The System - The Cycle

These darn kids. They worm their lying, cussing, angry, defiant, sweet, funny, lonely little selves right into your heart.

Working in a group home is the pits. Living there must be two-thousand times worse. Three thousand.

There are up to eight different personalities at any one time where I work: These kids have to room together, eat together, watch tv together, ride in a big red van together; fight for hierarchy. They hate each other; but they bond and become “bro’s”. For awhile. Then someone new comes along, and the old friend is now low-man on the totem pole. Or somebody rats someone out. Or they run away.

When the kiddos turn 18, we turn them loose. Not “us” per se. The state does this. We are a non profit agency and just house these children. We follow the rules that the guardian(state) gives us.

These youngsters can’t wait to leave us. We’re “mean”, we have rules. They have bedtimes and study hour; they have to ask every time they want to go to their room. Oh, they can’t wait to turn 18! They can smoke without getting cited. They don’t have to ask if they can take a piss. They are out of the system! They’re FREE!

The new-found freedom lasts for a few hours. Then they are hungry. Then they need to sleep somewhere. They want more pot, more pills, whatever…so they can numb themselves again from whence they came. What I mean by that is, you can show/teach/guide these kids in different directions, but they always go back to what they know. It is their script. Parents: It all boils down to how you love your children as babies. I mean it. If you don't fire those neurons when they are infants...the DO NOT wire. It's over.

Shortly after dischage, we start getting calls at the group home. “Hey, it's me. How are ya? So…I’m having a baby. Do you and Leah still work on Sunday’s? Ya? Maybe I’ll stop by.”

For those of us who sneak our cell phone numbers to some of these kids…we get calls; texts, even years later after they’ve left us. Sometimes at midnight they start rolling in. “My cat got killed by our dog,” cries one little boy.
“My dad passed away,” says another young man.
It just breaks my heart that WE are the ones these kids call first when their cat dies, or they gave birth to a child, etc. etc. Well, breaks my heart and makes me feel good at the same time. To me, it means I’ve done my job if these kids know I genuinely care about them. That is one HARD concept for most of them to grasp. Truly.

“I’ve just been getting fucked up. I’m so sick of everything…I just wanna get fucked up and pass on.” Those are the hard calls. It’s absolutely heart wrenching. And it's impossible to leave your job at work. I thought I learned not to “bring it home with me” a long time ago. Nope. It always sneaks back in.

I know this is a struggle for most people in any line of work. I have both literally and figuratively brought my work home. My husband and I fostered a little girl for one year. But that is a whole other story. And long one at that. In fact, it's turning into a book on my computer.

What does “The System” do for these kids? We pass them around from group home, to foster care, to therapeutic group home, to residential treatment, to foster home, to group home, to detention, to hospitalization, to group home. Then they turn 18.

Truly…this is a vicious cycle. From every “important” meeting I attend: TREATMENT TEAM MEETING, CHILD-CENTERED MEETING, FOSTER CARE REVIEW, you name it. They are all pretend. They say the same thing in every meeting, and everyone types up fancy things: Stages of so and so’s anger and what to do and how to handle each stage. Here is a quote from one little girls psychological anger profile: stage one: “Turns red in the face and yells.” OH! I get it! Rocket science! THANK YOU FOR LETTING US KNOW THIS. WOW! WE WILL BE ABLE TO HANDLE HER SO MUCH BETTER NOW THAT WE KNOW THIS SIGN! ALL of the meetings are like this. “Oh…yes, we are working on getting the siblings some visits together.” Then they say it the next month, and the following month, and the next and the next and the next and the next.

How to we break this multifacited and vicious cycle?

Christmas Eve

One thing I will never know, is how my mother does this, not only every year…but every DAY. Every DAY of her life she has had three homemade meals on the table, the mess cleaned up immediately afterwards, the house was ALWAYS clean, never was there one day where things were a mess (well, other than my bedroom). We could always have our friends over without embarrassment. She remembered everything for us, things were always done when they were supposed to be and never, ever forgotten. Cookies would be delivered to school on the day it was my turn, picture money turned in, papers signed. My bed was made every single day, but NOT by me. To this day, I do not understand why you would make a bed when you are just going to get back in it. All of these things were done humbly and without one sigh.

My two oldest girls are home for Christmas, so today I made lunch AND supper. Here’s the deal though, the manicotti was frozen stuff from Costco. Of course, I added salad and bread, (which required a lot of chopping). And the other meal was pulled chicken sandwiches and cheesy potatoes. (Again, both frozen from Costco) But as my kids told me, “You would never know the chicken was frozen mom, because you put it in this pretty bowl.” Guess I should have switched out containers for the potatoes too. The thing is…WHAT A MESS IT ALL MAKES. I swear, I had to clean that kitchen five or six times from messes today!! That takes FOREVER…get all the gross dirties together, wash, put things away, put dishes away again, wipe the counters…well, AFTER you get rid of mail piles, pens, catalogs, and who knows what else. In between all of that cleaning, I was making Christmas Wreath treats, peanut clusters, lime buttermint salad for tomorrow, the kids made bon bons and sugar cookies. I chopped all sorts of veggies for the tray tomorrow and made “real” dough for rolls…I made my Great-Grandma Swanson’s Swedish Sweet Rolls. (THAT doesn’t happen very often) What a freakin’ nightmare. I groaned and whined and complained all the way leading up to, and during that process. My mother would NEVER whine or complain!!!! Not over her dead body!!! Where did I come from?

Mind you, during all of this kitchen fiasco, the living room had to be cleaned and stay clean, laundry had to be going because seven people were in this house, one who is home from college with loads and loads. My kids, unlike me and my sisters, were SUCH a big help!!! Sarah kept the laundry going, cleaned Signe’s room (Signe helped), and cleared off my horrendous kitchen counter of my “important” piles (one thing of which was my Christmas letter from 2008/2009 which hasn’t been mailed yet). Paige went back and forth to Slater’s house, as he is home from college too, she also made sugar cookies, kept the little ones in line and taught Tuesday how to knit a scarf. Sophia made bon bons and flitted around being 13 and pretty. Signe took Corduroy, the 90 pound pup, for walks out in the cold and snow. Tuesday sat and knitted a WHOLE scarf and kept us laughing with her blond moments. “Mom, you guys sure do have a lot of weird hats on that hall tree”.

“Do we?” I said.

“What?” says Tues.

“Do we?”

“What?

“DO WE?” I yell.

“Who’s Duey?” Tuesday wonders aloud.

Ugh.

We also fit some Wii Just Dance 2 in, a small bit of Guitar Hero, presents and more presents were wrapped. Not to mention not only was the living room cleaned, but the whole thing had to be rearranged because my children are all OCD about where they sit to open presents on Christmas morning. They recreate the living room like our home in Wisconsin so they can sit exactly where they “used to” in our “real house”.

Well, it’s ten minutes til midnight now. There are still loud children in the living room. Dave has now taken over wrapping duty, Santa still has to come, he will have to write letters, there is still sugar cookie mess all over the kitchen. And like I said. I’m beat. I quit. We are having company for Christmas tomorrow. Real people. That always stresses me out. How on Earth will this house be clean by dinner time with our aftermath Christmas morning?!

Well, time to put cookies and milk out...some carrots for Rudolph too.  And I haven't read a Christmas story to the girls yet this season!  So I need to do that.
Merry Christmas to all!  And to all a good night!

Addendum:  Coming out of hiding from my bedroom, I found the reason the girls were so noisy.  Their movie was over and they were cleaning up!  The sugar cookie mess was fixed, the kitchen table clear again, and the livingroom ready for Santa to arrive...plate of cookies included! Signe even counted and put out one carrot for each reindeer.  We couldn't find our normal "Santa's cookie plate" that we always use...but they found a substitute.  I even heard my oldest reminding the "baby" to brush her teeth before bed.  Sweet girls <3  I read them a story as their little eyes closed.  

It's 2am now.  We are just finishing up.  It never matters how much you prepare ahead of time.  Dave has done something new this year...he just finished "papering" the girls into all of their bedrooms.  He has taken wrapping paper and wrapped the entrances to their doors...so when they open them in the morning they will crash into and tear through their doors...haha hope I'm awake to see that!

Snorting Stan's Mother

There were always big bumps in the night.

As a Therapeutic Youth Care Worker when I worked overnights, I might be folding laundry when I’d hear a “thump” and the ceiling would shake. I’d tiptoe upstairs with my trusty flashlight, only to find four kids fast asleep. I could’ve sworn somebody must’ve fallen out of bed or threw the fire escape ladder out the window to “run.” Nope. Never.


Always sleeping children.


My first night on the job-- it was about midnight and the rest of the staff had just gotten back from our annual Gala. Two of the gals were sitting on the sofa in the living room. As I walked from the kitchen toward them, one of them jumped. I heard her say, “Oh, I thought it was the ghost”. It was just a reflection from the flashlight. Mind you, she didn’t say “a ghost”, she said “the ghost”. Big difference. “Is there something you guys aren’t telling the new overnighter??“ They just stared at each other.


My first week on the job there were numerous “doorbell rings” in the middle of the night. No one was ever there. Oh, how I hated that. It stood the hairs on the back of my neck straight up. I finally had the house manager disconnect the doorbell…and after eight months, I finally moved to days---someone else could have the thumps. They could also have the static-filled baby monitors that we used to listen to our teenagers trying to sneak a smoke or plot whatever else was on their minds. The only sounds we ever picked up on those things were babies crying. But we didn’t have babies. We were a shelter for children aged 10 -18 years old.


When a youth comes under our care, one of the first things we do is inventory all of their belongings. Some of these kids are just getting out of jail, some are awaiting foster care placement, or maybe a higher level of care somewhere. Many are taken from their homes because of neglect, abuse or both.


One of my very first experiences with inventory went like this: I was still working overnights when this big, hairy kid got dropped off. He was 16 years old, six foot two, long hair, scruffy sideburns, and big, baggy clothes. I got him settled in his room and started writing down everything he owned. I’m sitting on the couch with his file on my lap. I come to this little blue jar tucked inside two baggies. There are rubber bands holding the lid in place. I carefully take it out of the baggies, slide the rubber bands off and lift the little lid. Just as I feared…drugs! I was pretty new at this job and I didn’t know the protocol in this situation. I knew this was serious because my adrenaline was pumping.


Being naive and not knowing what drugs looked like, I decided to sniff it. I was pretty sure I could at least identify pot. There was no odor as I basically snorted the stuff, some of it blew down to my papers. As I licked my finger about to pick some up to taste, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: What if this is a relative? I did not taste it. Scraping up the scattered remains, I put the jar back together as best I could. I wrote on his inventory: “relative?? haha”. I have an odd sense of humor. I was seriously making a joke when I wrote that down.


I went to my boss the next morning and told her what had happened. I told her my fears of finding some crack-cocaine or something of the like. She told me to just go ask the young man.


I took the jar and was visibly shaking as I walked the hallway toward his room. I was not very confident with confrontation in those days. Intimidation is more the word. He opened his door just as I was about to knock. He towered over me. I said, “Stan?” He looked down at me. “Ya?” He mumbled.


“Could you tell me what’s in here?”


“My mom”.


“Oh”, I said in my best, this-is-the-most-normal-thing-I-have-ever-heard-in-the-world-and-I-snorted-your-mother, voice I could muster. “OK”.
 
Ever since the day I had to confront Stan, sadly, there have been a few more occasions where we encounter cremated parents.  On the positive side of things,  I do know now the difference between drugs, and loved ones. 
 

The Suitcase

I am getting ready this week to take my daughter on a couple of college-visit trips out of state.  My grandmother gave me a nice set of luggage for my high school graduation, (ya...that was a few years ago)  so I dug my Samsonite out of the storage room (where the litter box is) and ugh...did the suitcase ever stink!  That made me sad;  I'm pretty sentimental about this suitcase. 

I washed the outside of it with soap and water, put it on the porch in the sun, and let it air out.  That didn't work.  Next, I took some Scentsy room spray and squirted the inside of the suitcase, set it back outside and let it dry again.  Well, by the next day, I think it smelled OK, but it left grease on the lining so now I'm afraid my clothes will get spotted.  (Scentsy room spray is not made for cloth!  I knew this)

There were some Top Ramen noodles in the bottom of the suitcase, not sure why, so I got out the Kirby and sucked them up.  Problem is, the lining got sucked up too.  Not a good scene.  This made me cry. ( I told you I am sentimental about this suitcase) The main reason I am sentimental over it is because it is from Grandmama.  Not to mention,there are MANY old "pieces" of tags hanging from handle. This piece of luggage has seen a lot of places.  On its last few trips, I wasn't sure it was gonna make it through the baggage-man-beating...being thrown into the cargo of a plane, so it has duct tape wrapped around and around it.

My hubby saw me crying and put his arms around me and said the right things.  He knew.  But then he whispered, "Daddy's Girl".  I'm like, "What?"  And he said, "Well, you know, the duct tape and everything."  Guess he has a point.

I decided to call my dad at this point.  He wasn't home, so I talked to my mom.  Of course, she didn't "get it".  (Sorry, no offense mom, really) She said, "Oh, I'm sorry it smells like cat pee".  Well, that wasn't the point at all.  So next she says, "Get a laundry basket, that's how I travel."  Oh, the ever practical mother.  No thanks...I am NOT using a laundry basket to travel. 

Next I called my Aunt Kathy.  I KNEW she would "get it."  She did.  I cried, and she said all the right things.  "Grandma would be proud of you...IS proud of you...have a whole bunch of fun on your trip; Grandma would just laugh about this.  Put some fabric softener sheets in your suitcase (already did that...two great minds) Go to the mall and pick out a new red suitcase, red was Grandma's favorite color, and it'll be just like it was from her...now be sure to pack cute outfits and everything will be OK."  It was a quick phone call, to the point, and I was all better. 

I lined the inside with garbage bags (hubby's idea cuz he said the bounce would absorb the grease and still get on my clothing) and packed.  I decided my suitcase is not "broken" anymore.  After all, it still pretty much shuts.  And I kinda dig the duct tape, the cracks, the broken-handle-so-I-can't-wheel-it-anymore, all of the strings hanging off of it, and the smell. Off to Colorado!