Post from Michelle:
The sound of children tumbled towards us - squeals, laughter, cries. I led the way up the stairs as five friends from massage class followed. At the top of the stairs were brown doors; not knowing what to expect beyond them, they looked large and daunting. I took a deep breathe and pushed them open.
The room was momentarily quiet as thirty-six small eyes stared at us. Then recognition lit their faces: we were visitors, coming to play. The children old enough to walk yelped in delight and ran towards us. Soon we all had children desperately tugging at our pants, wanting to be held. I picked up a lively young boy with a bowl-cut hairdo, his bangs slightly covering his eyes. All the other volunteers also had at least one, if not two, children in their arms. Victory and contentment from being held shone from their smiles. Others, still on the floor, wanting to be held, screamed from the injustice. There just weren't enough arms.
We were at the Vienping House for Babies. It's part of an orphanage serving most of Northern Thailand. This particular group of children were the one to two year-olds. In other rooms and buildings on the complex were housed the infants and older children. We had seen signs asking for volunteers to come play with the children and decided to visit after our massage class. We entered their world after a short 15 minute bus ride out of town.
For the next couple of hours we played with the children. They flowed from one volunteer to the next, eating up our attention. I stood, now with a small girl in my arms, and surveyed the room. It was clean and orderly but sterile, reminding me of a hospital. The floor was hard tile and there was no furniture, only a couple mats. Toys were scattered around the floor- plastic cups, beanie babies, tin bracelets, toy cars and miniature plastic kitchenware. Children sat and played with them, as staff and volunteers watched and played too.
As I watched to scene before me, I contemplated on what circumstances brought these children here. Why were the parents unable to care for their children? I looked at the small faces and wondered, knowing there could be a myriad of reasons: poverty, death, prison, abuse, illness.
My thoughts drifted to the children's mothers. I couldn't imagine the pain and sacrifice the mothers had to endure to give these little ones up. I know if I had a child and then had to give it up, a large part of my heart would die. Even thinking about it made me shudder.
We played with the children and poured out as much love and affection as we could in a short amount of time. The cynic in me wondered if it even mattered; with so little time, did it actually make a difference? I had to believe, even if it was for my own sake, that the answer was yes. That every hug, every kind word, and every laugh helped the children grow and feel more welcome in this world.
When it was time for them to eat dinner and the staff politely signaled it was time to leave, we all reluctantly said good-bye. Once outside the brown doors, I turned and looked through their glass windows. A small boy was still waving and blowing kisses at us, bidding us a warm farewell.
The room was momentarily quiet as thirty-six small eyes stared at us. Then recognition lit their faces: we were visitors, coming to play. The children old enough to walk yelped in delight and ran towards us. Soon we all had children desperately tugging at our pants, wanting to be held. I picked up a lively young boy with a bowl-cut hairdo, his bangs slightly covering his eyes. All the other volunteers also had at least one, if not two, children in their arms. Victory and contentment from being held shone from their smiles. Others, still on the floor, wanting to be held, screamed from the injustice. There just weren't enough arms.
We were at the Vienping House for Babies. It's part of an orphanage serving most of Northern Thailand. This particular group of children were the one to two year-olds. In other rooms and buildings on the complex were housed the infants and older children. We had seen signs asking for volunteers to come play with the children and decided to visit after our massage class. We entered their world after a short 15 minute bus ride out of town.
For the next couple of hours we played with the children. They flowed from one volunteer to the next, eating up our attention. I stood, now with a small girl in my arms, and surveyed the room. It was clean and orderly but sterile, reminding me of a hospital. The floor was hard tile and there was no furniture, only a couple mats. Toys were scattered around the floor- plastic cups, beanie babies, tin bracelets, toy cars and miniature plastic kitchenware. Children sat and played with them, as staff and volunteers watched and played too. As I watched to scene before me, I contemplated on what circumstances brought these children here. Why were the parents unable to care for their children? I looked at the small faces and wondered, knowing there could be a myriad of reasons: poverty, death, prison, abuse, illness.
My thoughts drifted to the children's mothers. I couldn't imagine the pain and sacrifice the mothers had to endure to give these little ones up. I know if I had a child and then had to give it up, a large part of my heart would die. Even thinking about it made me shudder.
We played with the children and poured out as much love and affection as we could in a short amount of time. The cynic in me wondered if it even mattered; with so little time, did it actually make a difference? I had to believe, even if it was for my own sake, that the answer was yes. That every hug, every kind word, and every laugh helped the children grow and feel more welcome in this world.
When it was time for them to eat dinner and the staff politely signaled it was time to leave, we all reluctantly said good-bye. Once outside the brown doors, I turned and looked through their glass windows. A small boy was still waving and blowing kisses at us, bidding us a warm farewell.