The Specter of Impropriety

by Chester Jackson
Family Life Advocate

The court-appointed Probation Officer was almost an hour early. It was fortunate that I left the office earlier than I had originally intended. The train ride home was pleasant as one would expect at that time of day. I arrived in time to relax a while before the impending interrogation. Like a great many other things in recent years, this was a new experience for my wife and I. It appears that we were being investigated as the result of our 16-year-old daughter's having given birth to a baby girl just before Thanksgiving.

Apparently, the judge handling our impending finalization had some questions as to the "level of supervision" in our home. Being a naturally suspicious yet sensitive individual. I was somewhat perturbed by the implications of such questions. My indignation aside, I realized that in the bureaucratic backwash that we wade in, this procedure is relatively routine and should be taken as such. After all, we may not be Ozzie and Harriet, but the skeletons in our closets certainly would be of no interest to the folks at the State Central Child Abuse Registry.

With this in mind, I returned home to find my darling wife, three of my four children and my brand new granddaughter anxiously awaiting our independent investigator.

I looked around the apartment pleased to find that my wife had somehow managed to pick up the 3000 Leggos that generally litter our living room. And all but one of my two-year-old's dinosaurs had made it back into the box. Remarkably, there wasn't a trace of the scores of baby rattles, spit-up clothes, Winnie the Pooh blankets, diapers or various other items, further evidence that we had nothing to fear, and we were as ready as we could be for an investigation.

When the Probation Officers arrived, we smiled as graciously as an investigate-ee could to the investigator. We offered refreshments--coffee, milk or water. She, with equal grace, declined.

The interview began.

"Judge Greenberg has expressed a concern as to the level of supervision in your home." she started.

We knew that much...we were ahead. The problem is that's not a question. We were all prepared for questions. That was a statement.

Quickly I responded,"Yeah?"

The officer was undaunted.

"Okay, let me get down some birthdates."

Good, a question, I thought. My wife proceeded to run down the list. I was relieved. I'm not sure I could have answered that one, without a guilty pause for reflection. I lit a cigarette. She glanced at me in the manner that old ladies do when you don't give them your seat on the subway. I discreetly put the cigarette out.

I attempted to pick up my three-month-old daughter who was laying beside me on the couch. She didn't want to be picked up and began to cry. I shifted her ever so gently over my shoulder, which usually helps her feel comforted enough to stop crying. Now she was crying directly into my ear.

The officer directed a question to my daughter, Eboney. "Do you understand what we're doing here today. I mean, why we're meeting?"

I didn't dare look at Eboney, as this could be interpreted either as coaching or intimidation. I continued to rock the screaming infant as the hearing slowly disappeared from my left ear.

Eboney responded, "No, not really."

"Well Judge Greenberg has some questions as to the level of supervision in the house." We heard this already.

Blank stares from Ebb indicated to the officer that she needed to rephrase the statement.

"It looks funny to the Judge that shortly after you moved in with this family you became pregnant. She wants to be certain that this is the best placement for you. What could you say to the judge to make her feel comfortable about this adoption?"

After careful reflection, "I don't know." An honest response, but obviously not what the officer wanted.

"I don't know, I don't usually talk to judges. I wouldn't know what to say."

After several rounds of who's on first, the officer went straight to the point. "If you wanted to stay out all night, would you?"

An emphatic "No!"

"Why not?"

"Because I'd get in trouble."

"What kind of trouble...from whom?"

Incredulously, "These people, them, my parents!"

We were on to something. The officer began to jot things down.

"We have rules in this house. I can't just do anything I want."

"Well, how did you get pregnant?"

"Huh?"

"Okay, what time of day do you think it happened?"

"I don't know."

"Was it at night, in the afternoon, in the morning? Does your boyfriend spend the night here?"

"No, it was in the afternoon, I guess. After school."

"Did you cut school?"

"No, it was after school at my boyfriend's house."

Vindication!

Feeling more at ease, my wife retrieved our screaming infant, and I moved over to the table where the officer was seated.

The rest of the interrogation went smoothly as the officer began to relax. Our two-year-old began to feel at ease with the stranger, and decided to display his new vocabulary skills in the corner. Explicative deleted, explicative deleted. It was a word that rhymes with spit. We're not certain where he picked it up, but no matter, the interview was almost over, and there would be nothing to be concerned abut.

At this point, the officer informed us that she needed to see where the baby slept. She asked our two-year-old to show her the crib. He promptly proceeded to lead her down the hall past Eboney's room and into our bedroom. In our bedroom she found the 2,000 Leggos, a small mountain of laundry to be folded, a crib, a toddler bed and our queen-size bed complete with three pillows, a half-empty bottle, a cabbage-patch doll, and a dirty diaper. We smiled and let the officer back to Eboney's room. Thankfully, no one took her to Robert's room. We returned to the table and continued our wrap-up. Whew.

At some point during the scene Robert, our other son, returned home from school. In his hand was a poster that no doubt only moments before had been hanging in a New York City subway car.

"Chest, you said you wanted the one with Anita Baker on it, right?"

"Yeah, right, aw, put it in your room."

Children say the darndest things at the most inopportune times. I smiled across the table as the officer went to her pad again. She looked up, smiled at me and announced that we were done. She thanked us for our time sand indicated that there was probably nothing to worry about.

I felt pretty good about the way this thing went and resolved to enjoy my three-day weekend.

Robert retired to his room. Eboney asked us to translate what just transpired. The babies slept comfortably on the couch. And Karin and I gushed at surviving our first independent investigation.

Not exactly Ozzie and Harriet, but certainly some resemblance of a Wonderful Life.