I am one of those who watches all those horrific adverts showing children so desperate for basic needs that I promised myself that one day I would be that mummy that stepped up to the plate and help just one, maybe a few, of the children that come into this world every day, who lack basic human rights, including the major right to being in a loving, caring home safe from harm.

I have so often believed that people should have a licence to become parents, and that maternity should be used not just to learn about the ‘birth’ but to also learn what becoming a parent means.

There is more to becoming a parent than the badge on a car or a bucket list goal. Children are not a fashion accessory.

Once a parent, you will always be a parent. Children don’t have a ‘return-by’ date; they have no bar codes, let alone a user manual; there is no remote, and no off switch; and the day you take on the responsibility of parenting is the day you sign up for life. Good, bad and indifferent.

Yet very often we find little ones who have been given up on, who end up, through no fault of their own, in the system. Scared, confused, feeling abandoned, angry, withdrawn, traumatised… and that’s where fostering comes into play for many.

When I started fostering in 2009, and prepared a room for any future arrivals, I made the room up in a generic fashion. Boy or girl, the room would see (I thought), many years of children coming and going, and I was ready and willing to tackle any situation or anyone that came my way. My head was very firmly on my shoulders, knowing that for the time these children would stay here, they would be well taken care of and loved.

My first little one arrived very quickly after training, a teeny tiny newborn, but in a bad way. I had no sooner gotten her settled when along came another little one who happened to be exactly the same age as our first little guest.

It was a mad panic as we had to change things we had bought to use for a single newborn to be able to cater for two.

As time went on, these ‘respite’ babies reached six months of age.

Then we received two more little ones, siblings, who needed somewhere to live. Again a respite case that stayed for just under a month.

Our initial two then reached their first birthdays but they were still referred to as respite cases.

We had to explain that this little boy... their brother, was going to leave

Onwards and upwards we went on, with newborn after newborn coming to stay. We needed a bigger house. Every year, another newborn would come for the best part of a year, then graduate to their ‘forever’ home, bar one − a teeny tiny newborn so addicted to drugs at birth that every little sound sent him into a high-pitched scream (all my newborns were detox babies). He too was a respite, short-term placement. He is now eight, and the girls are 11 who have seen many little brothers come and go.

We didn’t stop there. In 2018, another little one − 12 weeks old − came as an emergency placement. We were assured he would be placed within three months. He was rather quickly joined by another newborn, who was so poorly he ended up having one emergency intervention after another.

Yet again, months rolled into years and we ended up with five children ‒ two 11-year-olds, one eight-year-old, one almost three-year-old and one two-and-a-half-year-old. We upgraded the car twice to fit four, then five car seats.

Life was hectic, yet so very happy.

As much as we knew the almost three-year-old had been freed for adoption, we had actually given up on it. He had a home, he had siblings, was enrolled in school for 2022… it seemed nonsensical that a child would be removed from this family at this age.

I could not have been more wrong, and when I was told an adoptive family had been found, I almost dropped to the floor.

The hours that followed after that news were awful.

Two of my little ones are very special little ones and no amount of explanation would soothe them, so much so they started questioning their placements.

Rightly or wrongly, as much as they all know the story of ‘tummy mummy’ and ‘mummy gifts’, we never really emphasised their fragility. We never drew attention to their placement. They were distraught.

We now had to explain to them that this little boy getting ready to celebrate his third birthday, as their brother, was going to leave for somewhere else.

Trying to explain to an almost three-year-old what was going on was never going to happen, but we tried to make it all exciting and seem like an adventure.

Very quickly we came up with a plan, and we started out on our journey of heartbreak. I never ever felt more alone in my whole life.

Three years is a long time; it is even longer in the minds of children.

“He’s my brother.”

“But mummy, you need to stop this.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Will they take me too?”

“Mummy, tell them no.”

“Mummy, lock the door.”

“Mummy, say no, please say no.”

I did lock the door at one point, not to stop anyone coming in but to stop them launching themselves at the prospective family.

Little did I know that one little ‘Miss’ had snuck through the garage, when she knew he was being picked up for a visit and let loose.

At that point, I did wonder if “they” would realise that this was not the right thing to be doing. So many little lives were being thrown into turmoil, yet I also know the desperation of a couple wanting a child. They had only been offered this child, they were not going to give this “opportunity” up.

One week after his third birthday, I rolled up to a car park with a trunk full of belongings and he still had no clue…

Heartbreak doesn’t even cover it.

Being a parent is never easy. Being a foster parent has its trials, but very sadly, our door is now closed.

Twenty days, one hour and 15 minutes (at the time of writing) and I have not even received an update. No picture, no message, no e-mail saying he is fine. That’s what hurts the most after 13 years of service; after three years in this little boy’s life.