that's good, that's bad

So the bad part is the paperwork.

On the one hand, I am grateful (really) that, of my numerous little part-time jobs, only one of them has really required me (after the initial bustle of getting on the payroll and stuff) to hand in any paperwork.

On the other hand, this paperwork that they do require is of a nature so truly obnoxious that I often find myself hard-pressed to make myself fill it out at all, let alone to do so cheerfully.

My job description is "Respite Provider." Basically, I get paid to play with my pal, Landon, after school, and help him with his homework. Landon amazes me. He is an absolute sunbeam, and he'd laugh his head off if I told him that in so many words.

Just yesterday, I told him he could play with trucks until 5:30, and then we were going to do something else for awhile. Being at least as ornery as your average 12 year old, naturally he didn't believe me when I told him it was 5:30 (possibly because I accidentally said first that it was half past 10:00). So I helped him stand up, pointed at his digital clock on the dresser, and said something like, "What, you don't trust my clock reading skills? Look! It says 5:30 right there. Five, dot dot, three, zero. Five thirty." And he giggled almost uncontrollably for the next three minutes.

He's happy, funny, quirky, naughty, opinionated, smart, and absolutely goofy. We have so much fun. At least, we usually have fun; sometimes homework gets the best of one or both of us. But I love him, and I love his family. If I had to pick a favorite "job" (it seems dumb to get paid for some of the things I get to do), this would be it.

So that's why I hate the paperwork. Thanks to our very concerned government, I have to fill out a paper for each day that I spend there, describing in some detail "what we did ... and Landon's response to the activities." Here are some of the guidelines (word for word off the Documentation Review sheet, whatever that is):

- Use more objective language: Subjective words like "did great" don't really describe how well someone did.
- Write "Mary cried and made whining noises" instead of "Mary was fussy."
- Write "Mary seemed to have a good day because she was smiling and laughing" instead of "Mary had a great day!"
- Instead of saying "Mary chose not to listen to directions," try writing "Mary did not stop when staff asked her to stop."
- Bad: "Mary looked both ways for cars and correctly identified that it was safe to cross the parking lot. She held my hand as we walked." Good: "I gave Mary 1 verbal prompt to look both ways for cars, and she did. I then asked her if it was safe to cross; Mary said, 'yes.' I held out my hand and Mary put her hand in mine as we crossed the parking lot."

Those words are dead. Absolutely dead.

I love writing about my little old life. I like to try to find words that will make people see what happened, the way it really was - not because it's that important, but because it's wonderful and joyful and hard and it hurts - because God made this beautiful world, and here we are alive in it!

But I cannot stand looking back at each day and accounting for my every move in a calculating, clinical monotone. I hate writing as if I'd spent the afternoon observing some mysterious amoebas in a plastic tube, instead of playing with one of my favorite people in the whole world. It's like painting a sunset in black and white, and being told while you're at it to make it look as much like a dead raccoon as you can.

And why is it that I feel compelled to stew and mutter about this at such length? Because it is this self-same paperwork (on which I have, explicably, gotten behind) that is taking up an absolutely inordinate percentage of one of my very rare full days at home. Small price to pay, right, for a wonderful life? And it is. But my insides still recoil.

And why is it that "inexplicably" is a word, but "explicably" is not? That's ridiculous.

One of the other things I accomplished today, though, was buying a car. That's a happy thing. Out with the Camry, in with the Vue.

Alright, well, I'm going to go make some pizza crusts, and then finish the last of these wretched papers, and then take out my remaining fury on my thus-far unsuspecting cello. Enjoy your Friday evening, or whatever it is when you read this.

Adieu.