t was snowing and freezing cold the morning I spent in juvenile court.
I hadn’t known what to wear. It was the same feeling I had when I met with a bondsman to bail our cleaning lady out of jail. I had my work clothes and play clothes, but legal clothes were different.
I chose a blouse with lace around the collar — a border of innocence framing my motherly guilt. I am guilty of raising a 16-year-old son who dove from a cliff into a reservoir. Then, when he was approached by a green-clad forest ranger, he lied about his name. Suddenly he became Ryan Oliver, which is a felony — impersonating with intent to harm another. He knows no one named Ryan Oliver, but that June, the law didn’t care about that, as my son stood dripping in his wet swimsuit.
As we drove tentatively toward the courthouse on icy streets, we were anxious about arriving late and anxious about arriving at all. We didn’t fight until we pulled into the parking lot and suddenly I became really “irritating.” By the time we reached the courthouse security, we passed through the metal detector in silence. I wondered if it would detect the metallic hardness of my anger. We headed toward courtroom P; brushing elbows, we forgave each other.
We met our lawyer in the hall, since we’d learned felonies need a lawyer. Our children had gone to preschool together, where there was a “goodbye window” so we could send kisses to our kids. I remember that my son’s preschool tears had been big enough to wash the windowsill.
As we discussed our hopes for the diversion program with our lawyer, I recalled the sparkle in my son’s eyes when he finally learned to dive. Often in trying to be encouraging, I’ve said, “just dive in!” Except . . . sometimes not.
We opened the doors to juvenile court, and it was smaller than I expected. Perhaps like desks in elementary school, the room changes size according to age. We found our seats among other families, all guilty of different crimes, many of us speaking different languages. But we were all similar in our willingness to show up for our children, yet wishing we didn’t have to. The silence came back between my son and me.
We were both treading water, buoyed by feelings we didn’t want to share. My son didn’t want to admit that he needed me now, when he preferred to believe parents weren’t all that important.
Some of the accused appeared in orange jumpsuits and shackles, some wore a shirt and tie. My son and others kept their ski jackets on as if to say, “Just stopping in, won’t be here long.”
We sat uncomfortably listening to the judge call out names one by one. Each time, the offender and a parent would sheepishly approach the podium. He’d take a minute to read his notes, sigh and then glare at the fidgeting youth before him.
“Now, Miss Lawrence, you seem to have ignored your boyfriend’s restraining order, and please remove your gum.”
“Mr. Gardner, do you know it is a felony to destroy government property with your graffiti? Now wouldn’t that disrupt your football career?”
We never made it to the podium since we were in the group the prosecutor had recommended for diversion. Like sheep who were excused from being sheared, we were herded into another room to be educated about the diversion program, which allows for restitution through community service. After six months, the offense is expunged from your record. So my son got to continue his volunteer work teaching arts and crafts to developmentally disabled adults and pay back the lawyer’s fees over time.
We stopped for bagels at the courthouse cafe, tasting a more peaceful silence. Then I dropped him at school, where he at last smiled and said, “Mom, thanks for the lift.”
I thought then that parenting is a series of “goodbye windows” where no matter how bad the driving, we always return to pick up our children. My tears washed the steering wheel as I turned back into the flow of traffic.
Priscilla Dann-Courtney of Boulder is a clinical psychologist.
