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.