Last week, while the husband was taking the eldest deep-sea fishing for his 13th birthday, on a whim, I decided to re-do our bedroom.
For four consecutive mornings, I woke up in this room. With the perfect gray-green color on the walls, newly painted furniture that now actually matches, a gallery wall, a floor that’s picked up, and no crib in the room. It’s peaceful, and I woke up happy each day. There’s something that feels so grown up about it. I know that seems silly to say since I’ve been a grown up for quite a little while now, but I’ve also shared my room with various babies for the bulk of the past several years. There was something about waking up in my grown-up room that made me feel ready for the day. Like my entire life was set right. Like I was the one in charge here, after all. It was a lot, frankly, for one bedroom to live up to.
Then there was Tuesday morning, when I woke up in another room entirely. One that, yet again, had a crib in it.
Monday night, during our bedtime routine, I was giving one of the daughters the medicine she takes for sleeping. Sometime in between me giving it to her and trying to get her up to bed, the baby grabbed the bottle, somehow the lid came off, and she ate 5 or so of the pills. Within ten minutes we had searched the area for the pills, called poison control, and gotten on our way to the ER since poison control told me I needed to get her ‘checked out’. Once we got into the ER, the story was completely different. We were taken back immediately to a trauma room, and swarmed like it was a for-real emergency. Stomach pumped, antidotes given, xrays, blood, vomit, catheters…it was a tiny bit surprising for me given that the medicine she took was prescribed for a child, and poison control didn’t even say to call the squad. Due to the nature of this particular med, we were then admitted to PICU for monitoring for 24 hours. When dawn broke on the hospital room that next morning, little baby was traumatized from the ER shenanigans and still clearly under the influence from the medication overdose. Mama was exhausted, guilt-ridden from the event since it happened when I was RIGHT THERE! (how does this occur? I still can’t even tell you.), and fearful over investigation and reprisals since she’s not yet ours. We woke up at the mercy of the doctors and social workers who held our fate and our release in their hands. So much for my peaceful, grown-up, in control mornings.
After my dose of humility brought by the attending doctor interview, I got another with the hospital social worker. I was relieved when she assured me they had no concerns, that it was clearly accidental, that they would pass that along to the agency, but I knew we’d still have the agency to deal with. We’ve never had anything happen that was our fault during placements, so I had more than a little trepidation of what it all would mean. Sweet M’s caseworker told me not to worry – yeah right.
As much as my new room gives me some kind of illusion that I have it all together, at least in that small square footage, the truth is far different. I only have to look at the pictures of those two rooms I woke up in this week to see it. I screw up. Accidents happen. Just a second can change my life forever, and there’s nothing I can do after the fact to rectify it. There’s no punishment that equals the amount of harshness that mamas can pour on themselves when it comes to their children. This mistake was redeemed by quick medical intervention, but too many times we can’t fix our mistakes so quickly. Yet, as I was reading in Hosea today, there is no mistake for which God won’t grant mercy. Even in the wilderness, he drew the people who betrayed Him over and over back to Himself. He speaks tenderly to us in the face of our worst failures. (Hosea 2:14)
Maybe I can use that and speak some tenderness to myself as well? I’ve been pretty harsh with myself over the past couple days. Deservedly so. But maybe the time has come for me to be a little tender too. If God can speak tenderly to the people that forsook Him again and again and again, perhaps I can muster a little compassion for myself. Perhaps I can sit in mercy and grace. So today, when I do the interview with the county regarding this whole incident, when I get the verdict on the consequences, when I rehash this whole story for the umpteenth time, my instinct is to berate myself again. This time I’m going to try to let go of that. I’m going to try to treat myself with just a little grace.
Do you need some tenderness in your life this week too? Let’s lay down our shame and lift up our faces together.