I had better photos of Sam taken at this moment, but my blogging platform refused to post them when rotated, so you're missing Sam's face and her high heels. Next time. I just hope that any time in Sam's life that she feels like being a princess in four inch heels, that she is allowed to express her inner-princess. I think she may be cutting her hair again.
But that's not funny...I agree, but I can't help it. I actually have some funny stories, but I'm too insecure to share them with the world at large. So anyway, here's what's been happening in my life, humor censored.
Yesterday was educational for me. I went to work, still flying high from my first day of shadowing on the job. The day before, work had gone well and I'd felt really connected to one of the more difficult i.e. challenging behaviors, guys that lives in the house in which I work. So yesterday I arrived at work in a good frame of mind--outlook: optimistic. My guy, let's call him Joe, was out in the front yard and watched me get out of my car. I walked over to the fence with a big smile and greeting and we high-fived.
Then I went into the house, put my stuff away and found out that we were one staff short that day and the person I am shadowing wasn't there yet. So I walked through to the other side of the duplex, with my positive attitude, and reality slapped me in the face. Literally.
My guy Joe, who two minutes before had high-fived me over the fence, had done a 180 degree turn in about two minutes. He was crying, shouting, stomping his feet and slapping his own face. When I walked through the door he was RIGHT THERE. And he started slapping my face instead of his own. Can't say I blame him.
Had I taken the time to talk with the graveyard shift, I would have asked her how Joe was doing that morning. Then I would have been prepared. There are also t-logs on the computer that would have told me what I needed to know. In fact, when I came in I believe the graveyard staff was writing her t-log. I would have known that Joe was having a very difficult morning. I would have opened the door more slowly. I would have been prepared. Well, live and learn. No harm done.
Joe continued to have a difficult morning until about 11:00 a.m. A few outbursts occurred after that, but he more or less calmed down. Then he just became fixated on McDonald's and monotonous in his desire to go pinch another resident. Good times.
This job is making me think about a lot of different issues. The preceding antidote may appear to have nothing to do with the following, but bear with me. This is the point where I, unfortunately, veer away from humor. I agree, a mistake.
It has been very strange being out of the work force for so many years. Women with empty nest syndrome or whose children are now independent enough that the mothers can return to work know exactly what I mean.
I really detest the term home-maker, so for that reason I will refer to myself as a housewife. I do it to be both obstinate and contrary. I've got a beef with N.O.W. and so I delight in calling myself a housewife. But now that I'm a working drone, I guess I'm a former housewife.
Even though Mick and I have been self-employed, because my role focused more on the kids for so many years and mycontributions to the business garnered zero respect, I felt like the submissive little housewife. It didn't matter to people that I would work a shift or step in and just bartend or wait tables for a few hours here or there. I was invisible. That I did all the copy for our website, and damned good copy it was, I received no credit. That I did all the housekeeping and laundry for our guests counted for nothing. Forget about all the extras--because I didn't receive a paycheck from anybody so that made me a virtual nobody. If asked what I did for a living, people would just dismiss me as being the "home-maker". So even though there are other people who make good money creating web-sites and people who work in hotels doing the exact same things I did ( or less), because I didn't receive an actual pay-check from anyone, I was deemed unemployed. I would just deem myself under-paid. And like Rodney Dangerfield, "I got no respect".
This lack of respect is why women keep trying to find a term to describe themselves and their position that will gain them the respect that they deserve. Caring for infants and toddlers 24/7 is crazy-making. It's also very hard work. Caring for a child or other family member with a disability is even harder. Don't get me wrong--it's very rewarding and it's the gift that keeps on giving. What the people for whom we care give us is far greater than what we give them. Indescribable, life-altering gifts of patience, compassion, and a deep, moral understanding of what is important and what this world needs. Being a stock broker won't do that for you. That said, don't say that we are "special people", that "God has a special place" for people like us, etc., etc., etc.,. Who wants to try to live up to that?
It's the lack of a paycheck that is a problem. People's eyes glaze over and the woman becomes invisible, and a non-entity, as soon as it is revealed that she is a home-maker or a stay-at-home mom. Mick and I actually had a professional consultation with someone recently who asked where I worked or what I did (prior to my being recently hired) and his eyes did indeed glaze over and he looked out the window before the sentence was completely out of my mouth. And don't believe anyone when they tell you that there is no such thing as a stupid question. I asked one question about something I didn't understand and I was told by this professional to let Mick handle everything and I could just fill out all the paperwork, but let Mick do all the talking. I kid you not. I can't talk about this. The steam is beginning to seep out of my ears again. Or maybe that is brain matter.
But that's typical. Most people are a little more couth and a little less obvious in their disrespect. And there is my attitude toward myself. Self-deprecating isn't the term for it. I have been writing off and on for years. I have been writing this blog since mid-February, and I'm sorry to say, I've been working on stories and my novel for even longer. But because I haven't received a paycheck--or a Pulitzer, say, I have never felt like I could say that I was a writer. It has to be validated by some outside force, some outside unit of measure and worth--like a paycheck.
So here's the rub. I'm doing all the same stuff, for the most part, that I've been doing for years. It may be a little harder, and yes, these are not my family members and that doesmake a big difference. If the truth be told, I work harder at home than I do at work. Because I try my best to multi-task and be ultra-productive at home, and that simply isn't tolerated at work. In other words, I can't write to you, dear reader, I can't blog, while I'm at work. Even if everyone is napping. It's so frustrating.
And even more frustrating is when I hear from people who ask what I do for a living (as happened the other night when a student from the UM alumni committee called for a donation)..."Oh, that is so great! Wow, it's wonderful that people like you do this kind of work...it must be so rewarding...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...". Yeah, sure.
I've only visited the one house, the one that I work at, so I don't know how much variation, how much different "flavor" a person will find in other group homes. And I'm not saying that mine is bad. I'm not at all. I think the people who work there are very good people with the best of intentions. But...I will do my best, and so will Mick, to keep Sam with us and provide for her as long as possible.
And I won't need a paycheck. And I won't need a pat on the head. I won't need anyone to assure me that God has a special place for me. Because Sam is our child. I hope, unlike my guy with the challenging behaviors, that I can live long enough to provide a loving home for her for years to come. And Miranda said years ago, and continues to say, that she will take it from there. Because my difficult guy had loving parents who both died. Then he had a loving foster family and they died, too...so now he's in a group home. It's the group home I work in. I make less than $10 an hour. I don't need a special place in heaven or ridiculous amounts of praise. I have a disabled child and I hope and pray if we can't take care of her some day, that someone will, and they will have compassion, patience, and most of all humor.
Yeah, I know. Get off my soap box and find some humor. I do, I do, but if it doesn't happen at home, I have to be careful about confidentiality. But stay tuned...I'm more than willing to make fun of myself ( or better yet, Mick).
Coming soon: more installments of "The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World". My apologies: it's called working for a living.
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