Mummy Told Me Not to Tell: The true story of a troubled boy with a dark secret. Cathy Glass
As I worked I repeatedly glanced in Reece’s direction. He remained relaxed but oblivious to my presence. His eyes followed the rapidly moving cartoon figures, which were now on an adventure in a park. Occasionally he made little noises, sometimes grunting his approval at something that was happening on screen and repeating the odd word as the story unfolded. It crossed my mind that Reece seemed to relate far better to the television than he did to people, probably as a result of all the years he’d spent in front of the television that Karen had mentioned. And I thought that while television might be a useful tool in managing Reece’s behaviour his viewing was going to have to be very carefully regulated. I wanted him to engage and interact with people, not a screen.
When Lucy and Paula arrived home just before 4.00 they did not, as they had expected, enter a house heaving under the strain of an out-of-control child, but one that was quiet, with a child sitting serenely on a beanbag, watching television, while I unpacked.
‘Up here,’ I called as I heard the front door go.
Leaving their bags and coats in the hall they came straight up. They knocked on the bedroom door, which we always do before entering a bedroom other than our own, and came in.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘This is Reece. Reece, these are my daughters, Paula and Lucy.’
The girls said ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello’. Reece grunted what could have been an acknowledgement while not taking his eyes from the screen.
‘I’ll finish unpacking this case,’ I said to them. ‘Then I’ll think about dinner. Have you had a good day?’
‘Yes,’ Paula said.
‘Not bad,’ Lucy added.
The girls looked from Reece to me and back again. I knew what they were thinking: that the child who was sitting so contentedly and now smiling at The Basil Brush Show couldn’t possibly be the one I’d told them to expect. However, I also knew, given what I’d previously seen of Reece’s behaviour, that things could revert very quickly.
With Reece being entertained by the television and before I began making dinner, I took the opportunity of mentioning to the girls that they should be a bit careful, as Reece could and did head-butt and bite. They nodded, but I could tell they weren’t convinced. We had fostered children before who’d come to us with appalling records of bad behaviour but had never shown it to us. ‘Just be careful,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any injuries.’
I also took the opportunity of interrupting Reece’s television for five minutes to show him where the toilet was and explain the rules regarding other people’s bedrooms: that our bedrooms were our own private space and we never went in to anyone else’s without being asked. Reece compliantly agreed because he knew the television awaited once I’d had my say. I knew I would have to repeat the bedroom rules because children of Reece’s age (even those without learning difficulties) are impulsive and tend to be in a room in search of someone before they have remembered to knock and wait.
At five o’clock while I was making dinner, Reece left the television, stood at the top of the stairs and yelled at the top of his voice: ‘Cathy! I need a pooh!’ I heard him clearly from the kitchen, which is at the opposite end of the house, so great was the volume in his voice. Aware that Reece had a history of soiling himself, I immediately left peeling the potatoes and went upstairs.
‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Straight into the toilet, then.’ I turned him round and steered him along the landing, and opened the toilet door. Completely unselfconsciously he pulled down his joggers and pants and sat on the toilet. I held the toilet door to and waited outside. Presently a none-too-pleasant smell wafted out, followed by, ‘Cathy! I’ve finished!’
‘Good boy,’ I said from the other side of the door. ‘Now wipe your bottom and wash your hands.’
I remained waiting outside because I wanted to make sure Reece did wash his hands, and properly, for so many children come to me having never been taught basic hygiene. I waited some more but couldn’t hear the toilet roll being used; it was on the back of the door and rattled on its fitting when pulled.
Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘I’ve finished!’ he shouted back.
‘Yes, now wipe your bottom, flush the toilet and then wash your hands.’
More silence and I repeated the instructions again. Then I said, ‘Reece, are you wiping your bottom?’
‘No.’
I eased open the toilet door and looked in. He was still sitting happily on the toilet, joggers and pants round his ankles, elbows resting on his knees as though he was in a deck chair on the beach, and making no attempt to clean himself.
‘Come on,’ I encouraged. ‘If you have finished, get off and wipe your bottom.’
‘Can’t,’ he said.
‘You can’t wipe your bottom?’
‘No.’
Although I was surprised that a child of his age, even with learning difficulties, hadn’t been taught to wipe his own bottom, I wasn’t going to make an issue of it; but neither was I going to do it for him, which was presumably what had happened in the past. His abilities and coordination, although delayed, were quite adequate to master this skill: if he could count to a hundred I felt sure he could learn to wipe his own bottom.
‘All right. I’ll show you what to do. Now watch me carefully, Reece, then you can do it. First you tear off three sheets of toilet paper, like this.’ I tore them off. ‘Then you fold them like this, and wipe yourself like this.’ I turned slightly away from him and ran the folded toilet paper over the outside of my trouser where he should wipe. ‘You only use it once. Then you throw it down the toilet and tear off the next few sheets.’ Obvious though it may be to most of us, you’d be surprised at the number of children who have never been taught this and try to reuse the paper by turning it over and end up with excrement all over their hands.
‘Now you do it,’ I said. I passed him the folded tissue paper and he made a clumsy effort at trying to get it round to his bottom while still seated. ‘You’ll have to stand up to do it,’ I said.
He wriggled off the toilet and, standing ungainly, made a brave attempt at wiping his bottom. Then he sat down again.
‘Right, the next piece. Watch carefully,’ I said. I tore off another strip of paper, folded it and passed it to him. Again he tried to wipe his bottom, still sitting down. ‘Remember to stand up to do it,’ I said.
‘Can’t you do it?’ he grumbled.
‘I could, but I want you to learn. You will feel very clever being able to wipe your own bottom, won’t you?’
He shrugged, unconvinced, but accepted the next folded sheets of paper, stood and managed reasonably successfully to use them. And so we continued, with me tearing off the sheets of paper and him wiping, until he was clean.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Now flush the toilet.’
He did that successfully first time, presumably used to flushing a toilet after going for a wee. Then he pulled up his pants and joggers.
‘Good. Now before you touch anything you need to wash your hands very well in hot water and soap.’
Reece stood helplessly as I put the plug in the basin and ran the hot water. I then squirted soap into the palms of his hands and plunged them into the water.
‘Who wiped your bottom at home?’ I asked as he rubbed his hands in the water.
‘Don’t know,’ he said, and laughed.
‘What about when you were at school? Who did it there?’
‘I never did a pooh at school.’ Which