Bloggers Block

I hate that the last blog I wrote was about my dog pooping. It's embarrassing. Yet I haven't had any desire to blog as of late. Might be my insanely crazy schedule. Might be I don't really have a purpose to my blog. Should it be funny like my colleague Meghan's? No...hard as I try I'm not really funny. Should it be smartly political and family oriented like my friend Amber's? No, I have a lot of political opinions, but whenever I try to put them into words my mouth stops working. The intelligence just disappears. Should it be literary like Colleen's or a combination of all of the above like my friend Karen's? I'm just not as brilliant as all that. I think my best blogging is about my work.

Work. Lately lots and lots of calls to DHS. The week before last I lost it at work...yes I actually cried in front of my boss who looked frightened. I'm the one who is supposed to keep my cool when children are abused and the state won't do anything about it. This time I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't just tell myself "patience...it will come." Like the family at my old job, where it took 3 years of reporting before the 5 children were taken into protective custody and sent to live with a grandmother.

This time, when the totally incompetent and idiotic DHS caseworker tried to tell me she wasn't worried about the child who is being hit at home not being at school the two days after she was interviewed by DHS, I couldn't stop myself from losing my Freaking mind. I yelled at her. I wanted to hang up on her. I wanted to pull out every flippin' cuss word in my very extensive naughty book. All I could do was pace and cry, and cry and pace. Then, thank goodness the child showed up to school mid-day. Maybe the worker called. Maybe not.

Sometimes my job is beyond discouraging. But I have to hold it together for all those teachers who haven't had the lovely experience of reporting. I have to hold their hand and guide their words and wipe their tears. I have to check in with the kiddos, let them lay on my couch after mom and stepdad threw glass things at each other, or poured hot sauce in their mouths, or flicked them in the mouth. I have to call DHS and listen again as they tell me they'll "Document it" or that it isn't illegal for parents to hit children. I have to keep it together to hope that eventually children will matter. So often they don't. So I set my rats in their laps and watch as they get a little critter TLC. I give them hugs and send them on their way. Sometimes back to homes where no one loves them. Sometimes back to homes where they are loved black and blue.

At night their stories haunt my dreams and their faces stay in my head. Sometimes I'm a worse mom for it, as I guilt my own children for tantruming about small things, and worry what perspective they are getting in their comparatively spoiled lives. Sometimes I traumatize my children by sharing bits of these stories in order to give said perspectives. I don't want them to have the pain that these children face, but I do want them to understand that some things aren't worth crying about. That their lives are not hard because they don't get everything they want.

Okay...last blog on here no longer about my dog's poop.

Wisdom of Children

Yesterday I spent the day at an all day training for my Crisis Response Team on the subject of grief, and how to counsel others through trauma, grief, and crisis. The presenter, who is director at a Grief Counseling center, talked about things kids in her groups have said about their experience. It is amazing what kids know. Adults are forever trying to shield them from knowing things, only to harm them more by allowing their imaginations to fill in the blanks.

This was true for one of the kiddos she mentioned. A nine year old boy whose father died by suicide. The mom refused to tell him that dad had had an affair, which contributed to his death. So, instead of protecting him, this sent him into a frenzied search for what could be so horrible that his dad did, that mom would have to protect him from. He interviewed neighbors, trying to find the truth of how dad died. He felt there was a conspiracy and filled in the blanks with dad was a thief, a murderer, or some other heinous act that led to someone wanting him dead. Instead of being able to make meaning out of the truth, he was forced to struggle with finding the truth to get to the place of making meaning. The secret prolonged and complicated his grief.

All during the presentation I thought of my own kids. I hurt inside from the possibility that they might have to deal with mine or Eddy's death prematurely. How could they cope? But even without this loss, I hurt with the knowledge that they will for sure suffer losses that will cause them pain. That they have already suffered losses that cause them pain. This made me want to be a better parent. It made me anxious thinking of all the ways I am not preparing them for the world. Evan goes to middle school next year. Already I feel him slipping away to PEER world. It feels daunting sometimes trying to be a good enough parent. All my mistakes pass before my eyes as time ticks on.

The presenter also talked about Post Traumatic Growth. That sometimes we grow so much from our losses, they define who we are in ways we would never want to change, even if we could have back the thing we lost.

I need to let my children have their loss so they can have their growth.

Another 9 year old kiddo was constantly getting "hurt," in order to elicit attention. A three year old kiddo said to him, "some hurts are on the inside where no one can see."

Sometimes we have to bring the hurts out where others can see.

Today the wisdom of children makes me happy.

Roller coaster of emotions

Today I was a roller coaster. I met with the sisters of the boy who is hospitalized in critical condition. We set up a system of support, like a "feelings box" where they can put their feelings written out into the slot, or write letters to their brother. After doing this for awhile they went to class. Later, one of them came back because she was too upset to be in class. She made a poster saying she loves her brother. After finishing it we went to put it in her backpack. She stopped and turned toward her teacher, clearly needing to say something. So I asked if she had something to tell her teacher. She couldn't answer. We moved closer to teacher, and waited. She just looked within herself trying to find the words. We waited. We supported. We tried to coax. Nothing verbally, but her eyes said it all. The emotions in them were so deep and so pure I started to cry. She needed to say, "I'm not okay. My brother might die, and I can't find the words to release the torrent of sadness and fear I am feeling. I'm not okay." All she could say--and only with our help--is "I'm sad." My heart aches. She and her sister are twins, but the three of them are so close in age, and have always been best friends, so it's more like they're triplets. This she was able to say. I am dreading the call that will come--in days, or weeks, or months, that changes it all forever. How will I support her and her family. It's hard to imagine.

I went to see my little guy who is being abused. He was in a special class. He was sitting up front, so excited to participate. He was reading along with the simple book, pointing out things in the pictures, answering questions that the teacher was posing. He was so proud of what he knew. He was super excited that "I can write my name. Do you want me to show you?" I reminded him of our deal--keep your hands and feet to yourself (don't hit or kick) and you can come to my office to see my rats. He hadn't remembered. At the end of the day I remembered, and ran to see how he did. He had a hyper day, but did SOOOOO much better in the "no hitting" department He was about to get on the bus. I held his hands and looked in his eyes and celebrated with him, " You get to come see me in my office tomorrow and pet my rats." " I do?" he said excitedly, then gave me a great big hug. I do adore that boy!!

Later I talked to mom of boy in the hospital. We talked about how to support sisters, and brother is doing the same. Mom was so grateful for all we're doing, and I thanked her for letting us help. It's so much harder not to be able to do anything.

On the way home from work I heard one of my favorite songs. I cranked the radio and sang at the top of my lungs. I got home while the song was still on, and sat in the car belting out the words.

Today, favorite songs on the radio, pure emotions, and sweet little kiddos make me happy.