You Can't Outsource Compassion

“You Can’t Outsource Compassion”

Jen Wasyliw

My thoughts are jumping around like grasshoppers–-springing away a split second before I capture a sane one. But, I guess that’s to be expected when you’re being investigated for criminal charges, something highly concerning for this stay-at-home-mom.

My morning had been interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. I rushed from the kitchen, shushing my dog before she barked and woke the baby. I had just laid my swaddled, seven-day-old son in his bassinet and was speed-cleaning while I had a few hands-free moments. My two toddlers were zoned out watching Paw Patrol. Without thinking, I flung open the door as my dog barreled past my legs, eager to greet our guests.

I profusely apologized and tried to grasp my dog as she enthusiastically evaded me on the front stoop; wiggling and winding between people’s legs, begging for a pet. Grabbing her collar, I shoved her into the house, and pulled the door closed just enough to barricade her inside.

I nervously laughed through the crack at the front door as I realized I had no idea who these ‘guests’ were, “Sorry about that.”

A man stared back at me. He reminded me of an actor I once saw on the wharf who wore silver spray-painted clothing. He stood still as a statue until someone tossed a coin into his busking case. At that moment, he bowed with flourish and tipped his grey top hat to reveal a shock of red hair.

I wondered if I should throw a coin to Mr. Statue.

I looked from him into the smiling eyes of a woman in her early thirties. “That’s alright,” she said cheerfully. Her voice turned sober, “We are from Child and Family Services. We’ve had a report of children being locked up.”

“Oh!” I gasped, glancing down the street to determine which neighbour would do such a thing. There is a rental house that seemed to be a revolving door of tenants. Were some unsavoury characters living there? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. To think that something so horrible was happening right under my nose.

“Here, ma’am.”

I swung my attention back to the smiling, oddly pleasant– considering her morbid declaration– lady in front of me. I stared at her unblinkingly; but, she didn't say anything more. My brows met. What was she talking about?

And then in lingering, awkward silence, it clicked.

“Oh! Here! You mean here?” My eyes bore into her. “Like, right here, in my house?”

“Yes, we’d like to come in,” Statue-Man spoke up for the first time.

“Oh, yes, come in,” I stammered. I opened the door wider, and my wild dog realized it’s her moment of escape. I snatched her collar and led her through the house to the backdoor, not daring to let go. The screen door slapped shut; her barking was muffled as I pulled the main door closed.

My little boys were engrossed in their TV show and didn't take any notice; so, I invited my visitors over to the kitchen table and offered them a seat.

“Thank you,” said Smiley-Eyes, as if she was genuinely tired and would love the opportunity to rest. Her kindness was an anchor for my racing mind. Is this how she treated all criminals? Surely not. Surely, that means I’m not a criminal, right?

Statue-man declined, as he stiffly leaned against the countertop.

And here I am now: sitting at my kitchen table with Child Protective Services and my grasshopper thoughts (or was it jack rabbits?), because children are being held hostage in my house.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the orange peels and sticky mess on the table. I jump up, grab a rag, and quickly scrub it clean, apologizing as I do so. My heart is pounding. What is going on here? It doesn’t help that Mr. Mechanical has pulled out a pen, clicks the tip down, and holds it poised over a clipboard.

A surge of fire and ice floods my core as I imagine my little babies hugging one another in an unfamiliar bed; heart-wrenching sobs for mommy and daddy finally ease into shuddering breaths and sniffles. Is that what Social Services does? That’s what unfolds in books… and movies… and TV. This can’t be happening!

It’s irrational, I tell myself. My fear is irrational. There are no kids being locked up in this house! Flashes of Oprah and Dr. Phil episodes replay in my mind of children who had been kidnapped and locked in basements; others who had finally escaped by using a spoon to chip a hole through the cement foundation; those who had murdered their captors as bowls of grey, gelatinous slop were tossed into the dungeon.

The nice lady across from me is trying to talk. I didn’t hear a word. I force my racing thoughts to abate. “Is your partner around?”

He is still at the University, but I take a moment to call him to make sure he comes straight home after class. Thankfully he answers.

"You have to come home- right now!” My voice is shaky. I walk into the porch to gain some semblance of privacy as I tell my husband in a hoarse whisper, “Child Protective Services is here. They say kids are being locked up in our home. They want to talk to us about it.”

“What?” He exclaims. “Class is over. I’m on my way, but I won’t be there for another twenty minutes with the traffic.” We hang up.

“He will be here in about half an hour,” I tell them.

Mr.Monotone starts talking. By now I’m looking for signs; you know- a microchip in his pupil, glitches in his speech, a metallic hue to his skin. “It must be really stressful raising three little kids,” he says.

Stressful.

Not ‘exhilarating’ as I celebrate my child taking his first steps.

Not ‘challenging’ as I desperately try to figure out why my child is now waking up every hour through the night.

Not ‘beautiful’ as I watch my three-year-old hold his new baby brother and lean over to kiss his pink cheek, beaming with pride.

Not ‘sanctifying’ as selfish and immature parts of my soul wither, then die, and unconditional love blossoms in their place.

Just stressful.

“More like exhausting.” I applaud myself for what I view as a calm, intelligent response in the midst of my robotic sleuthing and mind-bending anxiety. “I did just give birth seven days ago.”

“Yes, we know,” he states matter-of-factly, almost as if it’s not worth mentioning.

I’m so confused again; however, one idea begins to crystallize in my mind.

“We have a lot of support,” I continue, determined to paint an accurate picture of me and my home. “Family is here to help, since my husband had to go back to university. And our friends bring us meals every other day. I don’t even have to think about cooking.”

“Wow, that's wonderful," Ms. Genuine responds.

A bit of pressure deflates from my lungs. It is. It is wonderful.

“May we see the baby?”- her colleague's impassive comment. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable with warm fuzzies, my GPS responds with more feeling.

“He’s sleeping.” I’m anxious to wake him, as I imagine the scene that will undoubtedly follow… a struggle to latch a newborn while retaining a shred of decency; breathing through childbirth-worthy afterpains; and at the same time formulating coherent responses to these confusing inquiries.

“That’s ok,” Supportive Lady says, "We don’t need to disturb him; we just want to have a look.”

I lead them into my bedroom where my newborn son is sleeping in his bassinet. One arm has escaped his swaddle, exposing his bare skin and the chubby crease by his elbow. I tuck the corner of the receiving blanket under his chin as his lips pucker, and his brows furrow ever so slightly in an adorable pout. Thankfully, he doesn’t wake up.

“Such a sweetheart,” coos Ms. Considerate. “He’s just fine. Don’t disturb him.”

Her partner grunts his approval and exits the room.

I feel a memory developing like an old polaroid photograph, slowly materializing and coming into focus–-a time recently, when another visitor was looking at my kids’ sleeping arrangements.

A healthcare professional had been visiting our home, late in my pregnancy, to discuss our birth plan. She thoroughly answered all of our questions and concerns. We visited for a long time. Visibly eager to visit her next client, she was getting ready to leave, when my two-year-old intercepted her and said, “Come look at my new bed!” He was so proud of his homemade bunk bed–

“Wait a minute! I think I know why you are here!” I blurt out. I’m not sure if I interrupted anyone, but it suddenly became crystal clear to me. “It’s the crib, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean? Could you show us?”

I lead them into the bedroom that my two and three-year-old share. We recently created a hybrid crib-bunk bed. Below the bunkbed is a crib with a little door cut out that swings open on a hinge. There is a small barrel latch on the side to make sure that it stays closed.

“This crib door latches shut, so he doesn’t crawl out at night time.” I lean over and click the latch to the left. “He can open it, but he doesn’t do it very often.”

My mind flashes back to the visit with our midwife. My toddler had jumped into his homemade crib-cage and began tossing stuffed animals around, laughing and squealing, “It’s a zoo!”

I had laughed and crouched down, “It’s homemade, so I’m not entirely sure if it’s up to code, but it keeps him in there.” I slapped the little latch closed and then opened it up again before standing to my feet.

Our visitor had whipped around while stating, “I’ve really got to go.”

She was at the front door before I could show her out. I watched as she nearly screeched her tires doing a u-turn in front of our house.

“I guess she’s really late,” I said to my husband, as he placed his hands on my shoulders and stared out the window.

“So, he can get out of here himself?” Voices bring me back to the present.

“Yes, he can.” I thought of how, after naptime, he had slid the bolt open and padded out of his room–messy hair and rosy cheeks–rubbing his sleepy eyes, then settled on my lap for a snuggle.

Mr. Statue’s gaze travels the perimeter of the bedroom door frame, “I see they aren’t being locked in the bedroom.”

“What? No!” I’m still struggling with the shock of this entire episode.

Satisfied, he clicks his pen, places it in his shirt pocket, and tucks his clipboard under his arm, “Well, we don’t have any concerns. Thank you for your time.” He swipes his hands together, as if dusting them clean while congratulating himself on another job well done. “We will just wait outside in the car for your husband to get home and officially close this case.”

I swear I heard his ‘elbow’ creak as he let himself out the front door.

In a daze, I shut the door behind them. I walk over to peer at my sleeping angel in his bassinet. Tears prick my eyes as unwanted thoughts ransack my mind like a thief in the night, ripping my baby from my arms– stealing him from the nourishment of my breasts. I lean over and kiss his plump, soft cheek, pausing to nuzzle into his warmth and inhale his sweet baby smell. I find myself desperate for reality to burn off the fog of my phobia, craving a sliver of grounding connection.

The adrenaline pushes and shoves between fury and weeping. Or maybe it's the hormones. A tidal wave of weariness crashes over me. Thank God this is over.

The door slams, signaling my husband’s return from school. I can tell he’s anxious and a bit frazzled.

“What’s going on?” He drops his bag and slips off his shoes.

“They said there was a report that kids were being locked up here.”

“Who would say that?” He’s aghast.

“I don’t know exactly, but they have to follow through after a complaint like that.” I can see he’s going to interrupt me. “It was the crib–” I explain. He stills and tugs on his beard; his eyebrows knit together. I hurry on, “--but they said, it’s fine; we can keep it.”

Leaving him contemplating, I walk through the living room and open the front door, waving the social workers in.

Mr. Efficient shakes my husband’s hand (I’m sure it’s cold and lifeless!) and launches into a thirty-second rendition of how he detonated a bomb on my day and concludes by saying, “Don’t worry about the bed. It’s great. Keep it. Use it for the next kid. If anyone ever has a concern about it, they will see that this file has been investigated and closed.”

Investigated.

Closed.

I now have a paper folder and yellow manilla envelope with my name stamped crookedly in bold, black ink on the front.

With forced smiles, we thank them, see them out, and shut the door. Shut out the world. Shut out the worry. Shut out the nightmare. What just happened?