The Day My Worst Nightmares Didn't Come True

Moms, you know that little voice in the back of your head. The one that comes after you think "I know my kids will be just fine if I leave them strapped in in the car and run inside for 5 minutes to find that ONE thing I forgot." Then the voice comes up, "But what if someone reports me to Child Protective Services?" So you promptly unstrap your run-away three-year-old and your so-clingy-you've begun-to-think-you-were-born-with-one-hand-not-two year-and-a-half old and you tote everyone back inside your house to find that ONE small thing. What could have taken a matter of one or two minutes has suddenly turned into a twenty minute excursion that will most assuredly make you late.

When you stop and think about it, it really is quite insane that we give so much heed to that fear.  But what else are we supposed to do? We love our kids. We want them to be ours. We want them to stay with us. The fear of having them taken away runs deep, even though most of us are trying our best and really can and do take care of our kids as well as or better than anyone else could. But we've heard so many crazy stories (mostly fueled by fiction and the internet) about Moms who did just that one, innocent thing, that resulted in a mass CPS invasion.

Well, last week, I was that mom. I was building up my defenses and ready for full-on war with that untouchable enemy known as Child Protective Services.

It all started when I was helping my parents declutter their home. The kids were running about in the house for most of the day as I dug deeper and deeper into the pit of decades past. Just after I moved a table that had been sitting buried by papers and books for at least a decade I discovered a mouse nest along with a plethora of droppings. It was at that moment that my three-year-old asked me if he could play in the front yard. I figured I'd rather have him outside than playing in the mouse poop. I could see the whole yard clearly from the window I was working near. The previous day I had let  him play out there and he always came in to check in every 3-5 minutes. He stayed close and came in frequently to show me the treasures of pine cones and rocks he was finding in Grandma's yard. His favorite place in the yard is behind some trees, away from the street and closed in by the fence and the house. It really did seem like the safest place for him. When I let him out, his not-quite-two-year-old brother wanted to go with him. I figured they would be safer together--ceartainly safer than playing in mouse poop, so I let them out.

Then I dug into the task at hand. Vacuuming excrement, picking up nests, trying not to breathe anything that was being kicked up in the process. I delved into that awful task, all the while placing efficiency at the priority so I could get it over with.

It couldn't have been more than 10 minutes before I remembered my kids were outside and I looked out the window to check on them. My heart skipped a beat because they were NO WHERE in sight. I ran out as fast as I could, leaping over piles of trash, donations and other sundries and started calling their names. Thinking maybe they had come through the house without me noticing I ran to the backyard to call for them. Nothing.

I said a prayer, then I ran into action.

As I raced to the car to start looking for them, a lady on a scooter came from the north, and I asked her if she'd seen two small boys walking alone from the direction she came. She said no. So I took off south, with the windows rolled down, shouting their names, and driving slower than my dad (if you know my dad, you know that's slow) with the hazards on. I reached the end of the road. My stomach seemed to stretch from the back of my throat to clear to my knees. I drove around the block, and now approached my parents house from the north. A few houses in, I hear my not-quite-two-year-old screaming from an open garage. I pulled over, called him by name and rescued him, frantically asking where his brother was.

Just as my three-year-old came through a doorway I noticed him. The man on the phone. I heard him say, "It looks like we have a mom that just arrived."

The man had found my kids wandering down the street by themselves and had called 911. He can't have been on with them very long. In fact, I think that if I had gone north first, I'd have found my kids before he did.

He passed the phone to me and the dispatcher asked me how long my kids had been missing and where they had come from. Then she informed me that a police officer would be coming to my parent's house to check on the kids.

Fear filled my heart as I thanked the concerned neighbor and took extra care to be sure I strapped my kids into the carseat exactly right. Nice and snug. Clip at armpit height. Then I said a prayer of gratitude that they were safe.

When I got home, I frantically wiped their faces (they were filthy from playing in the dirt outside) and waited for the cop to arrive.

His visit was brief. He just asked to get a visual on both kids to see that they were okay. Then he got down and told my three-year-old that he needed to tell mom when he was going to go somewhere. Then he said, "Next time you want to run away, tell your mom first, and she can come with you!"

With that he turned around and went back to his patrol car. He never even took my name. Relief flooded as I realized that CPS would not even hear about that incident.

It turns out it was a great learning experience. I learned that people, neighbors, and cops are generally just trying to do the best they know how. I learned that I, even in my mouse-poop-recovery state, appear to other adults as a responsible parent--one who cares for her children--not requiring intervention from CPS or anyone else. I also learned that my younger son has a lot of sense and my older son has a lot of adventure. I find comfort in the fact that they balance each other out that way. The Lord really does hand-pick our families.

Now, instead of taking bike rides or walks, we "run away" together. And I'm perfectly comfortable with that.