You Are Not A Failure
By Sarah Hauser
@sarah.j.hauser
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.”
I never thought this would happen. To be honest, I did always think we’d end up in the emergency room with my third kid. He is the most adventurous one, the curious one, the mischievous one, and the one who can figure out how to open or press or unlock just about anything. But I always thought that ER visit would come after a fall at the playground or something more “normal.” I did not think he’d find his way out of a two-story locked window. And I did not in a million years think I’d be investigated for abuse or neglect.
She asked a few more questions and left me with pamphlets about my rights as a parent and the investigation process. I reminded myself to breathe. I walked her out the door and she took a few final pictures of the shrub he fell into. Months later, that piece of concrete right next to it still haunts me.
While my son walked away from that fall with a clear CT scan and only a couple of scrapes and bruises, I walked away an absolute mess. As soon as I saw her climb into her car, I closed the front door and ran to find my phone. I called my husband sobbing, trying to tell him through tears that everything was okay (I called him sobbing the day before when my son fell, and everything was not okay), but I could hardly function. Despite knowing this visit was protocol and knowing my son was safe, the intensity of the scrutiny undid me.
I already felt awful after he fell. I already felt like a complete failure as a parent. Who lets their son fall out of a two-story window? I should have childproofed it long ago. I should have known he could get it unlocked. I should have __________. And now a stranger documented my nightmare on a stack of forms, my performance as a mother placed in a folder to be analyzed.
***
“I’m praying you’ll have confidence in your motherhood tomorrow and not believe any lies about who you are.”
A dear friend texted me those sentences a couple of hours after the DCFS visit. Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the accident over and over in my mind. I tried to remember the answers I gave to the social worker’s questions. I wondered what my twins told her (they told me later that they talked about their birthday party). As I stared at the ceiling, I tried to keep the sounds of my sobs down, but after about an hour, I got out of bed, walked into my office in the next room, and wept.
At four in the morning, my husband, Colson, came into my office in the spare bedroom. I hadn’t hid my crying so well. He sat across from me while I buried my face in my hands and shared how our son could have died. He could have been seriously injured. I should have kept a closer eye on him. I should have put childproof locks on his windows long ago. I should have known better. I should have done better. I should have just been better. We lucked out that he was okay, I told myself. But I failed. I was a failure, a terrible mom, and now a mom who was being investigated for neglect.
Colson listened while I released all my fears and failures like a dam breaking. My body shook and the tears would not stop as my mind considered what could have happened. And based on what could have happened, I deserved, well ... my mind started to spiral down into the darkness.
“They’d be better off without me,” I mumbled. I’ve uttered that phrase more in the last couple years than I care to admit.
“You’re believing lies. But what’s actually true?” my husband asked.
I couldn’t answer at first. The discouragement in my soul threatened to take me down. But I had to fight back against the lies clawing at my legs and cling to the truth that could pull me out. I sat in the darkness while my husband helped me dismantle the lies I believed. Yes, it could have been worse. But I was not a failure as a mom. God is still in control. We cannot protect our children from every single thing. God is still good. I’m not guilty of the allegations being investigated.
Eventually my breathing calmed and my tears slowed. It was as though I climbed over the edge of a chasm wall, tired from the fight but no longer being dragged down into the darkness.
***
Most of my life, I’ve felt competent. I wasn’t the best at everything, but I was good enough. I could get done what needed to be done, earn the grade required, finish the job I was hired to do. But motherhood has been a whole different beast.
I have never felt like a failure as often as I have in my five years as a mom.
It could be a combination of hormones, exhaustion, and the endless needs of three little ones. But the root of it, at least for me, has been my belief that every day I’m being graded. And anything less than perfection—or at least competence—equals failure.
The truth is that often what we consider failure is simply a reality of living life. My son fell while playing during quiet time. I was mere feet away and tended to him within seconds. Sure, some people may still call his fall a failure on my part. I’ve learned to call it a freak accident. And even when we do truly fail (as I do often), there’s this beautiful thing called grace. God and my family show that to me every single day. If all my kids ever learn from me is that I messed up and needed Jesus, well that’s not the worst thing I could teach them.
***
Today, a social worker from DCFS came back to my house to check on my kids. She wanted to get my case closed, so she took photos of my son and got the information she needed. Part of me still wants to know what my file said. What did they really think of me? What was my grade as a mother?
Yet I’m slowly learning, little by little, to let that go. My grade as a mother some days could be called failure. Other days it could be called competent. Maybe even occasionally I’d earn an A. But motherhood isn’t a performance. There’s no grade to be earned, even when others take notes on our abilities. As moms, we do the best we can. We love our kids, we confess when we’re wrong, we let go of our illusion of control, and we pray a whole lot along the way.
Whatever happens in your life as a mother, dear sister, do not for a minute believe you are a failure. It can be such an easy lie to believe, and it’s a lie that can drag us down into a pit of darkness that I know all too well. Admitting failure in a situation is one thing. Labeling ourselves “Failure” and walking around wearing a scarlet F on our chest is another.
Let’s be quick to do the first when we truly have messed up. But we don’t ever need to do the second.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.