When You Feel Like a Failure as a Mom
I have never felt so horrible as a parent.
We finished lunch, and I put a movie on my for twins in the basement while I gave my two-year-old a bath. He seemed to wear summer all over his body. As I wiped off the jelly, dirt, and sweat from my little boy, I heard a knock at the door. I thought it was Amazon or maybe a door-to-door salesperson, so I didn’t answer.
Another knock.
I stood up from kneeling in front of the bathtub and glanced out the window. A woman was heading back to her car, and then I quickly realized she was just going to grab something and come back. I checked on my son in the tub, then ran downstairs to open the door.
“Hello?” I called after her. “Can I help you?”
“I’m just going to grab my ID.”
Huh? I scrolled through my memories, trying to place this woman. Did I know her? Was I supposed to know what she was there for? Did I have an appointment I forgot about?
I stood at the door, confused. She walked right into my house, as if she had a right to be there.
“DCFS,” she said. I don’t even remember what she said next. Everything in my mind got fuzzy, and all I could think to say was, “Umm, I’ve got a kid in the tub. Can you give me a minute?”
I ran up the stairs to retrieve my son. I wrapped him in a towel and met her back in my entryway. She explained she was here to see what happened yesterday and to check on my son. Even though he was okay, the hospital told us that after he fell from a two-story window, it was protocol to report it to the Department of Child and Family Services. I knew we’d be contacted by them. I didn’t realize the procedure involved an unannounced home visit less than 24 hours after the incident.
She was cordial enough as she tried to get my son to look at her while she took pictures of his scrapes and bruises. I walked her through the house, stepping over the embarrassing mess of toys and dirty laundry strewn across the floor. I tried unsuccessfully to hold back tears while she took pictures of the window he managed to get unlocked, and I wondered if she believed that yes, indeed, my not quite three-year-old really did unlock and open the window on his own.
Soon after, she went to the basement, and I paused my kids’ movie so she could interview my twins. I was not allowed to be in the room while she asked them questions. As I stood in my kitchen, my breathing quickened and my hands shook. Later, while she questioned me, she asked me if I had any mental health issues and the dosage of the medication I was on. Admitting depression never felt so humiliating. I didn’t think my struggles would ever be documented like this.
“What are you going to do to make sure this doesn’t happen again?” She glanced at me while writing notes on her forms.
I had already ordered child safety locks for the window from the hospital parking lot right after his fall, and I tried to add in some other tactics to convince her that I was an okay parent. I don’t even know if what I said made sense. I felt dizzy, my mind spinning with memories of picking my son off the dirt below his bedroom window, just a few inches from a piece of concrete. The words on the form she handed me are seared into my brain: “Notification of a Suspected Child Abuse and/or Neglect Document.”
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Photo by Lottie Caiella. Don’t miss the rest of this essay at C+C!
