast as soon as we have cleared away and got you dressed,’ I said.

‘Want it now,’ he yelled and went to cuff my head again. I took his hand and drew it once more towards the toys.

‘You will have breakfast as soon as we have cleared up and got you dressed,’ I repeated.

Eventually he realized I wasn’t going to give in and that if he helped me to clear away it would complete the task and get him what he wanted that much quicker. Suddenly he started grabbing handfuls of toys and throwing them into the boxes, so that very soon the floor was clear.

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Excellent! Now get dressed. Then we can have breakfast.’

I had already taken out clean joggers, sweatshirt, vest, pants and socks, and placed them on the chair ready for him to dress himself.

Reece looked at them. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Can’t!’ which I had more or less guessed.

‘All right, I’ll teach you how to dress yourself, and won’t you feel good when you can?’ I smiled bravely, knowing that achieving this task was probably going to be no easier than the last of clearing away his toys, or any other task, come to that. It seemed that Reece was so used to not doing things, either because he couldn’t or didn’t want to, that his first response to any request was either ‘can’t’ or ‘won’t’.

‘No,’ he yelled again. ‘Can’t!’

‘I’m sure you can,’ I said evenly. ‘You are very clever. And, Reece, try not to shout, love. I can hear you just as well when you talk quietly. OK, love?’ There were so many issues with Reece that I was having to address
them one at a time. Certainly, while the continuous shouting, or rather ‘voice modulation’ as it’s correctly termed, needed to be addressed, it wasn’t as much of a priority as his biting, head-butting or running berserk around the house.

‘Now, take off you pyjama bottoms,’ I encouraged, ‘and put on your pants.’ I held up his pants ready, but he stood helplessly waiting for me to do it.

‘Can’t,’ he said with slightly less volume, now sulking.

‘Try,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you can.’

‘Can’t,’ he said again and made no attempt. ‘You do it, cow!’

‘Reece,’ I cautioned, ‘please don’t use that word. It’s rude.’

‘Cow,’ he said again. He crossed his arms and stood glaring at me defiantly.

I remained where I was, a short way in front of him, still holding his pants. ‘Take off your pyjama bottoms and put on your pants.’ I repeated. ‘Do you want me to leave the room while you do it?’ I didn’t think it was modesty that was stopping him, for he hadn’t been self-conscious at bath time the night before.

He shook his head. There was an impasse for a good two minutes when Reece continued with his arms folded and glowered at me menacingly, while I stood relaxed and outwardly at ease, holding his pants out ready for him, as though waiting for Reece to get dressed was of no great importance and I had all the time in the world. For as the evening before when I had wanted him to go for a walk, if he saw my request was important to me, his refusal could easily become a tool
for trying to manipulate me. But I had already been there, done that and ‘got the T-shirt’ many years ago when I had first started fostering. Eventually Reece would do as I asked and see that if he cooperated he would win my approval and feel happier in himself, but not yet. Now he hated me and wanted to do exactly what he had always done, which appeared to be nothing, or exactly what he felt like doing.

Five minutes later Reece pulled roughly on his pyjama bottoms and then, using his feet, stamped them to the floor.

‘Well done,’ I said, ‘although next time it might be easier to use your hands.’ He snatched the pants from me and, sitting on the bed, put them on without too much trouble.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now take off your pyjama top and put on your vest.’

He had real problems trying to get his arms out of his pyjama top, so I helped him, showing him how to do it, and then gave him his vest, which he got into first time. Next I helped him on with his sweatshirt.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Now the socks.’

Aware that putting on socks is difficult for young children, particularly those with poor coordination, I told him to sit on the bed again and I would show him how to put on one sock and he could do the other.

As I knelt in front of him, he tried to cuff me over the head again and I guessed this regular cuffing had probably been done to him. ‘No, you don’t do that,’ I said, moving my head out of reach. ‘Do you understand?’

He nodded. I showed him how to put on one sock
and passed him the other. ‘Who used to dress you before?’ I asked casually as he struggled to get his toes into the sock.

‘Carers.’

‘And at home?’

‘Don’t know.’

He had made a reasonable attempt at putting on the second sock and I helped him to complete the task. Praising him, I took his hand and we went downstairs together. Lucy and Paula were in the hall, putting on their coats, ready to leave for school and college. I hadn’t seen them properly that morning because I had been so occupied with seeing to Reece.

‘Bye, loves,’ I said. ‘Have a good day.’ I kissed them both.

Reece pursed his lips, wanting to kiss them goodbye also. Lucy and Paula smiled and, bending towards him, offered their cheeks. He gave them a nice little kiss each.

‘Goodbye,’ they both called to us. I saw them out and closed the door. Reece was beside me, his hand still in mine.

‘Cor, that was nice,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’d really like to give them one.’

I paused in the hall and looked at him, my heart sinking. ‘Pardon, Reece? What did you say?’

He grinned again, leering almost. ‘I want to give them one,’ he repeated. He dropped my hand and clamping his left hand on to his right arm he brought up his fist in the crude pumping gesture of wanting sex.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said, knowing only too well. ‘But it’s not a nice thing for a boy of seven to say. And please don’t do that with your arm.’

‘My dad does to my sister,’ he said and stopped, aware that he had committed the ultimate sin of saying something about home.

‘Does he?’ I asked lightly, while assured of Reece’s reply.

‘Don’t know. I want me breakfast now. You said it was time.’

I followed Reece into the annexe off the kitchen, which we call the breakfast room. I knew from Reece’s history he’d seen a lot of inappropriate behaviour, possibly even sexual abuse, but I was still shocked and saddened. I also knew that Reece had been sworn to secrecy and wasn’t about to say anything more. Later I would talk to the girls and remind them of our ‘safer caring policy’ — the guidelines all carers follow. They had just left with Reece giving them a kiss on the cheek like any younger brother, but Reece had laden it with sexual connotations and for all our safety we were going to have to be very careful.

The ‘safer caring policy’ is a document drawn up by all foster carers detailing how they keep everyone in the household safe. It is not just about strapping children under seatbelts in the car or making sure there are batteries in the smoke alarms. It is also about how we treat foster children who have come from inappropriately sexual explicit homes, or have been sexually abused, and have therefore developed feelings and attitudes that are inappropriate and beyond their age. I
knew already from what Karen had told me on the phone that there was a suggestion that Reece’s father had sexually assaulted Reece’s half-sister, and that a paedophile had been going into the family home. What I didn’t know, and what the social worker, Jamey Hogg, would I hoped tell me when he returned from holiday, was whether Reece had witnessed or been included in any paedophile activity in the home. I also knew that Reece had been allowed to watch adult videos, which could account in some way for his viewing the girls in sexual terms, but without further details we would have to assume the worst and act accordingly. For if Reece did view Lucy and Paula as objects of sexual desire instead of older sisters, as his comment had suggested, then his behaviour would reflect that. Not only would it be very unpleasant for the girls but it could easily lead to Reece interpreting any affection from the girls towards him in sexualized terms. The whole subject of sexual abuse is sickening and sad but it is something that has to be dealt with by foster carers all too regularly.