October 2. Gifts.

The older, newest girl has a lot of questions on her first night.
"Did you ever live in a Christmas Box House when you were growing up?"
She was amazed when I told her I lived with my parents my whole life.
"I have a wonderful family," I told her, watching her eyes grow wide.
She told me how she'd only be here for two weeks, that she gets to go to dinner with her aunt Saturday, an out-of-building visit, because she begged and begged her case worker.
She told me the next night that she asked all the "grown-ups" the same question.
"It seems like everyone that works here lived with their parents. No one was in foster care!"
I explained that maybe because we've grown up in healthy, loving homes, we want to come and share our experiences with kids that haven't been so fortunate.
"Why do adults even come here?," she continued, "Why do they need people here?"
I told her about volunteers and staff, and how they take time out of their days or weeks to come take care of the kids, to feed and dress and care for them. She seemed blown away that people, adults, would want to come to such a chaotic place.
It was a little boy's fourth birthday yesterday. He's been there since the third week of August.
He and his five year old brother went out to McDonald's with their case worker.
All the kids got party hats and candy. We had cake and juice and we sang on the picnic table. He opened five presents, his favorite being the gift his big brother made for him out of an empty mild carton, a straw, a plastic bear, and some ribbon- it was a boat. Everyone cried because it wasn't their birthday and they each wanted their own presents. I started to react and realized, they're normal kids. Everyone wants a special day. Everyone wants a crown and cake with his or her name on it and presents and attention. Who knows how many of these kids has ever had such a celebration in their lives?
I thought about their parents, too. What are his parents doing? What are they thinking? How did they feel yesterday when they woke up on their son's birthday and had no access to him? Did they think about the last four years with joy? Did they celebrate even thought they couldn't see him? Or did they even remember he was born that day? Did they even notice the date? Have they been so separated from their boys for so long that it doesn't even matter?

September 24. Heart-wrencher.

It was this night that I brushed a five-year-old's tangled hair as lonely tears streamed down her face. It was her second night, but they hadn't even given her a tooth brush yet.
I repeated myself what seemed like a million times, asking her ten-year-old brother to stop saying he hated this place and these kids.
I took a shocked step backward as the girl who's been there for five weeks told me, "I had to react! None of the adults here ever react! No one cares when someone hits my brother, but I do!," after slapping a boy that elbowed her little brother.
She and her two siblings have been there over a month. No movement to a foster home. No movement to their parents' home. Their dad calls almost every night and talks to the girl, the oldest. She asks about drug tests and lawyers and how long until she sees him. I've seen the kids go on one visit- with their grandmother. The oldest sings her baby sister to sleep and tells her to squeeze her stuffed bear tight when she gets sad or angry.
It was this night that I bent to give her, ten years, a goodnight hug, after tucking her in like a taco. She giggled then said, "No one gives hugs here. I love hugs." How much of a difference a hug can make.
It was this night that at 8:59 I decided to do one more round of rooms, to make sure all the lights were off and blankets were on. One small-for-his-age newer boy was still awake, playing blocks on his floor. He hadn't been read to. He picked out The Cowboy and the Octopus, a very bizarre book. I read it and he loved the pictures. He too, got tucked in like a taco and received a hug. He kissed me on the cheek before I turned off the light.
"Goodnight, sleep tight," I said.
"You sleep tight too."
"Sweet dreams," I told him.
"Sweet dreams. I love you. I'll see you in the morning," he said, used to a bedtime routine.
"I love you too," I called back, half smiling and half crying. This little boy is used to someone telling him they love him. What an unusual encounter at this house. What a wonderful encounter.

September 17. The long day.

This was a very hard afternoon. I was outside with the kids for three and a half hours. We had two seven-year-olds. And the rest were under five. Two babies that could walk but not talk, about eighteen months. It was a long day. Much of the playground equipment is broken or falling apart. The boys love to climb the monkey bars, and everything is always a competition. The babies just wandered around- the girl had just gotten there. Her eyes were absolutely gorgeous. She wouldn't even look at us for several hours. Then, out of the blue, she walked up to me, put her arms up to be held, and layed her head on my shoulder when I picked her up. It broke my heart to see this sweet little girl transition from untrusting to being completely desperate for comfort and protection. She was so precious. An older boy tried my patience, showing nothing but hatred and anger for everyone. He stood on the very top of the playground equipment again and again, and told the newest girl to shut up. He stood for half an hour on top of the monkey bars yelling, "NO!" as I repeated gently that he would be on time-out as soon as he got down. I explained how he hurt her feelings, and how using the equipment improperly would be dangerous. I kept reminding myself, "Be consistent, be consistent. Hold true to your word." I knew that this boy has likely never had consistent discipline in his life. I never yelled. I never screamed. I never hit him. But that would've worked a lot faster, I'm sure. These children are so broken. They are so used to being scolded and beaten that a gentle, "Please get down" does nearly nothing. Finally, after his dinner was cold and all the others had gone in, he apologized to the girl and me and was wonderful the rest of the evening. It was fascinating.
The girl he told to shut up, a seven year old who had just arrived, told me about herself. "I just got here. I'm seven. I'm staying the night here. I don't know when I'm going home. They told me awhile. What does that mean? How long is awhile?"
How do you tell a sweet seven year old that awhile may be more than just one night?

September 4. Trying.

This week was one of my hardest yet, even including last fall.
Everything fell apart.
Everyone had a bad day.
No one could do anything right, especially according to W.
We played a candy game. Roll the dice. If they're doubles, you get a candy. Everyone rolls again and again and every time you get doubles, you get candy, even if you already have a bag of Skittles or both the Snickers bars. W screams and screams and throws the dice across the table. N smiles, even when she doesn't get doubles. J tries a different trick every time- and gets four of the seven candy choices in the middle. T never gets anything, but encourages the others the whole time. L cries silently and refuses to roll and, therefore, gets no candy.
This lasts for what seems like ages until all the candy's gone. Then the game switches. We roll as usual, but now if you get doubles you get to steal someone else's candy. W flies off the handle, cursing and yelling and slamming the table. He throws his KitKat at T from across the room.
I tried to step in. He hates me, he says. Shut up, he says. You're stupid, he says.
Who knew an eleven-year-old very sad, very angry boy could make me feel so worthless.
K, the leader, spoke to the kids afterward about the game and its purpose. She asked them how they felt- helpless? Out of control? Frustrated? Kind of how you feel when you get taken from your parents and you're in a new place and you can't see your family or friends? Yep.
W gets even more upset. K proposes the idea that maybe we can control some things, like how we react. A bold move. You may now share if you'd like.
And, after fifteen minutes of stinginess and tension and pleading,
they all shared.
Then we went in the big room, and they shared with the little kids too. Until it was all gone. They were given the option of saving their candy in the kitchen, but every last Skittle was distributed.
Amazing.
Later that night, W screamed at me again, "You're just a volunteer! You don't know anything! You can't tell me to do anything!" and again made me feel two feet tall. I just loved him- loved him like I loved any other kid there. Screaming back won't work, getting offended won't work, and ignoring him won't work. I told him,"I WANT to be here. I don't have to be here, I want to."
He calmed down.
The night ended with two-year-old M crying as I put her in bed. She was petrified because someone knocked on her window the night before. A group of people jumped the fence and knocked on a two-year-old's window. How horrible can a person be? This little girl is now afraid to go to sleep because she doesn't know who's outside her room.
I cried silently as I rocked her and told her she was safe.

August 28. Resilience.

His bright, blue eyes were almost enough to distract you from seeing the large goose-egg bump on his fractured head. His eyebrows and lashes matched a full head of flaming red hair, full of the smell of cigarette smoke, certainly not the powder fresh scent babies usually carry. I cared for him all night, playing and laughing with possibly the happiest infant I've ever met- incredible for his circumstances. Now, as I write this, I wonder about the beautiful eight-month old, probably in a foster home by now because they try to get them out of the CBH as quickly as possible. This means his three year old sister is likely still there, likely still crying for her mama and making sure someone's taking care of her baby brother. Though it's sad the little one had to stay over night because most babies don't have to, it's even more heartwrenching knowing he's gone but his sister remains at the shelter.

Last night I heard a seven year old tell a staff he'd like to go jump off the building and crack his head open. "Why?," she dared to ask him. "So my sister will be sad. She didn't read me a book. She should be sad if I jump off the roof." Meanwhile, his sister spoke on the phone to their father. She cried about how at least in a foster home you can go outside without taking an adult with you. She's been through this before, I realized, and got chills.

When she finally went in an told her brother good night, I saw that through all the bickering they loved each other like any other siblings.

I sat with the baby for an hour, propping him up on his hands and knees. Finally, just before pajama time, he inched forward twice before tumbling over. I watched in awe as I witnessed what is usually a huge event in a household. A progress that gets written on the calendar and the grandparents get called. Instead, there I was the only audience to this beaming crawler.
I rocked him for another hour as he fell asleep, wondering the whole time when the last time was that someone gave him this much attention and love.

I sat with his sister too, whispering to her that everything would be okay, trying very hard to believe it myself.

One resounding moment remained in my mind even after I left for home. At dinner, I watched as the children put orange slices in their mouths to look like orange-toothed smiles. They giggled and giggled until the bipolar eleven year old birthday boy paused and observed:

"When life gives you oranges, make orange juice."

August 22. Beginning.

I have yet to figure out which is more haunting: a four-year-old talking about case workers matter of factly, or a terrified eleven-year-old hearing the words case worker for the first time.

Tonight I experienced the latter as T tried to keep his composure as he asked me how long he'd be there. Used to the children who've been through this before, I responded that he'd have to ask his case worker. He had no idea who that was. He had no pajamas when I tried to divert him with changing his clothes, and no toothbrush to distract him either. His bed was a bare plastic mattress and the white-board on his door simply said Ready. Trying to make him as comfortable as possible, I got him a pencil box-turned-toothbrush holder and a trial size Crest and let him pick out Spongebob sheets and a racecar blanket.

"I didn't know I was coming here," he admits, though I knew that long before. I told him most of the kids don't know it. Trying to change the subject, I asked about his siblings- a safe subject usually because parents sure aren't. He choked out an answer as tears streamed down his face, "they live with other people in my family," as he turned his back to me to wipe his cheek. I wrote his name on the door with a dry-erase and told him snack would be waiting once he changed into pajamas. "I know you're scared, T, but you have to trust that right now this is the best place you can be and that you're very safe here."

Knowing he wasn't any less upset, I sent the male staff to T's room to see if he could work his touch. He took him some nice new gym shorts and a red tee and gave him a pep talk. T came out soon to have his snack, where a girl made fun of his pink wallet he took from his pants before tossing them in the laundry. She kept quiet after the look I gave her as I asked him what grade he's going to be in- fifth- hopeful that this subject wouldn't draw out more tears. I was wrong though, as he cried that he didn't know if he'd be starting school on Monday. I told him I'm sure he will, but wasn't sure where. I told him that while I didn't have all the answers, he'd be able to talk to someone very soon who would. He settled down at this but was obviously scared. Shaking as he finished his snack, the frail boy fought off the tears as he walked to his new room.

The boy, whose face told me he's been forced to grow up way too fast, picked out a book and turned off the light and, like so many of these children week after week, left an imprint on my hear that won't soon fade.