Being Spit On and Being Loved

"Won't you run come see St. Judy's Comet roll across the skies
And leave a spray of diamonds in it's wake
I long to see St. Judy's Comet sparkle in your eyes when you awake
Oh, when you wake
Little boy, little boy, won't you lay your body down?
Little boy, little boy, won't you close your weary eyes?
Ain't nothing flashing but the fireflies"
 - St. Judy's Comet, by Paul Simon



There is a family with four kids at Casa Adalia now. I quickly began describing them with two opposite adjectives: wild, and sweet. They are loud and rambunctious, getting wound up quickly and hanging all over me and acting out to get attention. They squabble over toys, hitting and yelling and getting more out of control when they hear the word 'no'. But even the oldest girl, an eight-year-old who often takes charge watches over the little ones, will jump into my arms, simply wanting to be held and loved. They grew up in poverty before being uprooted, taken by their mother to get away from their dad who becomes abusive when drunk and staying in shelters before landing here, in Casa Adalia. A new place with new rules, new people, and no dad. No wonder their response it to act out.

It was Tuesday morning. I was cleaning up from breakfast when the four-year-old, 'Stephen', found a nail file and began to file the walls.
"Por favor, darme eso," I said. (please, give me that)
Stephen continued to try and remove the paint from the walls. I stepped towards him and he ran up the stairs. He waited for me to come after him before filing a little more and then tossing the file up a few stairs. I chased him up the stairs until he was at the top and I finally reached and grabbed the file before he could. Frustrated though victorious.

But Stephen knew something I didn't know.

He had a mouth full of chocolate milk that he hadn't swallowed, because kids like to keep things in their mouths for whatever reason. (If someone could explain this phenomenon to me, I would be very interested.)

That was when Stephen decided to spit chocolate milk. On my white shirt, my face, and down the stairs.

It took me two seconds to get up the four steps separating Stephen from me, grab him around the waist and hoist him to my hip like a football. I marched him downstairs, stood him in the kitchen, wiped my face with a paper napkin and handed it to him.

"You're going to clean all of that up right now," I said. I led him to the stairs and pointed out each chocolate milk spot for him to wipe up. We went up and down the stairs, cleaning everything. Stephen knew that he had done something bad and I was upset.  He wiped up each spot without complaining or trying to get away from me. We went back to the kitchen, threw away the napkin, and I knelt down beside Stephen.

"What you did was not nice," I told him. I explained why he had to clean up the mess, and made a joke about how chocolate milk wasn't good on a white shirt, right? I smiled and held Stephen by the shoulders, but he simply stared at the ground.
"Hey," I said. "You're a good kid. What you did was bad but you're a good kid. I love you. Do you want a hug?"

Stephen threw himself into my arms. I picked him up and sat down at the kitchen table, just holding him. He clung to me, snuggling his head against my shoulder. We sat there for about ten minutes, me simply holding that wild little boy and him running his fingers up and down my arm, contrasting the difference between his dark African-Ecuadorian skin and mine. He knew that what he did was wrong, he submitted to the consequence, mild as it was, but above anything else he needed to know one thing: that he was still loved.


Sometimes, I remember times when I was very young and would react in ways I knew weren't good or logical, crying because I didn't want to eat a new food or because I wanted my dad to come give me a second goodnight kiss. I knew I was being silly yet in the moment, what I wanted was more important that making sense or listening to anything else. I remember receiving due punishment, and I remember feeling the powerful need to have my parent's love reaffirmed.
"I did something bad, but you still love me, right? You love me?"


Stephen ran his fingers up and down my arm, up and down, over and over. I held him and kissed the top of his head. I'm not his mom or sister or relative. I've only known him for a couple of weeks, but I want him to know: he is loved. He is very loved.