Seattle 19, or Stories from Work

I got a lot of responses to my post about work, so I thought I might share some stories from work here. I've changed everyone's names, of course, and also some identifying details - none of which impact the outcome or the spirit of the story, but just to be sure.

the old man

Danny is the old man of the house. He wears jeans held up by suspenders and his belly strains his button-down shirts. He frequently complains of having woken "on the wrong side of the bed" and backaches, for which we give him children's Tylenol. He chews it with diligence and dignity. His favorite activity is playing with his tackle box - a gift from his grandfather, who visits regularly. Danny has to be supervised when working with his hooks and lines, and I often volunteer for the job. He tells me about lures and different kinds of fishing line, and, when I can get him in a good enough mood, sings me Johnny Cash songs in a squeaky eight-year old version of his favorite singer. A few days ago, he was having a tantrum and screamed "I'm too old for this nonsense!" while he was inside the de-escalation room. He then referred to himself as being in "a bigger hell than the frog swamp! And that's hell, let me tell you!"

in which dane rides a bike

Most every day, now. To and from work. Makes me happy like nothing else. Even when it's raining and my brakes don't work so well and I'm borrowing a big-headed kid's helmet from work, I love that I can ride. Wish my hip flexors agreed with me on this point, but we're working on it.

the new kid

The new kid is having a rough time. She just got in a couple of days ago and is testing us, hard, trying to figure out where the boundaries are and exactly which end is up. She was sitting on the couch with Nathan, one of the youngest kids and biggest troublemakers. I often wonder if Nathan really understands the consequences of his actions, or why we send him to time-out so often. But Nathan, for once, is sitting quietly and waiting for directions. The new kid is fidgeting and climbing all over the couch. I tell her to sit calmly and correctly once, twice, three times. I warn her that my next direction will be to time-out, and she yells, "Why? I'm not in trouble! I'm not going to go to time-out because I'm not in trouble!" Nathan opens his mouth, and before I can jump in to tell him to focus on himself and not his peer, he bursts out, "It's not trouble; it's for calming down!!" I take a minute and let another staff finish handling the issue. I'm grinning too hard to follow through, and I dance around in private, punching the air in victory. He's got it. By George, he's got it.


in which dane sings in a kitchen

Saturday morning, when I'm on duty, I always volunteer to cook breakfast. There's a perscribed menu for meals, but all the cottages are stocked with good spice cabinets, and if I happen to have leftover ingredients from other meals, I try to do something special. As staff, we spend so much time teaching and curbing and interfering, sometimes I think we forget to be creative when showing how much we love and care about the kids. So I do this breakfast thing, something small, something they'll smile about when they wake up, and remember all the way to bedtime. This week, I made apple cinnamon pancakes, with plenty of vanilla and nutmeg and fresh apples. I got the griddle at just the right heat for perfectly round golden cakes and cooked up a huge batch, trying to make the whole cottage smell good. One of my co-workers sat outside a child's door and plucked out a tune on his guitar, motivating the kid through room-cleaning. I made up a song to his tune, about how my dad always makes pancakes on Saturday. I stopped in the middle when I felt the tears coming. I don't even like pancakes as much as other breakfasts, but my dad's pancakes are the biggest sign that everything in the world is Okay. And I know that no amount of cinnamon-flavored mornings are going to reassure these kids that everything is really Okay, but, my co-worker reminds me - we do what we do. Whether it's guitar, or fixing bicycles or making up special nicknames and handshakes or even just the occasional pancake breakfast, we do whatever we can. And maybe, someday, we will be a piece of their story of how everything eventually became Okay.