That Beautiful Baby Boy…

Apologies in advance, this will be emotional, I’m on the verge of tears as I begin to write, but since the weekend I think its time I spoke about this. I haven’t spoken to anyone, fully opened up, even to Steve, only the odd mention here and there, nothing really about how I’m feeling. Well, I don’t really need to with Steve, he already sees it in my eyes and knows that as a mother this will be something that will break my heart every time I think about it for the rest of my life.

Khyra Ishaq. Over the weekend this tragic case has made me constantly think of something that I try and push to the back of my mind every single day. That is my constant disgust with my local social workers and my heart ache over one beautiful baby boy. It also explains the one thing that confuses me, because of this experience, about Khyra Ishaq.

I don’t want to have a dig at social workers as a whole. My auntie’s a social worker, she works hard and she’s damn good at her job. I’m sure there’s plenty like her, I’m pretty convinced that for the most part the problem lies in a lack of communication between departments and being swamped by administration, though unfortuately I know of social workers, yes my local ones, who are rubbish, I have been appalled at their lack of communication with the parties involved, idiotic and might I say lazy behaviour, and their treatment of the father in this case who has done no wrong at all! Anyway, thats not what I want to get off my chest…

It tears me up to hear about the neighbours in the Ishaq case. Those who turned a blind eye. Because that was me.

I am so ashamed of this and crushed by guilt. For months I said nothing, I put it down to my friend adjusting, getting used to having a baby again as her daughters lived with their father across the other side of the country. I ignored the alcohol consumption, I thought just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean other people can’t enjoy a little drinky of an evening. I ignored the stories of violent outbursts against her partner. I ignored the lies, ignored how dirty and underdeveloped her son sometimes was. We all did. Not on purpose, please believe that, we just didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to believe what was happening.

Why didn’t the word neglect ever enter my head? Struggling, yes. Neglect, never. Why? Its so obvious now, and that stupidity (stupid, stupid, stupid) on my part haunts me, and probably always will.

It did, however, get to the point where I thought she needed help, and I thought I, as her friend, could help her. She even appeared to welcome the help, more lies. Sadly, you can’t help those who won’t help themselves.

Not to go into the ins and outs of a relationship that has nothing to do with me, I’ll stick to my side of the story. In a nutshell we ended up saying that for a few nights both her and the baby could stay with us while we helped her find somewhere else to live. On condition that she behaved herself and there was to be no drinking, not a drop.

Only now when I look back do I realise that I knew things weren’t right, he was always in his car seat, mostly ignored, he even slept every night in his car seat! As a mother of 2 children why didn’t it slam straight into my head that this was why he couldn’t sit up on his own, why his head was floppy? I had to support him while we played. 

Even on that first night I realise now how much I took over. It was as though I suddenly had 3 children not 2. I fed him and changed him, played with him (he has the most beautiful smile when you play with him!) and got him ready for bed. I even washed his vest as he’d got his dinner all down it. He slept upstairs with me that night so she could have a break, I did night feeds and changes, that was a bit of a shock, I hadn’t done those things for four years! LOL

I spent the next morning with her going to the council and pleading with them that they had to help her as they had nowhere else to go, they were homeless. I went to estate agents picking up their brochures for lettings… anyhoo, she said she’d pop to her mums. Fine, I thought, you can’t stop her taking the little ‘un round to see his nanna. I told her to be back for dinner at 6pm. She left me at lunch time, she had 2 bottles of baby milk with her and a packet of Mini Cheddars, inadequate for a child of 7 months. I presumed he’d be properly fed at her mums. He was also wearing a pair of Paddy’s trousers, size 3 years, she hadn’t brought him a change of clothes with her.

It got to 6pm, no sign of them. We rang her, she lied to us, said she was on her way back, sorry she was running late, but the little ‘un had had a little bit of cottage pie at her mums, so not to worry, she’d be about 5 minutes. We could tell she’d had a drink or three. We waited. 7, 7:30, 8, 8:30. It was getting dark, the baby only had a thin jacket on and by this time of the year the evenings were getting colder.

I rang my mum, as we do, no matter how old I get I’m sure my first instinct will always be to ring my mum. I told her about the cold and the thin jacket, the lack of food and milk, I was in tears, I was worried sick. That little boy, had they ever got round to getting him christened would have been my godson, I love him as much as I love my own children. The only other times I’ve been gripped by that kind of fear has been when the kids have hurt themselves or that awful time Niamh decided to wander off in town.

My ever sensible mother told us to ring social services. Great idea, problem. They only work 9 while 5.

The clock agonisingly slowly ticked round to 9pm, my friend hadn’t answered her phone for 2 hours, we knew she had been drinking and we found out she was with her sister. I’m sure you might notice from me saying that that being with her sister was not the best of situations!

We were in bits, the father, a close friend, was in bits. Enough was enough, at around 10:30 we decided to call the police.

This is where confusion kicks in with the Khyra Ishaq case. The school were suspicious, they passed on those concerns to the relevent authroities. There were times they couldn’t get access to the home and they couldn’t access the children. What did they do? Shrug their damn shoulders, turn and walk away, post a note through the letter box. My God! If you are concerned about any child’s welfare, no matter how small those concerns, call the police! Social services already knew about my friend. They knew what had happened with her daughters, we didn’t, she’d lied about that too! When it came down to it though that didn’t matter. They said past history couldn’t be taken into consideration. I’ve since found out that past history WHEN HISTORY APPEARS TO BE REPEATING ITSELF, has to be taken into consideration. It was not.

Please, if you ever find yourself, and I pray you don’t, in that kind of situation… sod social services, sod everyone! Call the police.

The police were brilliant, the moment we told them what was happening and that a child was involved they took a description and put the shout out for them. Two officers came to the house to get more details, double check the description, and they calmed me down.

And then over the radio, oh my goodness the relief, I felt weak with it, I shook with it. They’d found them in the city centre on CCTV. She was three sheets to the wind, could barely stand up or talk straight. She had been sat in a dingy pub with that baby all evening. She had no money, you don’t want to know (we later found out) what kind of behaviour she exhibited in order to get people to buy her drinks.

Within 2 hours of us calling them the police had found that baby and had him safe.

All I can think of with Khyra is that if someone had called the police instead of fannying about going through the ‘proper channels’ that girl, that has the most beautiful smile in pictures that I’ve seen, may well be alive right now.

The police deemed, quite rightly, that she was in no fit state to care for a baby. They took him off her and brought him to us. He was fast asleep when he arrived, I pray he was asleep most of the evening. But the state of him!

In the end I had to wake him up. I had to change him. He was so wet the car seat was soaked, I had to peel the trousers and nappy off him, his bottom was red raw, sticky and stank. She hadn’t changed the poor boy all day.

I had to get him out of that car seat, I couldn’t bear for him to sit in it for one more second (Its one of those ones that attatches to a buggy). I took off his top off… Oh my God! He must have been strapped down all day, he’d been in the buggy all morning while we were in town (obviously). He had bright red marks where the harness had been, it had rubbed, terrible.

As I’d woke him up he started yelling his head off. Time for a feed. I’d prepared some bottles earlier for when my friend got back. He drank 12 ounces before he calmed down. Absolutely gulped them down. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so angry, appalled, distraught and helpless all at the same time.

I spent the rest of the night awake, lying on the sofa with that baby asleep on my chest, I didn’t want to take my eyes off him. He woke up 5 hours later screaming for another 8oz feed.

He’s in care now. And that breaks my heart. My auntie says she sees kids every day who’ve been seriously f*****d up by the care system. I don’t see him either, not a relative you see. He’s a year old now, I haven’t seen him for 6 months.

Social services did contact us later and asked us if we could take him. I was out at the time but as soon as I got home I said yes. But we couldn’t, I know that logically. Three children in a tiny 2 bedroom house, we’d only just moved in after a terrible few months of temporary accommodation and we couldn’t risk getting kicked out. It was so so hard, but I had to think of my own children. Logical, yes. But the guilt eats away at me. If they rang me tomorrow and asked again the mother in me would scream YES! But thats never going to happen.

What pains me also is the treatment of the father by social services. They take messages but they don’t return his calls. They only let him see his son at a supervised visit once a week. He’s done nothing wrong and yet he is being punished.

And my friend? She doesn’t care, she’s upped and hopped it, quite out of the blue with another bloke. She did the same with her daughters, neglect, lost custody, buggered off. In fact, scrap that! I’ve been refering to her as my friend, she is not. Her behaviour is disgusting. As a Christian I preach forgiveness. As a mother, well, some things are unforgivable. What kind of life is that boy going to have? My only hope is that no matter how long it takes the father will eventually be allowed to take him home. Where he belongs.

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