Not Included: Suzanne Vega's "Luka," Fetal Position

Today I went on a truly depressing home visit.

Home visiting is part of my job; kids 3-5 come to preschool groups, kids birth-3 are seen in their "natural environment," which is usually their home, or maybe their day care. I like the phrase "natural environment," though...it makes it sound like the toddlers are feral, and we're approaching them in the woods with clipboards and ID tags.

The idea about going to the home is that you get to work with the families as well. We only get to see kids for an hour, once or twice a month (due to budget and staffing constraints), so ideally, we are also teaching parents how to interact with their child in a way that helps them reach their developmental goals (the kids' developmental goals, that is...we're not responsible for the parents' development, but more on that in a bit). This process works fairly well when the child is in a stable home, with a motivated, committed parent who has the desire and capability to take in our instructions and apply them. I still wish we could give the kids more hours of service, but I don't mourn for them.

I mourn for this house I was at today. Four kids under the age of five, all of them with some sort of identified special need or delay. They are the product of multiple generations of poverty, mental illness, drugs, incarceration, abuse...and, statistically, they are likely to continue these cycles as they grow up.

It's easy (if not exactly pleasant) to think that the answer is to have the state pull the kids out of the home. Break the cycle, right? And that may be what happens in this case. I do fear for the children's safety, and have reported my suspicions to the state (as I'm mandated by law to do). But--ignoring for a moment the fact that the mom, as crazy and damaged as she may be, is holding it together as best she can for her kids and it would destroy her to lose them--the sad truth is that kids feel most secure with what they know, even when what they know is hell. And anyone who's read a newspaper knows that there's no guarantee that they'll avoid a frying-pan-fire situation by getting put into the foster care system.

Hoo, boy! Cheerful, huh? See how I lure you in with three days of cutesy posting and then: WHAMMO! LIFE SUCKS AND THEN YOU DIE!!! But, while I come home from days like today with slumped shoulders and extra-tight hugs for my own little boy, I also need to remember that, while I can't do enough for this family, I'm not doing nothing. Throwing one starfish into the sea, and all that shit. And my kid from that house? He's making gains. He is still a very angry boy, one who's still likely to greet any disappointment with "Fucker!" and a swift shove of whoever's nearest him. But he's seeking positive attention from adults and peers alike, which tells me that he finally is understanding that he is worthy of that attention. And I helped show him that.

So that's why I love my job. Well, that and the fact that I get to wear jeans and sneakers. Oh, and? All the Goldfish crackers I can eat, baby!! That's right, mama's got the real cheddar taste hook-up. Aw, yeah.