The disapproving voice of the nurse might have felt a little more painful if I wasn’t already weary to the core of my body and my soul. My youngest, just barely two, was sedated and safely asleep in the hospital crib, having just come through surgery to remove the infection from her skull that was threatening to spread into her brain, and I’d spent the night trying to distract myself from the gut-wrenching fear while she was in surgery, composing variations of the letter I’d need to send her father, who was in prison and completely unaware of the crisis, depending on the various outcomes that may have come from the surgery.
My other children were four and six years old, and I’d left them in the care of the only resource I had, the raging alcoholic who lived across the street. You see, their father had gone to prison only a few months previously, and that had resulted in complete social isolation. His family was, understandably, in their own emotional crisis over the situation, and they were not an option. I had an older daughter, age twelve, but I’d made the excruciating decision to send her to live with my parents about ten hours away because the environment had gotten emotionally toxic for her. That did mean I didn’t have the luxury of a “built-in babysitter” and had to make the best of the situation, and the neighbor was my “best” choice.
I couldn’t imagine an explanation to give to Nurse Judgey-Scrubs that wouldn’t trigger another visit by social services, and we’d had quite enough of their involvement, thank you ever so much, so I simply said to her, “No, I don’t. I’ll be back before she wakes up,” as I gathered my things and headed out the door.
“Can’t you just leave them with a neighbor?”
Fast forward about four years. I’d moved to Indiana just a few months prior, it was January, and we were getting hammered with heavy snow. School was delayed (again), and I was calling in to let my boss know I’d be late, because the kids, now 2nd, 4th and 5th graders, wouldn’t be getting on the school bus for another two hours and I couldn’t leave them home alone. Ethically, morally, *legally* I could not leave them home alone. I didn’t know any of my neighbors. Years of dealing with the social fall-out from their dad’s incarceration had created thick emotional walls that I wasn’t ready to dismantle, certainly not two or three months into being in a new space.
I was being told to knock on the doors of complete strangers and hand my children into their care.
My boss wanted to hear none of it. I was told that this would affect my attendance record and, for sure, my performance review. I asked the HR manager to please put it in writing that they were asking me to leave my underage children home unsupervised because I could not believe that even after explaining the situation (again), I was being told to knock on the doors of complete strangers and hand my children into their care. I knew that most of my new coworkers had lived in the area for multiple generations, and had extended families and social connections to fall back on. I envied them both… and had neither.
I had moved to give us a fresh start and was paralyzed with fear at the thought of sharing the specifics with these new people who didn’t know us, or our situation, knowing full well that once they learned “The Truth”, we’d be shunned all over again. Not to mention, we’d lived in the South for my kids’ entire lives. They didn’t understand the dangers of extended cold exposure, and I wasn’t comfortable taking the risk of leaving them in some suburban version of what, in my mind, felt like “Lord of the Frozen Flies”. So I protected them the best I could, and took the black mark on my “permanent record”.
Those experiences were over a decade ago, and I still remember those voices and others like them.
I recall them more frequently these days, as I see a lot of incredibly harsh posts on social media from people who are criticizing fellow citizens at the local grocery store or other places of business who have their children with them, and to be fair, MANY people may just be lax in their adoption of the “social distancing” measures recommended by the authorities. But how do we know that they aren’t doing their very best?
That un-masked mom at the supermarket with the toddler who is, terror of terrors, using a pacifier, is she lazy, uncaring, or making the best choice she can by taking her child shopping? That man buying ice cream – is he just oblivious? Or is his partner recovering from chemotherapy and ice cream is one of the few things they can keep down?
I replied to a particularly acerbic (translation: judgey) comment on a friend’s social media post about a similar situation (mom at the store, no mask, baby with a pacifier and also no mask) with these words:
“My kids wouldn’t wear barrettes in their hair. I cannot fathom trying to force a kid to wear a mask… You think a pacifier spreads germs? So does a stressed-out howling kid snotting and crying everywhere. I think people should do what’s reasonable for them, but unlike the jerk I saw vaping, with his mask at a jaunty angle and clouds of respiratory moisture billowing into the people around him, this sounds fairly ok, honestly. At least in principle.
There was a time in my life when youngest needed emergency surgery, and literally, the only person I had to leave her older siblings with was the raving alcoholic across the street and I spent the next several hours in extreme panic because I was not sure my other kids were going to be ok. Not everyone has support systems in place. That’s just life. Delivery costs more. Babysitters are expensive. That might be a no-go for that person. I have no idea. There are a lot of assumptions about the life of a person we don’t know, eh? Was that ideal? Pft. No. Sometimes life isn’t ideal, and we do better to offer grace than to leap to judgments.”
This person simply could not imagine a world where their version of “how things should be” was easily attainable for others. Ah, to have lived so privileged a life!
This isn’t new. I’ve watched people heap nastiness on parents in public for decades. Not-so-quietly muttered statements like “I’d beat any child of mine who acted like that in public” are pretty common, actually. And I get that people are extra-freaked right now and it takes a village to flatten a pandemic curve and accountability is perfectly cool, but y’all… Stress abounds. We can all use a little more grace, and we almost never know the struggles others are carrying. I believe that when we approach situations with extreme kindness and an overabundance of empathy instead of shame and reproach, we are far more likely to encourage those around us to do their (… our…) best. And isn’t that what matters?