Playworks

I have said for a long time that I could be perfectly happy if I could spend my days playing with children.

Please go ahead and check out the job that I just applied for:

http://www.playworks.org/careers/school-openings

I'm really hoping this works out.

Really?

A good part of my new responsibilities at work involve fielding parent phone calls and answering questions.

"Yes, Mrs. Rosenberg. We do have a record of Noah going home with Adam today.Thanks for calling!"

"I will make a note of that and be sure Naomi's counselor knows to use a lot of bug spray. Thanks for calling!"

"Yes, the Trailblazers will be going on a field trip THIS Thursday, not next week.Thanks for calling!"

Then sometimes, people come out of the woodwork. Batshit crazy people appear out of nowhere. And then they call me.

"Ma'am, I am sorry that your daughter doesn't like her swimming instructor. Frankly, I don't care. Because he does a fantastic job. Perhaps your five year old is simply cold when she gets in the pool. Or maybe she is upset because she lost a silly band. Or that another girl in her group has the same swimsuit and jealousy starts early. And mostly, I don't care because this is her THIRD swim instructor. Maybe you should be paying for a camp that doesn't include some fine swimming lessons every day."

"Sir, I am not sure what you would like for the camp to do. It is pretty clear that your son doesn't like the lunches you pack him. And we have a pretty solid 'no force feeding' policy. He really hates that bread with all the seeds in it, and the lox on his bagel- he is not a fan. And also, you should know. Your child is not a vegetarian like you may think he is. You should SEE that kid scarf hot dogs on cookout day."

"Ma'am, we will certainly talk to the counselor of the group about your daughter's issues. I know she is not getting along with anyone, and it is week 7 of camp, and you really think she should be making friends at this point. But let me give you some hints. She would probably get along better with her group members if she didn't steal their stuff, make fun of everyone, and flick her boogers on people when her finger isn't in her nose. You made her this way, now fix it. "

"Sir, I understand that your son doesn't like the arts and crafts time. Can I be blunt here? That is because YOU are a chauvinistic pig. Yes, certain kids have different interests. But the approximately... ELEVEN hours a week your son gets of sports kind of trumps the 2 hours of art. Some kids even like art better! Maybe he would enjoy himself more if he didn't think that art was a girly thing to do. And maybe he wouldn't think that if you took your eyes off of my chest and thought about being an example to your son. Just sayin'... "

"Ma'am. I have no idea where your son left his sweatband. I mean, why the heck is your son wearing a sweatband? We aren't sweatin' to the oldies here at camp- little kids can be cruel. So can the counselors who make fun of him behind his back. Don't you want you son to have friends? I know you checked the lost and found. But I would like you to consider the distinct possibility that your son purposely lost his sweatband. And by lost, I mean flushed it down the toilet or dug a hole and buried it in the far field. And no amount of labeling on your part will help us recover it. And please don't swear at me. "

I hereby pledge that I will never be this kind of parent.
(Repeat with me after raising your right hand and putting your other on the Holy Book of your choice)

Nobility of Purpose

One of the most horrific and interesting experiences I have ever had occurred during my trip to Romania in May 2009. I journeyed there as part of a group from my university, and we were centered in Oradea, a city on the far western border of Romania. We worked to repair soccer bleachers in an orphanage called Caminul Felix, a family-based organization meaning "happy home." It truly was a joyful place filled with hope and love and peace. There were two villages- our work was done in Village One, and we stayed in a hotel located at Village Two. We met an incredible amount of wonderful people and played with children that radiate beauty despite some despicable childhood circumstances. However, we also had the chance to experience Romanian life through some of the other places in the city and countryside.

For instance, we traveled to the "bear cave;" really an underground cavern filled with bear bones. This journey was both touristy and fun, but also terrifying- I cannot count the number of times I closed my eyes on the road and waited for death. Romanian drivers are notorious for using the center line as a passing lane- in both directions- and the mountainous roads were no exception.

We were exposed to a few different organizations in the town, one which was a school for children with disabilities, and another that was pioneering the field of assistive technology for orthopedic injury and disability in the region.

We visited a Roma (Gypsy) village and saw abject poverty in it's raw form. Barefoot children running amongst broken glass in the town dump. Houses made of scrap metal and cardboard and tires. People blackened from the soot of burning anything at all to heat the house or cook food. Men scarred by the violence that sometimes characterizes the community. And a sense of unmistakable pride.

Amongst all of these experiences, though, there is one that will forever plague my heart. One that I have thought of countless times, in all places, in all moods, and with all people. And despite the incredible amount of positive and meaningful experiences I had in Romania- it is this thought, I believe, that is drawing me back to this country.

We took a tour of a maternity hospital while in Oradea. And things were grim and at times surprising; two pregnant women lying in a bed together waiting for delivery, the screams echoing up and down the hallway on the delivery floor, learning that the babies were immediately separated from their mothers after birth, watching a nurse run up the staircase with what appeared to be a bundle of blankets but was actually a newborn. These things, though- I was prepared for them. I could handle the shock and the surprise and the difference.
And then we visited the abandoned baby room. A fairly large, institutional room with one nurse and 12 bassinets. These newborn children are left in the hospital by families who cannot support them, and they lay in cribs. And they have bottles propped up on blankets to feed themselves at two days old, as if to prepare them for a life of forced independence. They are left alone overnight to attempt survival. In reality, there is not the money nor the concern to care for these children who will end up in institutional orphanages. And so these little bundles of baby that should exude potential and joy and laughter and happiness and delicious smells- they become so much less than they could be.

And for 14 months now, I have dreamt about these infants. I have imagined myself holding them, feeding them, pouring love into them. When I was first looking into Romania, I jokingly asked friends if it was feasible to just go and hold babies for a year. The answer is clearly a resounding "NO," so instead I looked for a teaching job. And as excited as I am about teaching English, as wonderful an opportunity as it is, I have a sense that my arms will feel empty.

So now I obsessively watch news reports and videos and read articles about "The Lost Children of Romania." And my heart bleeds for them, and my hands ache to act in a way that will resolve my desperation, and I pray unceasingly for the chance to do something more. Maybe in addition to teaching English in what I expect to be a fairly "cushy" locale, I can make it my mission to hold a bunch of babies.

I'm not baby-crazed. I am abandoned Romanian baby-crazed.