Surprise plot twist... and its Rosh Hashana connection
Friday, September 3rd 2010 @ 1:29 AM
I was out of town for a few days, settling my oldest daughter in at the dorm of her new high school in another state. (For long-time NJP readers: yes, the toddler from the cover of issue #1 is now in eleventh grade!)
When I arrived home late Tuesday night, the light on my answering machine was blinking. I pressed play.
"Hello, this is Ashley from the Department of Children and Families. It's important that you return my call. We received a report and I need to talk to you as soon as possible."
Children and Families? It wasn't hard for me to figure out that was a euphemism for Social Services. But it sounds really sweet, doesn't it? And Ashley sounded like a very young, well-meaning, perky person.
Sweetness and perkiness aside, I was thrown into a low-grade turmoil that lasted all night. Someone had reported ME to Social Services? Me?
The website of the Department of Children and Families describes its hotline as a confidential place to report suspected abuse and neglect.
Um, can you say, barking up the wrong tree?
So I spent the night tossing and turning, and thinking. Who could have reported me, and for what?
Now here's the interesting thing. Even as I tossed and turned and seethed, the significance of the timing of this little event was not lost on me. It's Elul. Rosh Hashana is in one week. And what are we supposed to do? Think about the past year, and whether we have lived up to our potential, whether we have wronged others or failed to keep our end of the people/G-d bargain.
I was up all night thinking about all of that, especially in terms of my parenting.
Had I abused or neglected my children? Of course not. But I ran through my memory store of less-than-perfect parenting moments, searching for incriminating evidence. The times I've yelled to be heard over my kids' fighting. The times I've said no to more dinner because it's just getting too late, and then had stabs of guilt wondering whether my kids' hunger pangs will keep them up all night. The times I've forgotten to smile and say just the right thing when a child needs it.
Honestly, my first response when I heard the message from Ashley was that my kids' doctor must have reported me because of the issue of my baby's growth. But I came up with one other option, which was enough to be duly wracked with doubt all night long...
Maybe a neighbor heard my child screaming the other day when I had to put cream on her rash. The window was open... and my daughter did say (scream) some incriminating-sounding things. ("Stop, Mommy! You're hurting me! Stop! No, Mommy, don't!")
First thing the next morning, I called Ashley. She said that someone had reported me to her agency, and really, I knew it must have been the doctor. I told her I had a feeling I knew exactly what happened. The doctor found out that I had cancelled my appointments with the Early Intervention person and the gastrointestinal specialist, and she tried to reach me but couldn't because our phone wasn't working. (We've had problems ever since we moved to a new house two months ago.) So she reported me to Social Services!
Unbelievable. This woman has been my children's doctor for nine years. She knows me. She knows what kind of parent I am. She knows that my children are healthy and happy. And yet she made the decision to report me, instead of finding a way to communicate with me and find out what was going on.
Well, Ashley had tried to call my out-of-order number, and when it didn't work, she called information and got my temporary number—and reached me.
The mail works, too. Also e-mail, and cell phones. But the doctor went straight to involving the state in the matter of my baby's growth.
Ashley confirmed everything I suspected. She then proceeded to tell me she would need to set up a home visit, and how she is available to "help" and things like that which sound nice but are still a huge invasion of my privacy.
During a long conversation, I told Ashley the situation with my baby eating, and why I cancelled the appointments. She was very understanding but insisted she had to follow through with an investigation. I proposed a creative compromise: I would bring my baby to the doctor to be weighed and measured, and Ashley could meet me there and be present for the whole thing.
She checked with her supervisor and called back to say she would meet me at the doctor's office.
Also, she had read my blog here (I e-mailed her a link) and was impressed—especially because everything I wrote was before she had even called me. It was clear that I was anything but neglectful, and that I had a respectful attitude toward the doctor and her recommendations.
This morning was the weigh-in. I had told Ashley that although my baby has been eating a ton for a few weeks, there's no guarantee that the scale will show it yet. Having heard Social Services horror stories, I had visions of having my baby weighed, the scale showing no gain, and uniformed officials swooping in to take her into state custody (chas v'shalom!).
The nurse measured her. She had grown an inch. She weighed her. She had gained about a quarter of a pound—or a whole pound—I don't know which, because the scale kept fluctuating and never settled on one number.
In other words, she ate, and she grew. Her curve is back up on the chart (heading in the right direction, anyway). A happy ending, right?
It would be, except for the fact that my doctor broke the almost decade-long trust between us by deciding to involve the state in the matter of my baby's health. I told her so, and I told her that I no longer felt comfortable bringing my children to her for their health care. I will be changing doctors.
When the doctor left the exam room, I was left with Ashley, who asked me a series of condescending follow-up questions she is required to ask. (She seemed embarrassed to have to do this, because it was blatantly obvious that I was not in need of her involvement in the first place.) Am I aware of the importance of good nutrition? Do I understand that it is important to keep appointments?
She then discussed arrangements for follow-up weighings as part of her continuing "investigation." This thing isn't going to disappear any time soon, apparently, regardless of whether the state's resources are being completely wasted or not. And regardless of the fact that my baby is healthy, happy, eating and growing.
I then did the only respectable, mature thing to do: I burst into tears. Then I held my baby close to me and walked out.
Although I feel resentful, angry, and betrayed, the truth is that my emotions are like a thin covering for a much deeper understanding that this whole incident was designed just for me, to teach me something I needed to hear.
It's Elul. Rosh Hashana is in one week. And I had not yet found the time or energy to do a cheshbon nefesh—a soul-searching—about "where I am." So I got a phone call—Ashley was just the messenger—reminding me to spend one fitful night doing exactly that.
