Remembering why we chose this field

IT WAS A BUSY DAY. I was trying to get my work finished to allow for a furlough, holiday, and three days of training. I knew if I got behind, I would pay for it upon my return.

As I raced down the corridor toward my office, my head buzzing with a task list, I spotted two young men in the child visitation room. I could hear a music box playing a plucky rendition of "The Way We Were." I stopped in my tracks.

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

The younger of the two was curled up on a couch, looking as if he was ready to nap. He looked at me and said, "Nothing."

"Do you want to watch a video?" I asked, gesturing toward a bookcase filled with old VHS tapes.

"We've seen all of them," the older boy said.  Let me explain what that means if you haven't already figured it out. These children have been in our visitation room so many times that they have watched more than 20 videos.

"Are you bored?" I asked, thinking, 'Where is their case manager?'

"Yes. I have cleaned the entire room," said the older child. I looked around the room, and noticed how spotless and organized it was.

"Wow. You did a great job," I said.  I headed toward the door and said, "Hold on, let me see what I can find."

I gathered up some snacks, craft books, and other books for the children.  The younger boy sprang to life, and reached for the craft book. Soon he was turning the pages, and picking a project. I brought scissors, paper plates, string, markers, and tracing paper. He busied himself with creating a mask.

I left them to their "play," and asked the young man to come and get me when he finished certain steps, and I checked in on them (they were 10 and 15) now and then. At one point I could hear their mother talking with them. Apparently there had been discipline issues in their foster home, and their biological mom was brought in to talk with them.

At the end of their visit, I was helping to put finishing touches on the mask when their mom came in to say good-bye.  The younger child tried to be brave, and he wiped his tears on his sleeves. After she left, I looked at him and asked, "Are you okay?" knowing he wasn't but opening a door for him to talk about it if he wanted.

"I just miss my mom," he said.  The instant lump in my throat made it difficult to speak, and I swallowed hard and said, "Of course you do." I rubbed his back in an effort to comfort him, and his rigid back softened a little.

"Why are you in the foster home?" I asked, knowing it's important for him to understand "why."

"I was left alone. And I had marks on me."

"Oh, I see. How old were you when you were left alone?"

"Seven."

"And, who left the marks on you?"

"I don't know," he said.

I did not pry. I kept my voice soft as we worked on his mask. I praised him as he added stars, and other personal icons to the transformed paper plate. If he wanted to deny that his parent beat him so severely that he had marks, and was removed from his home, I was not about to make him talk about it today.

It was time for the boys to return to their foster home. We put the mask on the younger child's face after making the eye-holes a little bigger. He looked great! His older brother, who, by now, had become quite fascinated by the music box, gave him kudos, too. It was a good moment. I told him he could keep the music box. His little brother said, "It will probably help him to sleep."

I asked him, "Do you have trouble sleeping?"

"I don't sleep. I have so much energy," he answered. (I will be reporting this to his case manager later to try to help him get some rest.)

As I watched the two brothers head down the corridor toward the exit, it occurred to me that this was the most important "work" I did today. Everything else could wait.

~SSW