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.