Count Your Blessings

For me, the holiday season means catching up with friends and family, taking a few more days off from writing than usual, and passing on traditions to our son. Thankfully our home suffers none of the dysfunctional antics and blowouts that make the holidays such a stressful time for many children . . .

My first job out of college was working at a residential treatment center (kind of like a group home) for kids aged 2 – 20. Because the center had a “no rejection” policy we housed the toughest kids from Washington, Idaho, and Oregon. I had been working only a month or two when Thanksgiving rolled around and I witnessed, firsthand, the struggles that abused and neglected children face at the holiday season. The innumerable timeouts and restraints that filled the “big day” culminated in the turkey being thrown across the dining room by one of the residents, just as I was about to carve it. Once the mayhem subsided, we saved what we could and made turkey sandwiches...

And then came Christmas. Having the least seniority of the center’s staff, I was one of those assigned to work the day shift from 8 to 4, which included taking all the children to a local restaurant for Christmas dinner. Suffice it to say that the antics of Thanksgiving were a fond memory in comparison to Christmas morning, but by early afternoon we had managed to load up the kids in the van without anyone (staff or residents) requiring medical attention.

At the restaurant, I told the kids what my boss had told me: “Order whatever you want, regardless of the price.”

One young man, in particular, had spent most of the day either in timeouts or being restrained to keep from hurting himself or others. He had destroyed his room and had called me (and the other staff) every name in the book but was now tuckered out, and calm. He asked me what I going to order.

“I’m leaning toward the roast duck with orange glaze,” I told him. “I’ve never eaten duck.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Can I order it, too?”

“Certainly.”

“But what if I don’t like it?”

“Then we’ll just have to let someone else eat it, and order something else.”

The kid grew solemn – not the reaction I expected. Then he said, “Mark? I’m sorry I hit you and called you a -------.”

“That’s all right,” I told him. “It’s been a tough day for all of us.”

Immediately, his mood brightened, as though a weight had been lifted from his young shoulders. He had been worried, no doubt, that his earlier unruly behavior would be held against him. But with all forgiven, he led the group in playing “I spy” and making up “knock-knock” jokes till the food arrived.

And the duck? It was delicious!