Excuse the lack of pictures. Our main computer has been threatening us with a black screen and it is increasingly difficult to coax life into it. So we removed all the pictures, burning them to disc, and alas, I am too tired and lazy tonight to pull any up. Also too tired and lazy to take any pictures, but I'll be working on that one.
So, tonight's topic...life in a group home. There are many kinds of group homes, but the one where I work is for developmentally disabled adults. The one where I work happens to have a lot of "challenging behaviors". Oh, I am being so p.c.
So the group home where I work got a new resident today and we are all reeling with shock. And I haven't even met her yet as my shift ended before she'd arrived. But I was at the meeting this morning where the behavior experts told us all about her. Boy, oh boy.
Autism, Tourette's Syndrome, mental retardation, and a history of psychotic break-downs. Oh, and due to abuse suffered in other facilities, post traumatic stress disorder is suspected, too. She's 20. She's mobile. She has a history of L.S.A. (which is leaving supervised area, for those of you not in the know).
So Maintenance came out while we were having our meeting. Good thing, because they had lots to do. New, more extensive locks in the kitchen. It used to just be the med. cabinet that was locked, but this young woman has been known to attack people with knives. So the knives are now locked up. There are alarms on the doors and windows. Anyone who has ever visited me and thought our alarm system is obnoxious has not encountered obnoxious yet. That nice lady's voice that announces, "Front door!" or "Master bedroom door!" is not the least bit obnoxious once you've heard the alarm system at the group home. Loud is not the word for it. Perhaps loud to the tenth power. And it chimes. Sounds charming, doesn't it? We were all gritting our teeth and pulling our hair, eyes bugging out of our heads by the end of the day and we just wanted to scream at people, "CAN'T YOU ALL JUST GO OUT THE DOOR AT ONCE?!" No, not charming chimes. The phrase that kept echoing through my brain was, "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for the bell tolls for thee!" Yes, ominous. Chimes to make you lose your mind are ominous.
Now, my mother is going to read this and about have a heart attack. Or to use one of her words, she's going to fret. Or fret to the tenth power. But do not worry, Mom. I work on the other side of the house for the most part. I'll help out whenever necessary or when I can, but I have my three challenging gentlemen to support. Today's challenge? Diarrhea in the one that doesn't use the toilet, who also happens to be the one who hits, scratches, screams, cries, tries to bite, etc...but he doesn't use knives. This, of course, happened at lunch, but since I wasn't the one trying to eat, well, c'est la vie. Another day at the group home.
So I come home tonight and I do get to exercise, something that I don't feel like the least in doing, but know I must and that I will feel better for it. And I felt like a bit of a wimp because I chose to do Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred. Not that Jillian Michaels work-outs are in any way wimpy, except this one is only 30 minutes and I feel like I should at least do 50. So I felt like I was wimping out. But Sam took care of that. Immediately after finishing my work-out, before a shower, before dinner (and oh, I was so hungry), she decided that she wanted to go for a walk. And because she actually asked and waited while I got ready, and because I couldn't stop her anyway, I went on a walk with her. And did she go on a nice little evening stroll? SHE DID NOT! No, she took me through dark fields, down busy dark streets, through the never-ending rain and drizzle, for ONE HOUR!
And then after we finally got home, after I'd finally eaten, she refused to take a bath. AGAIN. She is filthy. Her hair is gross. Anyone who knows me will know just how unacceptable that is to me. People, I take two showers a day, and yes, I know that isn't really good for you, I know it dries out your skin, I know it isn't good for your hair, and I DON'T CARE. I do care that my daughter is gross, smelly, and greasy and too big and ornery for me to do anything about it. So I gave up and sent her to bed gross, smelly and greasy. Tomorrow is another day. She'll either get clean or she'll be even worse.
And now I would really like to take my shower, second of the day, and collapse at long-last into my bed, to only half-sleep until Mick gets home. Perhaps to have strange dreams about work. The other night, I dreamed that my most challenging guy had eaten his pant leg and got it stuck in his throat. Do I need this? No, I do not. Woe is me, may my sleep be more restful than usual (Samantha, that means you!), and my dreams more pleasant. A pant leg, for God's sake. Where did that come from?
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