She made the Call

 

“I am here to check on the welfare of your children on behalf of CPS. We have received a report that your children are in danger.”

 

Those words have sent off shock waves in my body. Immediately my heart rate kicked up and my skin went cool. My head was full, but the clarity was in my core that I was on thin ice, and I didn’t have any wiggle room. One wrong step and this stranger with his flat, neutral eyes and poor fitting cloth mask had the power to take my world from me.

 

“I’m gonna need you to go back and get in your car to wait.” My voice felt flat as it left my body. The look on his face was part disbelief, his weight shifted on his feet as though he wasn’t sure he heard me correctly. “Please,” my voice started to have a tiny tremble, “I need you to go wait in your car, now. I’m going inside to speak with my husband.”

 

My mind was spinning with questions, What window did they look through, who saw into my house and assumed because my husband was laying on our bed that he was passed out in a drug-induced stupor? Who thought that my children riding bikes in the front yard meant that the adults were unaware and uninvolved? Woodenly, I told my husband that the person in the unknown car was from CPS. His face showed confusion. What had I said? That was CPS - They want to see our children. There has been a report of neglect and negligence against us and they have to interview our children privately. I’m calling our attorney. I hear the fear in my voice when I repeat myself to the office secretary and explain why I MUST be put through immediately to speak with him, please. His calm voice explaining that they will keep coming back until they can be sure the kids are safe. His reminders that we have nothing to be afraid of today. THEY CAN’T TAKE THEM TODAY. 

That is the anchor I will cling to.

We are both walking around dazed. I have to remind my husband to finish getting dressed. I have to tell my 5-year-old he will have to ask the stranger why he is here and what this is all about, but that he will want to talk with him. I go back out into the front yard. I must have a purpose, so I walk to the mailbox and get the mail. He cracks his door as I walk near the car and I tell him that I am getting my mail and then he can come inside with me. My hair is still wrapped in the towel from the shower.

 

As we each have our turns, I focus on the small moments. The curve of my 3-year-olds cheek against mine as I hold him on his bed as we wait. He wants to read a story. He doesn’t want his turn talking with the man yet. My 5-year-old comes and joins us. We read Dr. Seuss’ Oh the Places You’ll Go. While reading turn about phrases and encouraging words of all the things this world will offer these two, my mind thinks over all the women of the Bible who had to save their children from abduction and death. Running through, comparing what Jochebed must have felt weaving her basket in between nursing her chubby Moses. The nurse who hid Joash in the temple because his grandmother wanted to slaughter all her descendants to secure her throne. What resolve and fear mingled with love to create the steel that got them through. What I wouldn’t do to protect these little souls.

 After what seems like too long, it is finally my turn. We have put him in the front bedroom, a room off of the main living/dining room. Central but private. He offers to let me shut the door, as I know that he has each of my family prior to me entering this room, and unlike the others, I leave the door open. He offers again and waits. I firmly tell him I did not change my mind, I want it open. My faithful pittie, the one who could be a double for the gangly bulldog pup in that long-ago black and white TV series, stays close. My solace. He has his back to the man. Facing his boys, watching my body language, finally sitting by my kitchen chair. Our other dog, the protector, lays on the mattress that occupies the playroom floor and watches the man. Near me, but watching him. Waiting. I meet his eyes briefly but then study my boy. My precious brown and white boy. Watch as his white fur begins to pile up on the floor beside him from my strokes down his back. I listen closely to the questions. My training for documentation, for possible deposition as a nurse, coming into play. Listen to the question, only answer the question. Do not over-explain. Be direct, be concise, answer exactly what he asks. I hear it on a loop in my head. The drumbeat of my heart swelling along with the phrase of GET HIM OUT OF MY HOUSE! Keep it cool, keep listening. 

I find myself annoyed with his repeating phrases, trying to get his opening right, like he’s lost place in a script. Get on with it already. Say what you came here to say. Ask me the questions. He assures me he is here with a blank slate, he is neutral in his opinion. He tells me that the passages from the complaint he will share are not verbatim, as that might make the report no longer anonymous. I state I understand. He asks about a Facebook post from 3 days ago. It is from a private board. It is from the Mommy Support page I joined shortly after my 5-year-old was born. It is a page I have freely spoken on, posted, commented, vented, and been vulnerable. It is a place I have actively shared and encouraged others to join. The pit in my stomach that has been a pothole drops out into a swirling vortex. My fault. This is my fault. I shared too much. My careful, protective husband has long suggested I would be safer if I shared less. He has warned me of the horror stories that happen when people take your words and twist them. I found my window. It wasn’t a window on my house, it was a window on my phone. My safe space. Someone looked into my world through that small window and has decided that my home is a dangerous place.

 

The man's voice continues on. He asks for explanations, this report seems eternal. It goes back for more than a year. I am stunned. A year, two years, three...years… how long has this person been watching me. How long have they been accounting for my life on their spreadsheet? Did they save all my “red flags” on a Word Document? He asks about diapers, and narcotic use, depression, and fighting. He asks about my boys - detailed things that only a mother would ask another mother for help with. I hear my voice, good, it is still level. I can’t afford to become angry now. I can’t be defensive. He is only here doing his job. If my babies were in danger, I would want him to be persistent. I want him to get this right the first time. I NEVER WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN, OH GOD, PLEASE LET THIS BE OVER.

 

I stand up when he tells me the interview is over. He says he can say the next part to both of us. I have been prepared by my attorney that he may need to look through my house, check for food, and other proof that the kids have what they need. I am surprised that he says at this point, he will be handing off to his supervisor but that he is done. He goes through the formal bits, gives us his card, lets us know he can receive texts and we are free to check on our case at any time, and then he is gone.

 Gone.

 The house is quiet. The kids asked if they could play on their tablets, and I am so thankful at that moment that their grandparents got them each one for Christmas so I don’t have to referee a "share timer" that I could cry. My husband looks pale. Quiet. Shaken. I wait for the blame game to begin. God knows, I know it is all my fault. My fault for trusting strangers with our problems. My fault for trusting this Mom group to see our life as we see it, normal, basic, human. 

This window that I painted.

The blame never came. My husband simply said, well, we can’t go back to before. And I don’t think you can vent on that page anymore. If you need help, you need to get a therapist and not a board of strangers.

I wait for more. I busy myself calling friends, my voice so flat and strange that my girls know something is wrong. My tribe. They showed up. I am so grateful for each reassurance that I am not broken, that we are not broken, that our children are ok and more than that, thriving. That my husband's chronic illnesses are not something to be hiding away, and it is still ok to ask for help for the bad days. That we are doing all that anyone does, THE BEST WE CAN. And that they see how we sacrifice for our boys. My husband doesn't understand why I won't talk to him. He wants to know why it is that I have talked to everyone else but him. He says he feels abandoned. I tell him that I expected him to blow up at me. I expected that he would lay the blame for this at my feet and be angry with me. 

Like I am. 

Like I do.

Why hadn't I listened before? Why wasn't I more cautious. Why didn't I share the good as readily as I did the bad? Why didn't the report talk about the home canning, the bill paying, the Amazon returns, the back rubs, the late-night support as I plow through a master's degree. Why does the report not show more of this man that is so essential to our family. This man that we would be lost without. This man who shows up for me every day. This man that I love and who loves us? I have control over how I paint the window they got to look through and I FAILED my family. Or did I? I can control what I put in my window, but I do not control what filters the window others look through to look into my own. 

That post - the final straw - had to do with food prep for days when chronic illness makes it difficult for my husband to prepare food for our kids. I asked for ideas of things we could pre-pack and have ready in the fridge for our 5-year-old to grab out for himself and his brother. I got 45 responses to that post. 45 supportive, concerned mamas, all reassuring me that we do what we have to do and that life is not perfect. Several of them mentioned their own chronic illness and their game plans for the crazy hard days. All of which had great ideas, though some were a bit far from my comfort zone - including teaching our 5-year-old how to safely use an instapot and an air fryer, since choose not to own a microwave.

That was what tipped the scale of her opinion that she could wait no longer. She had to act. 

I pray that momma who kept such a detailed file of my family spent sleepless nights praying for my children. I hope that this came from a place of concern, rather than control. Because prior to that Mazda pulling into my driveway, there was never a message asking me if we were ok. The admins of the page never reached out to me because a group member brought my situation to their attention. That concerned, righteous woman, went straight to the extreme and called CPS. That was her choice.

 

In the hours and days that followed the interview, my thoughts continued to spiral. What if I didn’t have a loving husband who works so hard to overcome his diagnosis and hold down the fort while I work long hours on the “front lines” of this damn pandemic?? What if I didn’t have my tribe of women who immediately went into action to help shore us up?

 

And then my thoughts go deeper, into the darker waters.

 

What if we were in danger. What if I was one of those Moms who is getting her plan together and waiting for that moment to leave. What if that call set into motion a domino effect that placed us in even greater peril, something that could have cost us our lives. We could have been a headline. 

Mom and two boys killed in a domestic violence situation after CPS visits home.

 

How would she feel then?

 

Would she have made the right call?