by Cathy Glass
The children slept well, undisturbed by Max’s snoring, which I heard from time to time even though his bedroom door was closed. The following day, Sunday, I decided to take the children to the park in the morning before it became too hot, so after breakfast I packed bottles of water and Max’s inhaler in case he needed it. I didn’t suggest we take the bikes to the park as I often did with Adrian and Paula, as it would have highlighted Max’s inability to ride a bike of any size. If he was still with us during the long summer holidays then I would take the bikes sometimes, as it would be unfair to deprive Adrian and Paula of riding all summer. As we set out Max asked why we weren’t using the car to go to the park and I explained that it was only a short walk. Mindful of the strain that walking put on him I kept the place very slow. Even so, he was red in the face and sweating by the time we arrived at the park. He sat next to me on a bench for a while as Adrian and Paula played, although he didn’t need his inhaler.
Max watched the children play on the apparatus for some time and eventually summoned the courage to go to the swings when one became free. I saw him tentatively sit on it, but then it became obvious that he didn’t know what to do to get the swing going. I went over and explained and then showed him, but he struggled. He was pretty uncoordinated, so I pushed him for a while. Used to pushing little children and those of average weight, I was served another reminder of just how heavy Max was, although obviously I didn’t show it. After he left the swing he walked around the play area for a while, looking at but not trying any of the other activities. Normally when I fostered a child who was timid or reluctant to try new things I encouraged them, but I appreciated that Max’s reluctance was probably due to his size – he knew he would struggle to use the apparatus and I didn’t want to suggest something that could make him look ridiculous in front of others. I was aware, as Max must have been, that other children were looking at him. His arms bulged from his short-sleeve T-shirt and the rolls of fat beneath his clothes were obvious. Although I’d turned up his trousers so he wouldn’t trip over them, he was so thick around the waist that he was nearly as wide as he was tall. I hesitate to use the phrase but he was like a little barrel, and other children noticed and stared. Presently I suggested we went to see the ducks and we left the play area.
Max enjoyed seeing the ducks and spotting the goldfish that swam to the surface every so often in search of food. The kiosk selling drinks and ice creams was visible from the pond and he pointed it out. When we’d finished at the pond we went over and I bought them all an ice cream, but not the cola drink Max also wanted, as we had bottles of water with us. Licking the ice creams, we began a slow walk home with Max melting as fast as his ice cream. Once home the children sat in the cool of the living room to recover, then went into the tent, where they spent most of the afternoon doing puzzles and crayoning (and Adrian also taught Max a simple card game), only coming out for lunch and then dinner. With school the following day and rain forecast, I packed away the tent before we left for the hospital, and whereas when we’d erected the tent I’d had lots of helpers, now it was left to Paula and me to put it away. But it didn’t take long – it was much easier to disassemble than assemble – and five minutes later it was packed away and in the shed, ready for next time.
That evening, when we arrived at the hospital, Max’s sisters were all there and Summer threw us a small smile, so she at least was less frosty. I made a stab at conversation with Caz, Paris and Kelly but it was ignored. When we returned to collect Max only Summer was there and I asked Caz if she would like me to give her a lift home again.
‘No. She’s staying until eight,’ she said. Which was the end of visiting time.
Summer pulled a face at her mother, but it wasn’t for me to interfere.
Once home we fell into our evening routine and with school the next day I set out Adrian’s and Max’s uniforms, ready for the following morning. Max appeared very quiet and pensive as he got ready for bed and I asked him if he was all right. He gave a small nod. I wasn’t convinced. ‘Max, is there anything bothering you?’ I asked as he climbed into bed. He nodded again. ‘Can you tell me what it is?’
He hesitated. ‘You won’t be angry, will you?’
‘No.’ But my heart was already thumping loudly. What on earth could Max have done? ‘What is it, love?’ I coaxed. ‘What’s bothering you?’
He slid his hand under his pillow and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘I was supposed to give you this, but I hid it.’
I frowned, puzzled, as I unfolded the paper. It was a standard printed letter from his school, sent to all parents and beginning, Dear Parent or Guardian. This one was about the arrangements for the school’s annual sports day, due to take place on the coming Friday.
‘OK,’ I said, glancing up. ‘I’ll make a note of the time I have to be there.’ Parents and carers of the children were invited to watch, and I assumed that as his mother wouldn’t be able to attend then I would go instead, although I’d mention it to Caz when I next saw her.
‘No, you don’t understand. I can’t go,’ Max said anxiously.
‘Why not?’
‘Look at me. I can’t take part in sports day.’ And he burst into tears.
Chapter Nine
Act of Defiance
As I held and comforted Max I could picture only too clearly the embarrassment school sports day would cause him. It was supposed to be fun, when all the school came together to show off their fitness and agility skills in healthy competition – although I didn’t remember my school sports days with relish. I wasn’t overweight, but neither was I very good at sport, and regardless of how hard I tried,I always came near the end in a race – not last, but well back from the leaders. In high jump and long jump my legs didn’t seem able to generate the necessary spring to propel me high enough or far enough, and I remember how self-conscious I felt in the qualifying heats when I tried and failed, with the rest of my class watching. Then there was the relay race, in which we all had to participate, but I could never run as fast as the person passing the baton to me or to whom I passed it, so I always felt I’d let down the team. The fun races at the end were OK – the egg and spoon race, sack race and three-legged race, but they were just for fun and held little in the way of true competition or achievement. Looking back, my performance was probably average for my age, but it didn’t feel like that at the time, so I had every sympathy for Max, whose obesity put him at such a disadvantage in most physical activities.
‘Come on, love,’ I said, passing him a tissue. ‘Dry your eyes. We’ll sort something out.’
‘Can I stay at home, please, and pretend I’m ill, like I did last year?’
I helped him wipe his eyes. ‘If that’s the only way, but first I want to speak to your teacher and see what she has to say.’ Given how sensitive Mrs Marshall was to Max’s limitations, tailoring his involvement in PE lessons, I wanted to discuss it with her first.
Eventually Max’s tears subsided and I put my arm around him and gave him a hug. With more reassurance that he wasn’t to worry about sports day and no one would force him to participate, he lay down, ready for sleep.
‘I wish I wasn’t so big,’ he said wistfully. ‘It’s because I eat too much, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the most likely reason, yes. We get energy from the food we eat and what we don’t need is stored in our body as fat.’
‘So how do you get smaller?’ he asked. Cleary the subject hadn’t been discussed at home.
‘By eating a little less each day, especially sweet things. And exercise, like walking rather than going in the car, which you are doing here with me.’
‘Why don’t my sisters and mum do that?’
‘I don’t know, love.’
‘My dad says he likes big women.’
‘Does he?’
‘Shall I try to eat less sweet things so I can run in sports day?’
‘Yes, but it takes quite a long time. You won’t suddenly see a change. It takes many months t
o lose weight, sometimes years. But please don’t worry about sports day. I’ll sort something out.’ And so the conversation ended as it had begun, with me trying to allay Max’s fears about sports day.
I sat with him a while longer to make sure he was ready to go to sleep and wouldn’t lie there worrying. It was late and we had school in the morning, so I didn’t suggest he read for a while. When I was satisfied he was slowly drifting off to sleep I kissed his forehead, said goodnight and came out.
Paula was already in bed asleep and Adrian, aware that I was spending longer than usual with Max, had come up and got ready for bed and was now in bed waiting for me to say goodnight. Adrian’s school had already had their annual sports day, and because Adrian was reasonably fit and athletic he’d met the day with excitement – a challenge – not dread. And he’d done very well.
When I wrote up my log notes that night I included Max’s anxiety about his school’s sports day and the discussion we’d had about losing weight. As well as containing appointments and charting the child’s day-to-day progress, the log can act as an aide-mémoire. It’s easy to forget what happened or was said on a particular day months later, and I’d learnt from experience to be conscientious in my record keeping. I’d once been asked to check my log notes in respect of a child who’d left me nine months previously, when a child protection matter arose and the case went to court. So regardless of how tired I was, I always updated my log before I went to bed, while the events of the day were still fresh in my mind. Jill checks them each month as part of her statutory visit.
There wasn’t time to try to see Mrs Marshall when I took Max to breakfast club the following morning, as I had to take Adrian and Paula to school and nursery straight after. Once home, I telephoned Max’s school secretary and said I’d like to arrange to speak to Mrs Marshall and asked when it would be a good time for me to phone. I didn’t think this necessitated us meeting, as it was something that could be discussed over the phone. The secretary said she’d speak to Mrs Marshall and let me know. Then, at eleven o’clock, the phone rang and it was Mrs Marshall, taking the opportunity to call while the children were in the playground on mid-morning break.
‘Thank you so much for phoning,’ I said. Aware that her time would be short I came straight to the point. ‘Max was very upset last night because of sports day. He tells me he was so worried last year that he took the day off school. He wants to do the same this year, but I said I’d speak to you.’
‘Oh dear, the poor child,’ she sympathized. ‘He should have told me rather than worrying.’
‘Exactly, but he thinks if he goes into school on Friday he will be made to participate.’
‘It’s true we like all the children to join in, but our sports day, like in many other primary schools, is different now from what you and I remember. The children compete as teams, not individually, so there is no pressure.’
‘How does that work?’ I asked. Adrian’s school sports day was traditional and similar to the ones I remembered.
‘They compete in their house teams,’ Mrs Marshall explained. ‘The children are divided into their four house teams and each team consists of all ages of children, from Reception to Year 6. The teams then rotate around fun activities; for example, an obstacle course, shuttle run, hockey dribble, beat the goalie and so on. They collect points for their house. They have regular breaks when they have a drink of water, and each activity only lasts about five minutes. At the end all the children receive a sticker and the trophy is presented to the house with highest number of points.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘So Max would be in a team with older and younger children, and always competing as part of the team?’
‘Yes. There’s no pressure on any individual child, and some children do sit out from time to time. Some need to use an asthma pump and some just need a rest. I’ll talk to Max and explain again what happens. I’m surprised this wasn’t made clear to him last year, but perhaps his teacher wasn’t aware how anxious he was about sports day.’
‘It took a while before he would tell me. Thank you so much. I didn’t want him to just stay at home.’
‘No, he needs to join in as much as possible. How was he at the weekend?’
‘Good. He played with my children during the day and then I took him to see his mother in the evening. His sisters were there.’
‘He told me he’d been playing in the tent with Adrian and Paula. Let me know if he has any other worries, won’t you? And I’ll look forward to seeing you at sports day.’
I thanked her again and we said goodbye.
I was very pleased I’d spoken to Mrs Marshall. I felt considerably relieved, as I hoped Max would, and easier about him participating in sports day, although of course even team events could hold some anxiety for him. But I agreed with Mrs Marshall that he should join in, and I’d do all I could to reassure him, as I knew she would. Feeling the week had got off to a good start, when the phone rang again a few minutes later I answered it with a bright ‘Good morning’.
‘Cathy, it’s Jo, Max’s social worker,’ she said, her voice tight and flat, so I knew straight away it wasn’t good news. ‘Max’s mother telephoned me first thing this morning with a list of complaints about his care.’ My heart sank. I always try to do my best for the children I look after and it was soul-destroying to receive one complaint, let alone a list. ‘I told her I’d speak to you straight away.’
‘Oh dear. What am I supposed to have done?’ I asked.
‘Firstly, and most worryingly, she says you’re not feeding Max properly. She says he’s always hungry and that you won’t give him second helpings. She said you refuse to let him have any biscuits, cakes and sweets and keep putting stuff on his plate that he doesn’t like. He’s told her there are no fizzy drinks in your house so he has to drink water, which he doesn’t like. She also says you’re too stingy to use your car so you make him walk everywhere. He hates walking. Then there’s the matter of his clothes – she says you’ve ruined them. There’s other stuff, but those are the main ones.’ I heard her let out a sigh of exasperation.
As well as being hurt, I was now annoyed – not with Max, for I doubted he’d complained; it wasn’t in his nature. I thought that Caz (and possibly her daughters), still angry at having Max in care and wanting to make my life difficult, had seized on comments Max might have made, exaggerating and twisting them to put me in a bad light.
‘Jo, the last point first,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘I’m assuming Caz is referring to the fact that I’ve taken up Max’s trousers.’
‘I think that’s what she said.’
‘Because of Max’s size, he needs clothes that are made for much older children and they are far too long in the arms and legs. His teacher has been turning up his school uniform, but his casual clothes have just been rolled up until now, so I turned them up and hemmed them. There’s no damage done. They can be let down again when he grows. I thought it would help Caz, and Max appreciated not tripping over the trouser legs when they unrolled.’
‘That’s all you’ve done to his clothes?’
‘Yes. Well, I’ve been washing them, but I assume that’s all right?’ I added a touch sarcastically.
‘Perhaps don’t alter any more of his clothes that come from home,’ Jo said.
‘And let him trip over them?’
‘Or you buy him some casual clothes. Then if you turn them up it won’t cause the same problem. It’s just the stuff she’s bought she’s sensitive about.’
‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘Now, the matter of what I’ve been giving him to eat – or not giving him. Max is badly overweight and …’
‘You can’t say that!’ Jo interrupted.
‘But he is.’
‘You haven’t told him, have you?’
‘He already knows. He asked me how he could get smaller.’
‘What did you say?’
‘By eating a little less and exercising more.’
‘So that’s where that has co
me from,’ Jo said, obviously referring to something else Caz had said. ‘Give him what he wants to eat.’
‘Jo, the child is obese. He’d eat all day long if I let him. If something isn’t done soon, he’ll end up with the same health problems his mother has.’ Why it was necessary for me to point this out to his social worker I didn’t know.
‘It’s not for you to say that,’ Jo said. ‘Leave it to his mother to sort out.’
Clearly Caz hadn’t ‘sorted it out’ and from what I’d seen of her and her daughters, they all needed as much help as Max. I wasn’t being sizeist, but I was genuinely concerned for Max’s health.
‘Jo, I give Max second helpings of the main course but not pudding,’ I continued, addressing the complaints Caz had made. ‘Likewise with ice cream, cakes, biscuits and chocolate. He has one, the same as Adrian and Paula, but he’d eat sweet things non-stop if I let him. I assume the stuff Caz says I put on his plate that he doesn’t like is fruit and vegetables. He’s eaten some without a problem and what he doesn’t like he leaves. I don’t force him to eat anything, but I do encourage healthy eating. And it’s true I only usually have fizzy drinks in the house for special occasions, but Max has been having juice as well as water. He’s already had teeth out – he doesn’t want to be losing any more – and he only has water at school.’
‘Perhaps buy some cola to keep him happy.’
‘OK, if that’s what you want,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice even.
‘So what’s all this about making him walk because you don’t want to use your car?’
‘That’s ridiculous. On Sunday we walked to our local park. He’s been in the car on all other trips.’
‘How far is the park? Caz said walking is bad for Max’s asthma. Did you take his inhaler with you?’
‘Yes, of course, I take it everywhere, but he didn’t need it. The only time he’s used it was when he first arrived with you. The park is about a ten-minute walk.’
‘I’ll tell Caz, but in future can you take him in the car if you go to the park so she doesn’t worry?’
