Source: http://news.yahoo.com/happened-left-kids-car-now-170000556.html
______________________________
"Do you think what you did is OK?"
What do I say?
If I say "no," does it mean I acted maliciously? If I say "yes," does it
mean I'm incapable of knowing when I've made a bad decision? If I admit
my judgment is fallible, do they take the kids away right here and now?
One
day last November, I went to pick up my older son from school, as I do
at 2:30 p.m. nearly every weekday. My toddler was with me, as he usually
is. He'd been up all night with a stomach bug, and I'd been up with
him. I was thoroughly tired when it came time to put him into the car,
though he was already feeling better. Holding down some solids, even.
I arrived at the school and met
my four-year-old at the front gate. He looked sort of green as he limply
hugged my legs with the arm that wasn't toting his Avengers lunch bag. I
asked him how school was and he didn't answer.
Then,
as we started toward the car, he began to vomit, all over the parking
lot. Everyone — parents, grandparents, teachers, other kids — freaked
out. Barf flew, arms flailed. People ran around trying to do something
useful and mostly failing. It's all pretty blurry, actually, except the
physical memory of his skinny little body in my arms, doubled over and
heaving.
When the retching
stopped, I rushed the poor kid to the nearest restroom to get him out of
his barfy clothes. I left his (mostly clean) undershirt on, but he
hates short sleeves, so I gave him the ratty old sweater I'd been
wearing to soothe him. Meanwhile, one of the women who works at the
school stood near my car, keeping my toddler, still strapped into his
car seat, company as a custodian dumped sawdust on the multiple pools of
vomit that had come flying out of my kid.
Chicken broth, Jell-O, saltines, Gatorade, children's ibuprofin, and acetaminophin for the fever after the nausea passed.
I'd originally planned to take the boys with me after school, but the preschooler was in sorry shape, and I wasn't sure it'd be a good idea to move him. Then, he fell asleep in the five minutes it took to drive to the store. I tried, futilely, to wake him.
So what do I do?
The
temperature outside is in the 60s, and I estimate that I can be in and
out of the store in about 10 minutes. I open the sunroof and crack all
the windows. I turn the car off, get out, lock the kids in, and speed
walk up to the doors that whoosh open for me automatically. I gather the
stuff I need and get in line behind an old woman who seems to be trying
to haggle down the price of something based on an outdated store
mailer. Why do I always get in line behind this lady? I check my watch a
million times.
It takes me about 15 minutes, all told, to get back to the car.
By
this time, police officers have descended. Looking in at my kids,
tapping on the windows, talking to each other. Talking to a man who
turns and gives me a distinctly filthy look as I run up with my bags,
shouting, "Hey! That's my car!"
They
ask me what happened. They ask me to explain myself, to break down the
events that led up to this moment. I answer their questions and they
tell me I am "making excuses."
"You didn't have a blanket you could use to put on him in the cart? You know you should always have a blanket in the car with kids."
"Don't you have neighbors you can call? Don't you know any of your neighbors?"
I
try to explain that everyone is at work. My mom, my dad, my sisters, my
husband, my cousins, my brother-in-law. Everyone works during the day. I
tell them we just moved in that spring, and we don't know any neighbors
well enough to trust them to watch our kids. I tell them that I am
tired, that I have been up all night, that there's still vomit drying on
my clothes, that look — for Chrissakes — I am here for the stuff I need
to take care of my sick kids. I start opening shopping bags to show
them.
"Ma'am. Stop making excuses."
Police
cruisers continue to roll up to the scene. There are at least four now.
They already know the story they want. They have to make sure the plot
points fit.
One officer tells
me it is 85 degrees inside the car. It's not. They tell me the guy who
called them said he'd been standing there with my kids for half an hour.
Not possible.
"Your kids
are terrified," they assert as my toddler beams at me with his huge,
beautiful smile and as his ailing big brother falls back asleep in my
ratty old sweater.
"Mommy!" the toddler tells them, pointing at me, proudly.
The guy who called the cops on me is lingering, trying to get in on the action.
I know what they want me to do, but I can't do it in front of my kids. I can't look into the knowing faces and tell them I have been wrong, even though I know it will go easier on me if I just say the words that will reassure the panel of white, male authority arranged before me that I understand it is their right and their place to judge.
"Do you think what you did is okay?"
Despite knowing better, I give the answer I always give when I'm unwilling to admit defeat:
"I guess not."
Predictably, this is not good enough.
They write me up. I glare at them, at the ground. I clench my fists and my jaw. It's all I have.
I don't break down crying until I am home and the boys are resting on the couch, watching cartoons.
The
next day, a social worker came to my house. She was Latina, like me.
Small and brown. She talked to me as though I were an intelligent human
being, and it was easy to admit to her that I made a mistake. I can see
that she knew that it was probably ridiculous that she had to be there.
Nearly
three months later, I'm almost through the gauntlet. The social worker
told me this should all be behind me within a couple of weeks, allowing
for processing time.
I am
terrified that despite this creeping dread, if I'm ever in a position
like this again, I won't be able to say, "Yes, I fucked up. Please
forgive me. I am so sorry. You're right."
_________________________________________
My thoughts over coffee about this news story, to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for sharing morning coffee with me!