how – and if – we want to manage that. I don’t think either of us want a re-run of Miller. No, I know we don’t, in fact.’
I didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking. Not one bit. ‘So you’re saying we shouldn’t commit to Sam yet?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying – and don’t throw a cushion at me, okay? – that we should be clear that if Sam continues with these violent outbursts there is a line to be drawn, and we’re not going to cross it. That our grandkids being safe here with any foster kid is non-negotiable. One thing you being covered in bruises, because you’re tough as nails, you are, but quite another it happening to them. Isn’t that fair?’ He looked at me pointedly.
Which he had a right to. I’d bent his ear enough about Miller, after all. He knew more than anyone just how close I’d come to throwing in the fostering towel with him. So perhaps he was just pre-empting things; looking out for me.
But I was gung-ho. I don’t know why, but I just felt I could get a handle on Sam – get through to him, autism or no autism. ‘Oh, stop looking for problems that may not exist, love.’ I grinned at him. ‘You know I hate when you do that.’
Mike laughed. ‘No, love, what you hate is when I touch on your own fears. You know as well as I do that this could be a real issue.’
As I went to put the kettle on I felt an overwhelming urge to let out a growl myself, because what I hated even more than that was admitting that Mike was right, and I might be wrong.
So I’d just have to prove him wrong, wouldn’t I?
It felt a little like saying hello to an old friend. Not in reality; all the previous examples in my life had long gone now, along with the children with whom I’d made them. But in gathering what I’d need to make a chart for Sam – the stickers, the paper, the array of felt pens – I felt the warm glow of re-acquaintance with a cherished buddy.
When was the last time I’d set about my job with my old friend to support me? Too long, it seemed to me. Much too long. If I’d been slightly stung by Christine’s opinion of our points system when I’d first met her, now I was even more zealous. And because it had been her suggestion that we try helping Sam within its framework, I also felt vindicated – which made me even more determined to prove the naysayers wrong. For some children, in some circumstances, positive and structured behaviour modification was the key to unlock the potential for better lives.
That we needed to access that key in Sam was increasingly obvious. We knew almost nothing about him yet, and I doubted we would for a few days more, but whatever the underlying issues for his various behaviours, helping him to find ways to quash them before they completely took hold of him would be essential if we were to try and help him come to terms with his situation and his past.
Whatever that past might turn out to be. We were three days in now and still I knew nothing of his history. He’d offered nothing either, and I’d decided not to press. Instead, after another day spent mostly fire-fighting his tantrums, I had made copious notes, both in my head and in my journal. And having assembled all my equipment, I now sat and read through the latter, marking the ones which I felt we should prioritise; not just the obvious issue of him lashing out in anger (obviously the main one) but also personal care, household chores and an array of social niceties that, when implemented, would add that positive bit of structure to his days.
It wasn’t as simple a business as might be expected, however. With children like Sam, a list of ‘don’t dos’ and ‘you must dos’ would be useless. The most effective way to deal with undesirable behaviours (such as anger, quick temper or being fast-reactive) was to put tasks into place that he could readily do but required patience, thought and determination. It would be a slow process – as with Rome, desired behaviours really weren’t built in a day – but the ongoing sense of achievement, built in lots of small ways, would hopefully see those negative behaviours begin subsiding.
But first Sam needed concrete incentives. If he didn’t understand that he was doing anything wrong, then, without being offered something in return, why would he change? Again, this wouldn’t necessarily be a simple thing to achieve, because the usual trade of ‘do this and you’ll get that’ generally didn’t work well with children at Sam’s intellectual/emotional level. So it was more about giving him control. If we established the things he wanted, and gave him options for ways to get them, then he could choose to work towards them. If he wanted a takeaway pizza at the weekend, he could be proactive in trying to earn one – choosing to do the tasks necessary for him to be rewarded.
Or not. Though the ‘not’ bit wasn’t part of the plan. Not initially. Nor were his undesirable behaviours. Where more emotionally robust children could cope with losing points as well as earning them, and, as a consequence, try harder after precious ‘ticks’ had been lost, other children – the most vulnerable – would react very differently; one ‘failure’ would immediately send them into a spin, thinking (because negative thinking can be such an ingrained behaviour) that they had failed, period, and that all was now lost. And this in itself would lead to more ‘bad’ behaviour.
So it was all about keeping things positive – if Sam didn’t feel like doing a chore, or was too busy acting up to finish one, he could simply regroup and try again for it the next day.
And, having had the green light from Christine, even before I’d met him, I’d prepared for Sam’s arrival with this kind of behaviour modification already in mind. Which was why, before he got to us, I had already done some of the work necessary to put my plans into action; the bedroom he’d been given was already free of the two things that (sad to say, some would say, but this was the real world, in this world) I knew could be used as inducements, namely the small television that habitually resided there and, usually attached to it, Kieron’s old Xbox. Given what I’d observed in the days Sam had been with us, these two items would, I knew, provide incentives.
But now the real work began. After a third morning in which Sam had howled in bed for half an hour, I’d brought him down for breakfast (Mike and Tyler having gone to work and college) and, once we’d eaten, had allowed him to watch TV in the living room while I gathered my equipment on the dining table.
Now I drained my coffee and suggested he might like to come and join me, to play a game I thought he might enjoy.
‘It’s a special game,’ I told him, as I pulled a dining chair out for him to sit on. ‘One where the idea is to make life a bit easier for you.’
He sat as instructed and eyed all the paper and pens. ‘Are we doing colouring in?’ he asked. ‘Shall I draw you a fire engine?’
‘Not yet,’ I said, ‘but we can after this, if you like. No, what I thought we could do first of all is find out what things you would really like.’ I picked up my pen. ‘And when you tell me, I can make a list of them.’
Sam’s hand shot up immediately, just as it might in a classroom. ‘A dog,’ he enthused. ‘I really, really want a dog.’
My heart sank just a little. Not the best of starts, obviously. Since having our first foster child, Justin – when Bob, our dog, had been at risk of serious harm – having a pet in the house had become a no-no. So Bob (now in doggy heaven) had gone to live his life out with Kieron. But Kieron now had another dog, a little Westie called Luna. ‘Not a dog, sweetie. We can’t have a dog here, I’m afraid. But shall I tell you something? My son Kieron has a dog. If you’d like to we could certainly go and visit him.’
‘A big dog or a little dog?’ he asked. I filed the question away.
‘A little dog.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I like little dogs the best.’
I filed that one away too. But chanced a supplementary question.
‘Did