Modern-Day Primal Threats

I've Never Held My Babies So Tightly

The text message came from a neighbor late in the afternoon.

The cops were here. Were they here for you? Everything okay?

I fought the urge to puke as I texted my husband.

The cops came. What do I do?

Everything will be fine. Nothing will happen.

But he was out of town, I was home alone with the kids, and what if the cops came back? Do I let them in? Do I answer questions? Do I have to do either? If I didn’t, would it make things worse?

I paced for a moment, realizing that I needed to call a lawyer. He wasn’t home. I called again. No answer. I called his wife. She came over.

“What if they take my kids? Why would someone do this? He wasn’t out of my sight. I was five feet from the car and he was fine. I don’t understand. How could someone decide from that that my children aren’t safe with me and need to be given to a stranger?”

She tried to calm me, telling me that wouldn’t happen.

“But I know people who have lost their kids for breaking something in anger,” I said. “A case worker could show up, decide they don’t like something for whatever reason, and take my children away. I don’t know what to do.”

And what if they came during one of my eldest’s marathon screaming spells? What if they came on a day when my littlest had a shiner on his face from a tussle with his brother? What if they showed up when one of them is dramatically screaming “Ow! Ow! Ow! You’re hurting meeeeeeeeee!” when relegated to the timeout seat and no one’s even in the same room? (Seriously, my kids know what’s up with how to make me look like a monster mom.)

All because of one woman.

One gleeful, triumphant woman who had finally caught a mommy doing something she didn’t like.

And it was so simple.

Something every parent does. Every. Single. Parent.

Think you haven’t?

Have you ever stepped ten feet from your car to pay the cashier at a gas station?

Ever walk eight feet to the ATM with your car parked at the curb?

Ever return the cart to the cart return after buckling your kids in the car?

Ever run something up to a friend’s door with your car still running in the driveway?

Ever stood outside your car while your kids watch a DVD so you can chat with a neighbor?

Ever search a neighborhood for a toy that fell out of the stroller on your run, spotted it in the gutter, pulled over, put the car in park, retrieved the toy and handed it back to your child?

You’re likely wondering what I had done to have this woman thinking I was so evil, so reckless, so selfish, so ugly that she needed to give my children attachment disorders, anxiety, and PTSD by having them removed from my home  and my care and my protection by uniformed officers holding guns.

Fine.

I pulled into the end of a cul-de-sac perpendicular to the curb, I crossed the sidewalk, and I watched my child run to line up at school. Once he was safe, I traversed the 5 feet to close the gap on my fender, then walked two more feet to open the driver’s side door.

Upon stepping up on the ledge of my SUV, a woman excitedly informed me that I would be reported for what I had done.

What had I done?

“What kind of mother leaves her child in the car with it running?”

I had no idea what she was talking about. What was the problem? That I had left him in the car, buckled in, watching “Home” in 44° degree “heat,” or that I had left it running? Did she think he would be able to push down the brake and put the car into gear? Were there wolf packs of criminal teens overrunning the neighborhood and stealing cars? Did she think cars were like all the guns she’d heard about – they just magically go off and drive themselves?

I told her he was fine, that I could see him the whole time and she didn’t need to worry about it.

“I can’t believe you would do something so idiotic,” she went on. “But I have all of the photos I need of you, your car and your child. I’m calling the cops.”

I asked her if she would seriously do something so petty and small and ignorant.

“Absolutely,” she said.

Glad we cleared that up.

“I’m calling the cops on you,” she said.

And she got her phone out, got into her car and that was that.

The thing is, I reported myself to the police. I called the local sheriff’s station, spoke to a detective and was assured that not only did I not do anything criminal or illegal, but I had done nothing wrong.

Yet the cops had come to perform a welfare check, as they are required to do when they get calls like these. And what if a judge decided to make an example out of me? And what if a case worker came at a horrible time, when both children were melting down and fighting and maybe filthy from playing in the yard? What if she had lied and said I had assaulted her or actually hurt my child? What if she alleged something I couldn’t disprove?

While we'd all like to say, "Go ahead, I have nothing to hide," it's very different when someone is given an incorrect idea about you and they come looking for confirmation. It's human nature. So I'm not vilifying law enforcement or the DCFS in any way. I've just had experience where parents have lost their children for reasons any well-meaning parent would question. Sure, maybe I didn't know the whole story. Or, maybe, imperfect people work in an imperfect system and families are torn apart. 

My anxiety was such that I didn’t eat for days, even after my husband returned from his trip and I at least had someone with me. Because some woman was actively trying to take my children away.

Something horribly primal surges through a mother when someone threatens to take her babies from her. Whether it’s a saber tooth tiger, or a frizzed-out mess who calls the cops for no reason. 

Something undeniable, unmatched, and unflattering is awakened and it doesn’t settle easily.

I stopped sleeping, food was lame, my every sense was turned outward to seek out any threat. It could only be described as trauma – a real threat, a kind of violence against my little ones.

But there was nothing I could do but be civilized about it, polite, open to whatever authority came knocking to judge me as a mother. And I was helpless to do anything against the woman who had brought such grief and fear to my home. Even if I confronted her – knocked on her door and simply made eye-contact – I could face punishment.

She would face no consequence for what she had inflicted. Instead, she’d smugly sigh before drifting off to a peaceful sleep each night.

While I don’t want any abused child to go overlooked, while I don’t want any concerned, informed citizen to be afraid to involve the authorities for the goodness of a suffering little one, and while I am doing what I can to save exploited children, I couldn’t reconcile any of that with a woman clogging an overrun system with such a lame complaint and put me and my littles at risk for an upturning that would take years of therapy to heal.

So I had to have a plan.

If things escalated, I would move out, file for legal separation and let my husband have custody while I went back to work to pay for daycare. They would need their father. I would step out of the home so they could stay with him.

And while it made me feel better to have a plan, my heart was breaking apart at the possibility of leaving my children and my husband to protect them – not from me, but the system.

And this woman was so proud of herself. And she believed I deserved this.

How have we come to this? How are mothers like me subjected to this?

I have sacrificed everything for my children. I have protected, comforted, given them all of me when there was none of me left. And in trying to get my child to school on time, and in trying to spare myself from the bruises I get when my 42 pound toddler throws a fit, and in using my best judgment to give one child a bit of independence and responsibility while letting my littlest be warm and comfortable in the car, I had a woman celebrating the evidence she had collected against me.

Holding My Hand To Fall Asleep

Did she want me to go to prison? Did she want my children with strangers? Did she want four lives shredded for this? Why was she so damn happy about it?

I had been scarred for my babies. Physically and mentally. When they hurt, I hurt. When they’re sick, I’m sick with worry. When they’re away from me, I’m praying. When they’re with me, I’m working for them, for their health and learning and benefit. When they’re up crying, I’m up with them.

I had never left my children in a hot car. Having attended a funeral for a nearly two-year old who had died in the August heat strapped into his seat, I had been overly-diligent about checking and re-checking to be sure my children were with me. That funeral is something my mind frequently revisits and my heart aches for that mother, who, yes, lost custody of her other children so that other parents would “learn from it.” So I had never gone into a store or the bank or a friend’s house with my children in the car.

And yet this woman decided she didn’t like something, and, therefore, by her standards, I shouldn’t have my children with me anymore. Someone else would do a better job. Someone else would love and care for them better, and have their welfare in mind more than I do.

She could have looked around, made sure a parent was nearby, seen me only steps away and gone on with her day. She could have waited a few minutes, seen me return and noticed I hadn’t been far, and enjoyed her morning coffee. She could have noticed that every single door was locked, the heater was on, and my “baby” is old enough to unbuckle himself, open the door and join me seven feet away. 

She also could have realized that we live in a safe area, it wasn’t hot out, the kid wasn’t crying, it was a busy area with people to help at arm’s reach, and kept on with her own damn business.

But, none of those.

She called the cops instead.

After a week, I’m sleeping a bit better. And, yes, I still park on her street when I walk my child to the schoolyard. And, yes, I do have an answer for her.

What kind of mother am I?

A damn good one.

But I’d bet you would have much sadder answers for the questions I have for you.

What kind of woman does this to a good mother and to her good children? What is so broken in your life that you assault honorable people with your hopes for their ruin? What is so lacking in your heart and mind that you call me evil and find your actions good?

Because, no, I don’t think you are doing your best, that you truly thought you were doing the right thing, that you were out to make the world a better place. I think you gunning to hurt someone and there I was.

Congratulations. You hurt me, deeply. And when I was on the phone with a lawyer, my son overheard me and asked, “Mommy? Are the cops coming for you? Are you going to jail?” So you hurt him, too.

And you know who else you hurt? The countless children in neglectful, abusive environments who need help, who need mindful, vigilant authorities who know what to look for and have the energy to save them. Instead, their saviors are spread thin, doing welfare checks on good families with clean, warm homes, so that you can feel like a hero.

As someone who is very aware of the excruciating exploitation of children and babies, I am sickened to think that you cried “wolf” to a system of people who are already weary, who are already numb and exhausted, who maybe doubt themselves because of how little bad they find when so many busybodies put their sites on fantastic parents with shrill glee.

And the children living in fear or filth or deprivation, they’re left overlooked.

You hurt them. Children already in pain and fear. You delayed their comfort, their health, their freedom from bruising and hunger.

And you helped absolutely no one.

But I will go on being a wonderful mother to my two children who need me, who trust me, who are safe with me. And I will go on looking out for other children and other parents, and build a kind community where we support each other and encourage each other and teach each other. And when a mother has a difficult child going berserk, I will offer to help her, and I will compliment her, and I will wish the best for her.

And, yes, I will go to the cops. I'll bring them donuts and gift cards. And I'll thank them for the hard work they do. And I'll reserve my emergency calls for when there actually is one.

And I'll praise the case workers who save abused and neglected children. And I'll hug the foster parents I know for taking in these hurting little ones. And I'll commend the therapists who help piece together the broken hearts.

And I'll continue to contribute to organizations like Operation Underground Railroad, which actively works to rescue children from sexual slavery. And I will give what I can to preserve the light within these souls that evil people were determined to snuff out.

I will go on and give goodness the best that I can, no matter how many scary people like you there are.

I'm sorry you wanted to break something. I'm sorry that attempt was at me and my children. And I feel sorry, so sorry, for you.