The Imaginary Stick, part II

Welcome to the second half of my nightmare.  If you missed the beginning, CLICK HERE for part one! 

Sure enough, Mr. G. arrived about forty-five minutes later.

He was a balding, mousy little man, who was very pleasant and, in my opinion, pretty non-judgmental.  I offered him a seat, and we made small talk for a while.  You know - how long have we lived here, how old is your son - that sort of thing.  

Then he took out his note pad and the Official Interview started.  

He told me that he couldn’t disclose the source of the complaint, but I let him know that I already spoke with Peyton about it and knew the source of the allegation.  This ruffled him a bit because maybe she had been coached!  

Seriously.  

A four year old.  

The only creature more brutally honest than a four year old is a three year old.  

I assured him that I simply explained the situation to her to prepare her for this visit.  He interviewed her.  The kind of garden variety questions that could raise some red flags, depending on how they were answered like ‘Do you like living here?’  and ‘How do you like your school?’  The only thing I can recall her telling him was that she really liked the kids at her school, but the teachers were “not very nice.” 

Then he asked me what I can only assume to be the ‘usual questions.‘  Given my heightened state, it was all I could do to keep my defense-mechanism {being a smart-ass} from kicking in:

Do you or your husband drink alcohol, Mrs K.?

{Not NEARLY enough!}  Well, occasionally, you know, in social situations.

Is there any illegal drug use in the home? 

{Does that include heroin?}  No, no, nothing like that.  Absolutely not.

Are you on any medication? 

Now, this was before my MS diagnosis, so I couldn’t even pull the “crippling disease” card (dammit!)  But I wasn’t about to tell him about the Prozac for my ongoing clinical depression, or the Xanax for my panic attacks (one of which I was experiencing at that very moment.)

Medication?  No, just a Tylenol here and there. 

See?  I wasn’t even copping to DayQuil!

Do either of you spank your children?

{Hell, yeah!  But only twice a day.}

This was a tricky one, because yes, I have spanked the kids.  We live on a fairly busy street, and my number-one-non-negotiable rule is No Playing Out Front Unless Daddy or Me Are Out There With You.  It only took one swat on the bum to drive that point home.  

Well, yes, I have, but only if they’ve disobeyed a safety rule, and that hasn’t happened in months... 

I see.  Would you mind showing me your home, Mrs. K?

{Well, jeez, I haven’t really had time to put away the S&M gear, but if you must...}  Absolutely.  Come right this way... 

I gave him a tour of the downstairs:  living room, kitchen (fresh fruit, very good,) dining room, playroom (oh, what a nice collection of books you have!)  Then the upstairs.  Incredibly, I had actually made beds and tidied up that morning.

He commented on the decor (What a beautiful home you have!  Did you decorate it yourself?  Very nice.)  And asked about window treatments (Are those custom made?)  

And with every step, I began to feel more and more violated.  I wasn’t sick and anxious anymore.  I was angry.  And I told him so.

Listen Mr. G., I understand that this is your job, and I thank God for people like you, because I wouldn’t last a day seeing some of the things you must have to deal with.  But I fail to understand what the condition of my house has to do with the situation with my daughter.  I’m sure that there are people in much nicer houses than this who are abusing their kids on a regular basis, just as I’m sure that there are kids that live in crappy motel rooms who couldn’t BE more loved...  

...And just think about this for a minute:  if I were beating my daughter with a stick, don’t you think she’d be afraid that I’d beat her with a stick if she told anyone that I was beating her with a stick?!

::TESTIFY!::

I understand your frustration, Mrs. K.. Obviously, there’s been a mis-understanding.  Given the circumstances, I’m not sure why they didn’t just call you in for a conference.  I will file my report, and let you know the outcome in a couple of days.  I’m confident that the matter will be dismissed and the file will be closed.

Well, the matter was dismissed, and the file was closed.

It goes without saying that Peyton did not return to that school.  In fact, I got the distinct feeling they didn’t want her back, those Concerned Faculty Members.

But for me, the shame and anger and humiliation wore on for months after.  For the longest time, I was mortified and I lived in fear of anyone ever finding out this had happened.  

It took me a long time to realize that I didn’t really own any of this.  It had been thrusted on me, and it was my responsibility to not take responsibility.  I was letting them make me feel this way.

I finally decided to open up and share this story.  Yes, I was afraid of being judged.  But the reactions of those around me stripped away that shame.  “Are you serious?  Did they even say anything to you first?  Did they call her pediatrician?  Anything like that?”

No.  No they didn’t.  They called the mousy little man at The Department of Child Services.  

And for a moment, they made me feel like the worst mother in the world.