Oh Danny Boy

Friday night when I volunteered, I played with a number of the children.  But a 2-year-old named Danny* stuck out for me.

He was there last week and needed a staff person with him constantly.  He had trouble with hurting other kids for no reason.  Well...I'm sure he sometimes had his reasons.  He would reach out and grab and pinch other children or hit them.  He needed to be watched at every moment and redirected to do "nice touch."  This week he was much better.  He didn't need someone watching him like a hawk.  He still wanted to resolve problems by hitting, but he wasn't indiscriminately trying to hurt others.

He found a small rubber ball (too big to choke on.)  He began to throw it around the playroom and chase after it while it bounced crazily around.  I tried to get him to play a game with me of rolling it along the floor back and forth to each other.  He was hip to the game for about thirty seconds.  Throwing and chasing was much more fun.

At first there were not many other children in the playroom, so his throwing was moderately safe.  As more children came in, it became a bigger problem.  There was a very good chance someone would be hit with it and a few of the other children wanted to chase the ball too.  Danny got very upset if another kid went near his ball.  He's not very verbal so he screeches loudly to show his displeasure and gets close to throwing a tantrum.  We mediated a few spats and asked the older kids to let him play by himself.  But it kept happening.  And Danny was getting more and more ramped up.

I finally knelt down next to him and told him, "Danny, no more throwing the ball.  You can hold on to your ball, but there are too many people in here. So no more throwing, okay?"  He was wiggling and whining as I talked to him and I was aware that at his age, he was not able to fully understand what I told him.  He did stop throwing the ball for about a minute.  I was shocked it worked at all.

So, as is completely understandable for his age, he started throwing the ball again.  I made an executive decision.  I took the ball away from him and told him, "We are done with the ball.  No more ball."  Now that I write it down it sounds mean.  But it wasn't!  I said it as nicely as I could, but also firmly.  I wasn't going to give him a long explanation or try to reason with him.  It needed to stop and he needed it to stop.  He was getting really worked up each time another child tried to get his ball.  I took the ball out of the playroom and put it on a shelf in the kitchen area - in a different room, completely out of sight.

When I came back, he was throwing a small fit.  I tried to get his attention with some new excitement - "Danny, want to go play with CARS?!"  He kept screeching and throwing his fit.  I walked across the room and sat in a chair to give him time to calm down.  Then he surprised me.  He got up and walked over to me.  He sat himself in my lap and snuggled close to me while he cried. "Awwww, it's okay," I told him.

He was crying and snuggling, and he seemed to be agitated by the other kids being nearby and looking at him.  So I took him to a seat in a corner further away from the general chaos.  It hit me then what a shame it was that he had to be there.  At that moment, he really needed to be brought to a quiet room by himself to calm down from all the stimulation.  But it wasn't going to happen.

The center is just not set up that way or staffed for that.  Everything is a group activity.  Volunteers cannot be alone with the children.**  I have to stay where the staff people are.  From what I have seen, the staff rarely take children off  to be by themselves.  They are always together in a group (except when sleeping when there are only 2-4 in the same room.)  Each staff person usually has one to three children who they are mainly responsible for.  But they still do everything together.  It doesn't seem like they have a mechanism in place for one to say to another, "This child needs some quiet time. Can you watch my other two for half an hour?"  Unless a child is having a total meltdown and then he is taken to his room.  It's too bad they can't do it before total meltdown happens.

I could be wrong since I am only there a few hours a week.  But it seems that the overall thinking is geared towards the needs of the group and less towards the individual needs of the child.  And maybe it is impossible for it to be any other way?  (No.  It could be different.  So says know-it-all Kathy.)

So the best that Danny was going to get that night was a slightly calmer corner of a loud and boisterous room.  Poor kid.  He is safe there and will get so many of his basic needs met.  But he is one of many and lots of things will be overlooked.   He deserves to have someone who loves him looking after his individual needs.  I hope that happens for him soon.

*I never use real names.

**We have been given long, thorough background checks before we are able to volunteer.  My fingerprints were run by the state and the FBI.  But I do understand the policy of not letting volunteers be alone with the children.  With that age group, the staff has to constantly keep a count of children and can't have volunteers wandering off with them.  Also, volunteers are given NO training. That's right - NONE.    (I've got a draft post with a whole rant about the volunteer coordinator and what a crappy, half-assed job this person does - but we don't have to get into that.)  So I understand keeping the volunteers supervised.  Just because we can pass a background check, doesn't mean we know anything about children or how to treat them.  And with zero training, the staff should be required to keep an eye on us.  Just because you are not a criminal, doesn't mean you're not a jackass.

I don't follow

I've been messing around with my blogger account today and figuring out how to follow blogs and add them to a reader.  I've been geeking out like this for at least an hour (okay, maybe two hours.)  I tend to investigate all possible settings and gadgets, just to see what they do.

So I have a question.  I used to bookmark blogs that I read.  But now that I follow them, what is the deal?  Is it considered proper Blogger etiquette to follow someone if they are following your blog?  Because I really DO NOT WANT people to follow me just because I follow them.   It is just not necessary.  Please, please and pretty please don't do it.  I beg you.  Only follow me if you are truly interested in what I have to say.  It would feel disingenuous to me and why waste your own precious time?

And so, as I emerge from my two hour techno-trance,  my right brain is tired of being ignored.  Here is my No Follow plea in poetry form:

A limerick:

Please and please don't follow me

If I am not your cup of tea

Life is too brief

So don't be a thief

Stealing time from yourself, what folly!

The old classic:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Don't follow me

just cuz I follow you.

Haiku:

How much time, really?

Do not waste one waking breath

on scattering words

(Okay, maybe my right brain was just tired.)

Original depiction of fictional anthropomorphic rabbit from 

the first chapter of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 1865

Later
And another thing- 
Please don't feel obligated to leave a comment on my blog just because I have left a comment on yours.  Again, it is just not necessary.  Comment if you feel like commenting. That's it.  And feel free to read along and never, ever comment. That is perfectly fine too.

So does this go against some sort of blogging community rules?  Am I being an online social misfit?  I guess I don't care if I am.  It takes time and energy to write comments.  I don't want anyone to do it out of a sense of obligation, especially if what they are saying has no real meaning to them and they are just doing it to be nice.  Save your time and energy for things that really matter to you.  Engage in a comment conversation when you really are moved to do it. 

I have this whole sonnet in Middle English about commenting prepared....nah...I'll spare you.

The Derek-bot Strikes Back

Follow up to this entry.

I didn't know he had it in him.  But I should have suspected all along.  Those $50 credit forms that he promised arrived rather quickly.  I know now that it was just a ploy to distract my attention.

I have two Citibank credit cards.  While I was calling to cancel one of them, I also had to make a payment over the phone for the other one.  They had issued a new card and number because of some security breach on their end. This is the second time they have done this.  Just another example of their twisted mind games, I'm sure.  So my online account access was limited and I could not make my payment online as I usually do.

Derek was more than happy to take care of that payment for me.  I could hear the smile in his voice.  I gave him the required routing number and account number from my check.  He read me the canned blurb from their payment script - "You authorize Citibank to make a payment in the amount of blah, blah, blah....."  I gave him my verbal consent and then we were on to other matters. 

I had spoken with the Derek-bot on a Sunday.  My payment was due on a Monday. On Wednesday I checked my account.  No payment was made and it now showed that I was late.

Well done, sir.

It was surprisingly easy to remedy.  I was ready to go into full battle mode. I had my cape and bullet-proof bracelets, Derek-bot's ID number, and the date and time of call in hand.  But it wasn't necessary.  I called and talked to Citibank's Amanda-bot and she was able to make the payment for me and change my grace period so that the payment did not record as late.

Of course, they couldn't just let it go at that.  My next statement arrived and it contains a line item that says "Late Payment - Fee Not Charged" with an amount of $0.00.  The Citibank version of a severed horse head in my bed.

Oh, I get your message, Citibank.  Don't you worry.  Enjoy your brief victory.  As I have said before...this is not over...

This is a PG version of the horse head in bed scene from The Godfather movie. 
I promise, it isn't scary or gross.

Not so perfect me

Immediately after I wrote my last entry, I thought to myself that it sounded a little arrogant. As if I were saying that I can do anything. That is not what I meant at all.  I am in touch with the reality that there are lots of things I can’t do.   My last post was more about my overall positive outlook on trying new things. And my sometimes naive idea that nothing bad will happen.  So to even out the cosmic blog karma, here's a list of things I am not good at.

Aerobics

Do people even call it that anymore? I could never pull off that kind of exercise class where your arms and legs had to do something different at the same time. To be truthful, I couldn’t even manage getting my legs to do the right steps. Lift, step, kick, step back, lift.  I couldn't follow and was probably as graceful as a cow in high heels.

I believe it has to do with thinking.  I'm fine with coordinating my limbs to jump up and hit a volleyball (which I used to be very good at.)  But that is mindless action.  I'm not thinking about what to do with my left leg or how to position my right arm.  I'm just doing.  The aerobics classes required me to think too much about how I was moving and my body wanted nothing to do with that.  My body is smart sometimes.  I should listen to it more.

Sales

I am WAY to practical and detail-oriented to ever be successful at selling. If I were trying to sell a bottle of water to a guy who had just emerged from twenty days in the desert, I’d bore him to death with the mundane facts about the water bottle and make sure he knew all of the issues facing him should he choose to make the purchase.  And if it didn’t seem like a good idea for them to buy it, I’d probably tell them that too.  He'd wander back into the desert - still thirsty - just to escape my pathetic sales pitch.

Spelunking

Not that I have ever tried this but I am pretty sure I could never do it. I’m a little bit claustrophobic, so the idea of squeezing myself through small passages in cold, wet caves makes me very, very nervous.  I used to read Outside magazine and there were stories of extreme cave explorers that fascinated and horrified me at the same time.  They wouldn't just explore caves by walking and crawling around them like normal lunatics.  They would go diving with specially-made rebreathing scuba gear into deep, unknown, water-filled caverns.  They needed the rebreathing gear because it allowed them to stay underwater for much longer periods of time - because they had NO IDEA where any of the caves would lead, or how long they would have to be underwater.  I shudder just thinking about it.  Here's a link to a story about that from 1996 if you want to freak yourself out.

Being myself

This should be an easy one, right?  Who else would I be?  But I have always had a hard time sharing myself - my true and real self - with others.  At some point when I was growing up, I seemed to get it in my head that my role in life was to be the good girl who never rocked the boat.  I was incredibly adept at hiding what I was really thinking or feeling.  I was an expert level pretender.  We are talking first round draft pick material, people.  If they had an Olympic event for it, I would have been looking like Micheal Phelps with stacks of medals hanging off my chest (or Mark Spitz, if that's your era.)  It became so ingrained in my personality that I really and truly did not even KNOW what I was feeling most of the time.  I took my cues from everyone around me and did my best to be what I thought everyone wanted me to be.

That is one of the reasons I struggled so much in college.  Up until that point, my world had been a place where I knew my role and was pretty damn good at it.  When I went off to college, suddenly no one was around to tell me who I was supposed to be.  I was so used to defining myself by the expectations of others, I had no idea what I really felt or wanted.  I was lost.

In the twenty years since then I've managed figure some things out and I am pretty confident about who I am.  But I still struggle to show myself to people.  I seem to have the most trouble with people I am closest to.  On most days, I could not care less what strangers think of me.  But I still find myself feeling like I have to meet some expectation with people closest to me.  Always be okay.  Always be fine.  Always be good.  Even when I feel like total shit.  I know that it is something I do to myself and I am working on changing it.

This blog has helped.  I am better at expressing myself in writing than I ever am in person.  And I can write something revealing or difficult and then shut off the computer and go dive under the covers and hide.  Time to take cover.

La douleur by Ernest Hulin (1882-1918)

Forklift Friday

It was forklift Friday for me today. I am most definitely an office worker, but in a small company there are times that you do whatever needs to get done.  On Fridays, I'm the only one here who knows how to drive the forklift. That is not a picture of our forklift.  The one in the picture is way cooler looking than ours.  Looks like you could go off road with that bad boy.

Today was an interesting challenge - find the one crate out of thirty-two on the pallet rack and take it down, all while maneuvering in a very tight space because the guys had left a whole bunch of stuff crowding the shelves in the warehouse. It would boring to explain it, but let's just say that it would have made a good YouTube video. The one where they play goofy circus music while you watch the dummy on the forklift - move forward, back up, move forward, back up, turn too far, pull the pallet halfway out, push it back in, move forward, back up, pull the lift up too fast and dent the shelf above, back up, move forward, turn too far, etc. There were also various scraping noises involved.  I did successfully get the 400 pound crate on the ground and nobody was killed.

The next task was to try to put the crate in the back of a guy's SUV.  Ha!  He did not witness the previous forklift episode, but I showed him the dented shelf and told him that was my handiwork.  But I was the only one here and if he wanted to try it, I was his only choice.  He was a risk-taker. We tried it.  It actually went well - no scraping or denting this time.  It just wasn't possible to do it without crushing the back door of his SUV. We jointly decided against that.

There was almost a third opportunity to drive the forklift today because we had a truck come to pick up two outgoing crate shipments. But I decided not to push my luck and let the truck driver do it.  I'm actually not a bad forklift driver. The pallet rack incident was the first time I felt stupid.

So how do I know how to drive a forklift?  Just had one of the guys show me - on-off, forward-backward, up-down. Not that hard.

I have always had a good amount of what you might call blind confidence.  I just never think that there is any reason I couldn't do something.  And if there are doubts, I have the ability to act like I know what I am doing, at least until I really figure it out.  I can't say that this has led to an exciting life full of daring escapades or stupid risks.  It just leads to things like trying to juggle eggs in Beth's kitchen when I was a kid.  I was sure I could do it!

Or driving from Boston to LA by myself in a borrowed car in five days when I was 24.  Stopped at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis and the Grand Canyon.  The rest of it was just highways and motels. How could anything possibly have gone wrong there? (And nothing did!)

In college, driving the church van by myself in New York City to pick up the local disadvantaged youth and bring them to Sunday school. Going in to seedy looking apartment buildings to get them if they weren't waiting outside (even though the priest told me not to.)  I wasn't going to just leave them. How could anything bad have happened?  (Nothing ever did.)

Going into a crack house and watching a woman who was overdosing have seizures while I was training to be an EMT in New York City.  In this case, I wasn't actually required to do anything.  I was just riding along as part of the training.  How could I not pull that off?

Moving to California in my early twenties with no money, no job, using credit cards for everything and having only a friend's living room to sleep in.  How could that NOT be a recipe for success?  It all worked out exceptionally well.  Found a great job that made me an imaginary millionaire for a brief time.  Found a beautiful, rent-controlled apartment right in San Francisco and lived there for eight years.

Okay, maybe I have done some stupid things.  Now that I really start to think about it, there were plenty of stupid, risky things I have done based on my blind confidence that nothing bad could happen.  So I must be blessed or watched over by guardian angels.  I am grateful for that. They haven't had to work too hard lately.  My life has been relatively sedate these past years.

But you never know.  If I find myself in Beth's kitchen again, I might have to try that egg juggling trick just one more time.  I know I can do it!

Angel by Abbott Handerson Thayer, 1889

Arrrrrggggghhhhhhh!

Because I am from New England, I was watching the results of the vote on gay marriage going on in Maine.  From the title of this post you can probably tell how I feel about the results.

Last year, I wrote about my disappointment with the outcome of Prop 8 here in California.

Most of my links from that earlier post don't seem to work anymore, but here's a new one: 

Ad says gay marriage will be taught in schools; Maine officials disagree

The man who ran the campaign in California also ran Maine's Yes on 1 campaign.  I think it is a shame that they used the same tactic of misleading people about how the law would impact what was taught to our vulnerable, innocent children in schools.   Lying stinks.  Let's teach that to our children.

You know what I hope that they are teaching in our schools?  Civility and basic human decency.  You can't make fun of Johnny because he has two Moms.  You can't pick on Jenny because she likes to play with trucks.  Some people don't look just like you.  Some people don't act or think just like you.  They deserve your respect and you should treat them with kindness.  If they are reading a book about how different families look, that is what they are teaching. 

This book on Amazon.

A Dorothy Day

It is 
unusually 
blustery and 
windy 
this morning.

I'm going to 
grab my basket 
and 
go 
see 

what the wizard is up to.

We meet again, dear Citibank...

Oh Citibank!  When will you learn?  You are going up against a superhero - don't you get that yet?!   You can try to trip me up, but it won't work!  I have powers that you cannot overcome.

We have battled before - oh yes, we have.  Did you learn nothing from that encounter?  Were you not sufficiently humbled and awestruck by my incredibleness?

My special offer for 1.5 airline miles for every dollar spent was good for one year.  That year was almost up.  You were getting ready to charge me a $50 annual fee - you know you were.  That's why I was calling to cancel my card before the fee kicked in.  The whole balance was paid off and the card was no longer being used.

Your weapon of choice this time was Derek.  He was no Joe, but his amiable manner could have lulled mere mortals in to a peaceful stupor where they wouldn't have expected your duplicity.  But my defenses would not be cracked with pleasant chit-chat about the unseasonably warm weather in Nebraska that day.

I told Derek straight up - I was going to cancel my card because I didn't want to pay an annual fee and in truth, I was only using you for the extra miles.  He complimented me on my responsible use of the Citibank credit cards.  He was sorry to hear that I wanted to cancel.  Then he dispensed with the soothing platitudes and brought out the big guns.  He would sign me up to get DOUBLE miles for the next three months if I stayed on.  He would also take care of that $50 annual fee.

Derek, you sly devil.  You were on to my weakness.  I was jonesing for more miles like a crackhead for the pipe and you could smell it.

But you won't just GIVE me the $50.  Of course not.  You will mail me a form that I have to sign and mail back and THEN you will credit my account $50.  Nicely played, Citibank.  I expected such treachery.  Your tangled web of paperwork will not defeat me.

I agree to your terms.  I will await your form.  I will gleefully rack up my double miles and pay the balance off every month.  And don't think you can "forget" to send me the form.  I have the badge number of your Derek-bot and I won't hesitate to use it. 

It's been lovely to tangle with you again, dear Citibank.  Really it has.  But you and I both know  - this is not over...

my Friday lesson

My Friday night ended with me in the bedroom of three little boys singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

Jonathan, age 4, has been there before.  For at least a month the last time.  All the staff know him.  He was gone for a while, but now he's back.  It probably does not mean good things are happening in his life if he's back there again.  Poor kid. 

Mikey, also 4, got attached to me.  I never deliberately try to make this happen.  I always let the children approach me and decide how long they want to hang with me.  I don't follow them around the playroom or try to sit next to them on the couch.  I am actually quite passive.  Except when a child needs some redirection or a toddler dispute needs mediating.

Mikey needed coaxing to go take a shower.  I helped him by telling him that I'd stay outside the bathroom door while he was in there and wait for him.  The staff do the bathing and dressing. Then I did one of the worst things I could do.  I didn't keep my promise.  I completely forgot what I had said and wandered away from the door.  He came out of the shower room, glared at me and said "You didn't stay at the door!"  I apologized and told him how sorry I was that I forgot.  He grabbed my hand to try to squeeze it and pinch me because he was so mad.  I tried to get him to tell me how mad he was and I kept saying sorry.  He still seemed angry, but he let me help him put his socks on. 

He sat next to me during movie time (Toy Story 2.)  It was a rowdy night in the toddler section.  There were at least twenty children there.  Lots of staff, but it was still a bit loud.

When it was bedtime Mikey got nervous and didn't want me to leave.  I told him I'd read him a story and that's how I ended up in the room with the three boys.   It is not easy to get three 4-year-olds to wind down when they have just come from being in a noisy room with twenty other toddlers.  I read a book.  We sang songs (softly.)  I turned down the lights.  I spoke softly to them and eventually got us all down to whispers.  I was in there for an hour before they began to settle down.

When they had quieted down a bit, I tried to leave but Mikey wasn't having any of that.  He sat up and told me that if I left then he was coming with me.  He was determined and put his two feet on the floor and would not get back under his covers until I told him I would stay.

So I sat on the floor, aware of the minutes passing by and annoyed at the staff chatting in the hallway.  (Um...ladies?  Children trying to sleep in here!)  I was thinking to myself, "Okay, what can I do to get them to sleep faster so I can get out of here?"  And then I realized - why do I care how fast they fall asleep?  Where do I have to go?  I'll just go home, eat a late dinner and sit in front of the TV.  Why am I in such a hurry to do that?

The meaninglessness of my work life has been bothering me lately.  I like the people I work with.  I enjoy the freedom that I have and the fact that in a typical day I get to use both my left and right brain.  I am grateful that my efforts contribute to this company staying afloat and therefore seven other people get to keep their jobs. But really, what I am doing?  Helping to sell stupid crap that nobody really needs.

This volunteer thing is the best thing I do for my soul all week. 

Once I realized that, I sat there in the dark with the three boys with a much calmer mind and heart.  I rubbed Mikey's back for a while.  Then rubbed Jonathan's back.  I was no longer focused on completing a task.  I was just happy to be there with them and glad to know that my presence brought them comfort.

Study of a Sleeping Child by Václav Malý

Nobody puts Baby in a corner (or gets in the way of her morning coffee)

So this morning, I had a little encounter with an 18 to 20-year-old “I am invincible and look how fast my car can go” young man.  You know the ones I am talking about.  They speed through parking lots in their crappy Hondas; race through our neighborhoods with their Nisson POS; and hold the mistaken notion that they have complete control over their cars and all the other objects in the world around them.

It was a battle over the Starbucks' drive-thru.  The young man didn’t stand a chance.

The Starbucks was on a busy road with a small parking lot.  I entered the Starbucks' parking lot from the road – what you might call the front entrance.  He went around to enter from the back alley.  There was a minivan pulling out of a parking space in front of me, so I patiently waited.  The minivan then headed in the direction of the back alley to exit.  The young man came flying around that corner, clearly intent on cutting me off and getting to that drive-thru first.  According to my set of rules, if I am in the parking lot first, I get to go first.  I sometimes enter from the back alley, but if there is a car already in the parking lot, heading for the drive-thru, I defer to them and let them go ahead. 

So he comes whipping around the corner and he most definitely should have slowed down when he saw the minivan heading towards him.  I'm sure the minivan had to slam on its brakes.  But he didn’t slow down at all.  I saw his intention and did not hesitate.  I had a little jump on him so I refused to back down and kept going at a normal speed right into the drive-thru ahead of him.  It was close.  Very close.  We didn’t make eye contact.  I tried to act like it was oh-so casual.

What I did next is a little weird.  I felt like I had the right to gloat a little about my victory.  Maybe flip him off and say, "Ha, ha you little jerk.  I win!"

But instead I paid for his coffee.  Take that, punk!

 Dame mit Kaffeetasse (Lady with Coffee Cup) by Emile Eisman-Semenowsky

I don't know what possessed me to do it.  I might have felt slightly bad about our aggressive interaction. But only a little.  I think it was more that I was delighting in my *****Winner***** status.  I would be a benevolent dictator and buy coffee for all of the peasants.  ("Shirley Temples all around!")  Perhaps, I was trying to teach him that there are people in the world who can respond to his jerk behavior with only kindness and love.  Make him think a little about how he acts and maybe, just maybe, feel a tiny bit ashamed of himself.

Later I realized that, if he is like a typical 18-year-old male, he might not have gotten my happy-hippie peace-and-love message.  He might have thought I was trying to hit on him.  Ewwww!  That's just what the world needs - this young man's ego puffed up some more.  

"Chicks buy me coffee!  Must be the car."

Last photo is Portrait of a Young Man by Agnolo Bronzinon

An important question

Is Dr. Oz a Vulcan?

 

Has anyone ever explored this question?

 It is more noticeable when you see him on TV.  The eyebrows.  The ears.  The giant brain.

 

It just makes sense, doesn't it?

Memory

I downloaded this song from iTunes this week:



I am amazed that I still know all the words - what - 30 years later? I'm fascinated by the fact that there is a place in my brain where the lyrics to this song reside. There are neurons buried somewhere in that soft gray mass in my head, which have been so deeply imprinted by this song that even though I rarely access the memory, it is still there in full. A cascade of synapses fire, sleepy neural pathways awaken and these silly lyrics pour out of my mouth. I am in awe of that power.

But I am also mystified by how variable and unreliable memory can be. Beth just told me about the time that she came to visit me while I was at college in New York. I have absolutely NO memory of that. NONE. She says that she has pictures of me in my dorm room. I remember my dorm room, but don't remember Beth ever being there. She remembers that we went sightseeing together and saw the Empire State Building. If you asked me if I had ever been to the Empire State Building, I would have told you no. Even though Beth filled in some of the details of her visit, I can not conjure up a single thread of a memory about it.

So strange. So random. I suppose every memory is a miracle.

I hope when I am 96 and sitting in my nursing home chair, that I bust out this song and all the staff look at me funny. (And then probably increase my meds.)

Said a hip, hop, hippy to the hippy to hip hip a-hoppin' you don't stop rockin' to the bang bang boogie said up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie-bee.

Party Pooper

Gross discussion of bodily functions below. If you can't handle it, stop reading.

QUESTION:
Should a person be worried if her (kinda loose) poop this morning was a bright red color?

ANSWER:
Not if she drank a huge glass of beet juice last night.

This happened to me this morning. When I noticed it, I started to think, "What the...." and then I remembered the beet juice.

Actually it was orange/beet juice but the orange flavor was nowhere to be found. Beets just take over everything. Like some obnoxious guest at a party who hijacks every conversation and has to be the center of attention the whole time.

I'm roasting a bunch of vegetables in the oven right now, including beets.

The beets had better not ruin the party.

A good night

It's not always crazy or difficult or heartbreaking when I volunteer. It seems that I tend to write about the times that frustrate me. Probably because it is a good way to vent those feelings.

This past Friday was a good night with an interesting group of kids. Ages ranged from 3 to 6. They all seemed rather well adjusted and relaxed. They played really well together - very few episodes of squabbling, grabbing of toys or acting out. It was nice.

I played dolls with a 5-year-old who was a great Mommy. Tucked her dolls in with blankets and then grabbed a play purse and said, "I'm going out for a while. You watch them and I'll be back in a little bit." She walked around the playroom in a very determined way, like she was really intent on getting some errands done. When she got back, I gave her the report that all of the babies were good while she was out.


The fire alarm went off in the building while we were in the playroom. A piercing, high-pitched alarm that forces you to leave because it makes you feel like your brain is going to melt. Everyone was extremely calm and all the children walked quietly out of the building with staff shepherding them along. One of the staff counted the kids twice as we headed for the door. Not one kid got freaked out by the squealing alarm and flashing lights.

They have a big plastic stroller outside, with seats for six. Six kids got strapped in and two others just held hands with us. The stroller would be used to move the children quickly if there were a real emergency. We stood outside the building for a few minutes until someone determined that it had been a false alarm and we all went back inside. I was impressed by how calm all of the children remained throughout the whole thing. I think six of them were quite disappointed that they didn't actually get to take a ride in the big, plastic stroller.

Overall, it was a good night and I had fun.

Things NOT to do while driving

1. Talk on your cell phone.

2. Text on your cell phone. (It is amazing to me that laws have to be created for this one.)

3. Stare at your digital odometer when it shows 99,999 miles because you want to see it change to 100,000 miles.

I have done #1 on rare occasions. Yes, that's right. I'll admit it. But I choose not to do it on a regular basis. No phone call is worth the distraction. If I were the preeminent emergency brain surgery expert who had to take calls from other doctors attempting to save lives - then MAYBE. Maybe I would take a call while driving.

If I ever attempted to do #2, you would be reading about the horrible crash that I would inevitably cause after making that colossally stupid decision.

I did #3. My beautiful 2001 Prius has hit 100,000. On my lunch break from work, I knew it was about to happen. I really did stare at the odometer a bit too much, drove slower than I usually do and was a potential menace on the roads. But I did see it change to 100,000!


I never understood people who get emotionally attached to cars. A car should just be basic transportation. It gets you from one place to another. That's it.

But I have to say that I love my Prius. I love its dark green color. I love its compactness. I love how quiet it is when it runs only on battery power. If anything happened to it, I would be sad. I'd have to grieve for a while. And I'd miss it. I hope it lasts another 100,000 miles.

The most popular girl in the room - unfortunately

I volunteered this past Friday and Saturday nights.

I have decided to make up fake names for the kids when I talk about them. It's easier than saying the 5-year-old, the 3-year-old. To protect their privacy, the names that I make up won't even be close to the children's real names. Also, I will not describe them physically or say very much about why they are there.

Max Liebermann: Kleinkinderschule (Bewaarschool) in Amsterdam, 1880

On Friday I spent time with Linda, a very quiet 5-year-old girl. She gradually opened up and near the end of the night told me a little about her mother and her older brother. Then she asked when I would come back. I told her it wouldn't be for many days because next week I'll be out of town.

I usually don't go on Saturdays, but I decided to go because I was thinking about Linda and the fact that I wouldn't be able to go back for while. When I got to the playroom, Linda was in a another room getting a shower so I started to read books with a cheerful 3-year-old named Joy. Actually, it was more like Joy reading books to me. She would turn the pages and chatter happily about whatever was pictured in the book.

Then a 5-year-old named Jennifer comes into the playroom after her shower. Jennifer is looking lost and crying for her mother. She must have arrived today, because she was not there last night. I ask her if she wants to read books with us. She says yes and sits on my lap. She is still crying and I listen to her while she tells me that she wants her mommy. I hug her and try to comfort her as best I can.

Linda shows up after her shower and sits down next to me. I have Linda and Jennifer each pick out a book. We read. Jennifer cries and says she wants her mommy. I continue to hold her and try to comfort her. Linda gets a sad look on her face and whispers something about her mommy under her breath. I ask Linda, "Do you miss your mommy too?" She nods her head solemnly and a tear rolls down her face. With crying Jennifer in my lap, I reach over and put my arm around Linda and tell her, "I know you miss your mommy." Linda doesn't go into full blown crying and I can see that a little bit of attention from me makes her feel better. Joy is still happily reading to herself near us.

We leave the playroom to have a snack in the kitchen. After snack time, everyone sits on the floor in the living room for singing time. The singing starts but Jennifer, still crying, leaves the floor and crawls onto the end of the couch. I'm sitting in the middle of the couch. I am hoping one of the staff will go to her. I'm only here a couple of hours a week. Wouldn't it be better for the person who is going to be spending the whole night with Jennifer to go and comfort her? Give this frightened child a chance to bond with someone other than the lone volunteer who is going to leave in an hour?


All through singing time, Jennifer is on one end of the couch, alone and crying. I'm staying on my side of the couch - waiting, waiting, waiting. Hoping a staff will reach out to her. Singing ends and they start the movie. None of the staff go near Jennifer. Finally, I can't take it anymore. I move over to Jennifer, take her in my lap and hold her while she cries. When the movie starts, Joy comes near me and also starts to say she misses her mommy. Joy sits to my right and alternates between happily watching the movie and saying she wants her mommy. Linda comes over and sits to my left. I try to smile at her and talk to her during the movie so she doesn't feel left out. She smiles back.

At one point during the movie I have crying Jennifer on my lap, Joy snuggling on my right, Linda sitting quietly on my left and a 3-year-old comes over and leans against my legs while watching the movie. I am a kid magnet.

The night has a painful ending. Joy, Linda and Jennifer all want me to read them a book in their rooms. Luckily, Linda and Jennifer are in the same room. I go to their room and start to read. Joy is screaming because she wants me in her room. I finish the book and say goodnight to Linda and Jennifer. Linda smiles at me. Jennifer continues to cry.

I go into Joy's room and she stops screaming. I read a book to her and her sister. I hear Jennifer start to cry loudly in the other room. After I finish the book I try to say goodnight to Joy and her sister and leave. I really want to go see how Jennifer is doing. But Joy starts to scream again when I try to leave. So I stay in Joy's room and sit by her bed while she falls asleep.

While I am sitting with Joy, Jennifer has escalated to screaming in the next room. I feel horrible that I can't be in both rooms at once and that I have abandoned Jennifer, who was so fragile and vulnerable all night. I hear them take Jennifer out of that room and into another. Eventually, Joy falls asleep and Jennifer quiets down.

I leave.

A heartbreaking night.

Fra Angelico

Operation Enthusiastic Cupcake!

The plan is in place.

Cupcakes have been baked and frosted.

Mr. Roger's Day at the Circus DVD has been ordered.
My smiling muscles have been assigned a rigorous training regimen.

Operation Enthusiastic Cupcake
has begun.

No, that is not me. She looks pretty enthusiastic though, doesn't she?

I have become tired of hearing myself complain about the movies that they show to the youngsters at the place where I volunteer. If I am not going to try to do anything about it, then I should shut my mouth.

So, what to do?

One of the reasons I haven't said anything to the staff about it is because I have never felt quite comfortable with them. Never felt like they even wanted me there. I have been going there once or twice a week since March and none of them have ever asked me my name. I usually come in, smile and say hello to the staff people who are there and then look around to see what the kids are doing. When I first started to volunteer I was completely surprised that none of them said anything to me about what I should do or how things work. I thought that if they saw a new face, someone would acknowledge my newness and try to fill me in. Nope. Nothing.

But of course I need to take responsibility for not being more assertive myself. I could have introduced myself to any of them and told them I was new and asked for direction. I felt intimidated and awkward. The vibe was so weird. Maybe I am too sensitive, but I really got the feeling that they could care less that I was there. Sometimes when I said hello they barely grunted at me. To this day, I still haven't figured out if there is one lead staff person on duty.

I am also aware that no one appreciates a person coming into their workplace and telling them how to run things. Especially if that person is only around a few hours a week.

So I go in and play with the kids. I have no problem sitting down on the floor with a bunch of two- to six-year-olds and interacting. Play just naturally happens with them. It is their sole purpose in life and it flows out and around and between and through them as easily as breathing. I'll try to engage with some of them and let them decide if they want to allow me into their play world. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't. If not, I can sit back and wait for other chances to interact. Some nights I end up reading and playing with many kids at different times. Sometimes only one or two.

Kou-Kou by Georgios Iakovidis

I was talking with someone about my experiences there. She works for an organization that helps troubled teens so she knows a little about the child and foster care system in this area. She pointed out that there must be a lack of leadership there and that the staff are probably under-appreciated and don't feel like they have clear direction. In a challenging social services job like that, it is easy to become unmotivated and apathetic if you don't feel genuinely supported by your management.

It made me realize what I have to do.

Operation Enthusiastic Cupcake went into effect at 1800 hours on Wednesday, July 15, 2009.

Here is the plan:

1. I have to get over my shyness and feeling awkward and start to be more engaging and friendly with the staff. I have to initiate conversations and ask them questions and start calling them by name. I have to get past my anxiety about making small talk and just do it.

2. I will show them that I appreciate them. I baked cupcakes. I frosted them with chocolate frosting and colorful sprinkles. I brought them with me on Wednesday and gave them to one of the staff. She said thank you and I heard her tell some other staff that I had brought them in.

3. I will give them genuine compliments that acknowledge their strengths. I will ask them how the day has been going and sympathize with how hard it must be sometimes.

The goal of all this is to make them feel more comfortable with me and make me more comfortable with them. Then it will be easier to approach one of them with a suggestion or concern. Hopefully I can bring up my concerns about the scary movies in such a way that they will not feel attacked and will be open to listening.

I can also bring in the Mr Rogers Day at the Circus DVD and suggest we watch it some night. If that goes over well, I can bring in more.


If I can't get through to them and there continues to be ridiculously inappropriate movies shown to these fragile youngsters, I will be forced to change the battle plan.

We'll have to resort to

Operation Ballistic Chicken
....and nobody wants that to happen.

Google & Grasshoppers

I've got a little thing at the bottom of the blog that shows traffic to the blog. It displays the location of people who view the blog and sometimes it shows that they found the blog by doing a Google search.

Every once in a while someone gets to the blog by doing a search involving grasshoppers.

Below is the funniest search I've seen so far. It might be hard to read, but if you click on the picture, you'll see it better.


And in case you can't read it, someone from the UK searched for

"how to keep a grasshopper a live when you sister has bit half of his leg of."

My previous post

I have been feeling quite bad about my last post. It feels mean-spirited. I don't like to think of myself that way. I want to think that I am kind and compassionate.

I didn't mean to be mean. It's not that I dislike people. People scare me. Sometimes I don't have the energy or confidence or something that I need to interact with others.

I could use the magic of my computer to delete the entire post. Pretend it never existed and erase all evidence of my misanthropic tendencies.

But I have to face the truth about myself. Sometimes it's a struggle to be kind and open to the world around me. I try, but I need to accept that I can't always do it.

But I'll keep trying.

The Bodhisattva of Infinite Compassion and Mercy,
Avolokitesvara Bodhisattva, in Chinese called Guanyin.

Sister, can you spare a dime?

NO! Now leave me alone!

That is the short version of this story. Here's the longer one.

I pull into a gas station. As I walk over the the automatic payment machine, I catch a glimpse of a woman standing at the side of the mini-mart. I pick up a lot of information with one glance. She is standing with crutches and a cast on one foot. She looks slightly disheveled with messy hair and the deeply tanned skin that comes from spending a lot of time outdoors (and not because she's been surfing.) The lines are deep and her skin has a roughness to it. My instant conclusion was that she was homeless or had some sort of drug or alcohol problem.

She says, "Ma'am, do you have a dollar?" She is about thirty feet away. I try to ignore her as I put my money in the payment machine. "Ma'am?" I walk to my car which is positioned behind the pump. She can't see me and I can't see her. "Ma'am?" I start to pump and I'm getting really pissed off that she won't stop trying to get my attention. (I was like a little kid who thinks that if she puts a blanket over her head, she has disappeared. She can't see me. Why is she still hassling me?)

I sometimes give handouts to people on the street. It is completely dependent on my mood, how they ask, and whether I have any money. But as a general rule, I try not to do it. It's better to give money to homeless shelters, work programs like the Salvation Army or substance abuse treatment centers. I also think I'm a popular target for it. I must have a nice face or something. There were men pumping gas around me and she wasn't calling out to any of them.

I was pumping my gas and she kept going. "Ma'am?" (Pause) "Excuse me, Ma'am?" At one point, I almost gave in. I was going to walk over there in a huff and hand her a dollar with an annoyed look on my face. Then I thought, "But that is not how you are supposed to give. If you are going to give, you should do it with a generous heart and a spirit of openness. Not because someone has irritated you and you feel bullied into it."

I was not in the mood to deal with people. Sometimes... not always, but sometimes... when I am out in the world, I feel too fragile for even the simplest interaction. I'm usually good at faking my way through things, but sometimes I just don't have the energy. I try to keep my head down, do what I have to do and then get home where I feel safe and no one will bother me. Her continuing stream of "Ma'am? Ma'am?" felt like an intrusion and genuinely unsettled me.

As I filled my tank, I was feeling a lot of distress about this and I truly struggled with it. What was the right thing to do?

And a part of my brain thought, "Hey, if you really want it that bad, lady, you can hobble your sorry ass over here and ask for it. Slacker." (Clearly that is the evil side of my brain.)

I continued to ignore her. Pumped my gas. And left. As I walked around my car to get in, she was still going...."Ma'am? Excuse me, Ma'am!" When I left, I felt like a piece of crap and I was sure the bad karma was going to get me somehow. I probably deserved it.

I drove away and thought about it for a while. And it came to me. I know what I should have done. I should have acknowledged her and told her I'm sorry, but no, I won't give you a dollar. I should have treated her with some basic human decency, even if I didn't give her what she wanted. I should have done that in spite of my irritation and anxiety.

I just couldn't do it today. Maybe next time.



And I know what she should have done. She should have shut the hell up after about the 11th time she said "Ma'am" and didn't get a response. (There's that evil side again.)

Random

My favorite frame shop in Providence.

Gee, I wonder why.