Chapter 5
More trouble
Wednesday mornings were always great fun for me. That was the day I met with the fost-adopt -parents-to-be to share with them some theoretical background and skills so they could manage these difficult children and help them to learn to trust again. As you might imagine, many of the foster parents who applied to our agency had experienced periods of foster care in their own lives. Some had had good experiences and had really loved their foster parents. They wanted to give back what they had received.
Others, however, had had horrific experiences, and wanted to make the world right for kids like themselves. Both groups of would be parents were sure they knew all about how to “fix” kids. “With just enough love,” they thought, “the kids will learn to care about us and love us. “ Ultimately, love would be their reward. Unfortunately, love alone doesn’t heal ambivalence, fear, abuse or hatred, often the feelings and pasts of the children we served. It was my job to give them the endurance and skills to deal with the often hateful behaviors of our kids, the long nights worrying over a run-away, and the ability and knowledge to deal with all the unforeseen events which would enter their lives along with a new seriously emotionally disturbed youngster. In many ways, my job was to “re-parent” the parents so they could survive and raise a “normal” kid from the mess they received.
On this typical brisk Bay area morning, with pea soup thick fog rolling in off the ocean, I drove up Route 1 to the home of Nancy and Buzz, where the fost-adopt would-bes were meeting that morning. Driving up the eucalyptus lined dirt road which led to their home, I could smell the home-made scones Nancy always made when we met at her house. I looked forward to a cup of herbal tea and scones as we settled into the meeting. However that pleasant anticipation was quickly met with a worried look and a word from Nancy: “Barb called. One of the kids apparently got out of control. She wants you to meet with her.” So much for scones and tea on a foggy morning. Somehow I knew it was Nutmeg in trouble again.
I took the freeway back to our little school to check with our head teacher before heading to the Evaluation Home. There were not many behaviors or incidents which led our teacher or head teacher to call me to come. The message our teaching staff sent to kids they had to discipline was that teachers were in control and didn’t need other authorities to pitch in for them. They firmly believed that the word “discipline” meant “to teach,” and they were expert teachers. Thus, I knew something fairly horrendous had occurred for them to send for me.
“Hi Barb, what’s up?” I asked arriving at the school and finding Barb awaiting me on the veranda of the small house which was our school. “Hi,” she replied. “You aren’t going to believe this one. Your favorite child has managed to break Michael’s arm and give Andy a black eye, all within a minute of having entered the school room.”
“Broke Michael’s arm? How? Why?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Just then the ambulance pulled up and two EMTs got out with a stretcher. I waited until they were finished, bringing Michael sobbing and furious out on the stretcher and putting him gently into the back of the ambulance.
As I entered the room, I saw that Nutmeg sat on a chair at the front of the room, engaged in sticking out her tongue at the entire class. The teacher was slowly questioning the other children.
“When Nutmeg hurts other people, how does that affect you? “ She asked the children. I watched and listened.
Marty, a small but outwardly tough little guy in the back row shot up his hand and opened his mouth at the same time. “Makes me so mad I wanna kick her butt --”
“Marty, I understand those feelings, but you do need to wait till you are called upon,” interrupted the teacher in a kind voice.
“Aw shit, she’s just a nasty girl child, that’s all.” muttered Billy who sat beside Marty. “She ain’t worth bothering with.”
“I is so, I is so!” screamed Nutmeg.
I interrupted this melee. “Nutmeg,” I said firmly, “Come with me!”
She smiled, and stated to the class. “Yippee, I get to go home!”
“No, Nutmeg, you don’t get to go home. You get to come with me. Now come,” I replied firmly. Taking her hand I led her quickly and firmly to the next small room behind the classroom where conferences were often held.
“You gonna beat on me?” she looked up fearfully.”
“No, Nutmeg. No one is going to beat on you in Children’s Garden. Not ever.” I sighed. When, I wondered, would that message ever really get into her little head?
I sat her in the chair beside me. She gazed at her image in the mirror finish of the polished mahogany conference table. Neither of us spoke as I waited. Finally, after a couple minutes, I took her small face in my hands. “Nutmeg, look at me.”
“Don’t touch me!” she immediately screamed, twisting her head and body away from me. I let go and sat silently waiting for her to stop screaming and squirming. When she was quiet, I said quietly, but firmly, “Nutmeg, look at me and listen.” She was quiet and as I watched, she looked at me with tears running down her face. I knew those were real tears this time.
“Nutmeg, I know that Marci told you all the rules for Children’s Garden kids the other day. Do you remember them?” I asked. She nodded.
“Tell me the rules, Nutmeg.”
“Get up on time. Make your own bed. Be at breakfast on time and be dressed ready for the day. Be polite to the house parents. Play nice with other kids. If ya don’t be nice, ya get chores.”
“That’s very good, Nutmeg. But I think there’s one more you left out.” She sat and stubbornly pouted as she shook her head no back and forth.
“How about how you treat others in the house or school?” I asked.
“Ya be nice.” She said.
“And were you nice to Michael?” I asked.
“Mm - hmmm” she nodded.
“I see. Then what happened that he has a broken arm, Nutmeg?”
“He tripped me when I came in. He tripped me, so I pushed his arm away and pulled it behind his back, that’s all,” she began to sob. “I didn’ mean to hurt him. Well, I did mean to hurt him so’s he’d not trip me anymore, but I didn’ mean a break his arm. HONEST I didn‘. And he done me first.”
She looked up at me with those pleading big brown eyes, deep and wide circles of watery tears. And I knew this was real. Michael had hurt her and she had retaliated. At least she hadn’t started it this time. There was hope.
“OK Nutmeg, then you can go back to class if you think you can behave appropriately toward all the other children. Later this afternoon after school you and Michael and I will have a sit down talk together,” I said, stroking her hair and letting her know I believed her. She climbed on my lap and looked up at me “I promise,” she said.
I knew that our teacher would continue to process what had happened with the class and Nutmeg. I could trust her to get Nutmeg one step closer to compliance with our good behavior rules, and accepted back into the class. The children who were in that class had been with us for some time, and they well knew both the rules and how difficult it was for them to learn. They had even begun to show some empathy at times.
The Journeys of Bumbly Bear Page 5