Seattle 17, or In Which Dane Writes About Work on Shabbes

By now, most of you know what I do for work: I work at a residential center for kids who've been abused and neglected, and/or been removed from foster care for being too overwhelming or difficult for their foster parents to handle. (Usually, the difficult/overwhelming behavior stems from current or previous abuse.)

Talking about work without breaking strict confidentiality laws is kind of difficult, so don't expect me to say much here, in this public space. But some readers have been asking (backchannel) if I could say something about it, so here's what I've got:

I'm basically a parent in eight hour shifts. When I'm there from 7am-3pm, I get the kids (ages 6-12) up, dressed, brushed, washed, fed and walk them to school (school is on the campus), then go back to their house to wait for the inevitable phone calls saying they've been asked to leave school and take some time to calm down. These phone calls usually start about five minutes after the kids have been dropped off at school, and often don't let up until lunch, when they all come home for a two hour break. Then, back to school.

The 3pm-11pm shift is the hardest, in my opinion - pick up kids from school, snack, quiet time, homework time, activity time, dinner time, and then two full hours of bedtime routines.

11pm-7am is easy enough, activitywise - just do the day's laundry and keep track of which kids get up in the night for bathroom, or bedwetting, nightmares or whathaveyou. But on quiet nights, without much more than coffee, ramen noodles and a book to keep me awake, it's a long slog.

I was terrified of this job just before I started it - the staff did their best to scare me in the interview, make sure I knew what I was up against. But so far, they're just kids. Kids like the thousands I've cared for before. And yeah, they're crazy kids, who are sometimes totally detached from reality, who can be violent and agressive, and require lots and lots of structure, rules and consequences to keep them safe - but they're also kids who need their noses blown and their shoelaces tied and their hair brushed and all the love the world to make up for what the universe has denied them.

Of course, that love has to be shown in the appropriate ways - can you imagine being in charge of a six year old child who is crying her eyes out because her mother promised to come visit her today and didn't show up, and you are absolutely forbidden to offer her more than verbal condolences and a quick one-armed side hug? Or maybe, an offer to brush her hair, since that's the most prolonged contact you're allowed to have with a child.

Or the heartbreak of listening to a child being restrained by three adults, as his screams turn from "I hate you!" to "Why are you being so nice to me? Why? I'm bad, and you're being nice, why?" and the pain and confusion in his voice is palpable, because you know, deep down, he's expecting to get hit or hurt and it isn't going to happen. Not here. And recognizing his own safety is as terrifying as it is a relief.

And you readers who are parents - you know the rewards of this job. You know how it feels when a child decides to say "I'm angry!" instead of having a massive meltdown, or the first time a kids says "I love you," and means it. You know why all the kids' doors are decorated in their artwork, the pride in their voices when they show me and boast "I made that." You know how it feels to be successful teachers, those small scattered moments when, for just one second - you feel like you're doing something right.

For me, it's watching them play ball in the yard, or on their skateboards, or jump ropes, and some small bird or butterfly catches their eye, those tiny silver moments when they look, perhaps for the first time, like children.