I am Kevin's mother.

And Kevin is 7. Maybe two months ago his teachers at school called me because they were 'concerned', they said. They were 'worried about Kevin's health' because he'd done poorly on a couple language tests. 'He fell asleep in class!' they explained as though it were a sin and completely unheard of for a child to be tired or, God forbid, fall asleep in class. I've met his language teacher; I'm not surprised he fell asleep.

They asked me to take him to the doctor. Who they hell to they think they are? I'm his mother. I know if he needs to go to the doctor or not. Do THEY know Kevin better than I do? I was indignant. So I ignored their request.

But they had planted a seed in my brain so now I was watching Kevin through their eyes; their watchful, scrutinizing, judging eyes. He was still the same loving boy, but perhaps he was more tired than normal. Ok, I concede, he was lethargic and yes wasn't top of his class anymore.

So, the next time his teachers called I tried to not get as offended, and I took him to the doctor.
My friend who's into aromatherapy and stuff said it looked like Kevin had parasites. She said she could give me some herbs for him to take. I like my friend, don't get me wrong, but she stinks like cloves. It smells like the dentist...I can't trust her. I didn't tell her, but I'm just going to give him the medicine the doctors give me.

We see a nursing student at the hospital. She's green. So green that she refers to a list of questions during our consult. This does not impress me. And unfortunately I think I set myself against her. I know I made it hard for her to do her job, but in a sense, I needed her to prove herself to me before I could trust her.

I tell them my name but am henceforth referred to as "Kevin's mother". This is so typical of child-care people, so I'm not surprised, but for once it would be nice to have a name too.

She asks a few questions about why we're there, how Kevin's doing at school, how he's sleeping. Stuff like that. For a 7 year old Kevin does a good job answering her questions. The nurse takes very long, thoughtful, deliberate pauses between questions. I feel like I should have sworn on the Bible first to 'tell the whole truth and nothing but'.

She seems to run out of questions or is hesitant so she looks me in the eye and asks Kevin if he'd like to go play in the waiting area while she 'talked with mommy.' My kids rarely call me Mommy; I look over at Kevin sitting there hunched over in his little Batman t-shirt that I HATE, snot perpetually running down his lip being licked up by his tongue and he looks back at me with a look that says 'Who the hell is this quack?' I smile at my boy and agree with the nurse. 'Go read for a bit--I'll come and get you. K?'

He slips his little body from the examination table and I hand him his book to read. 'See you in a minute.' Watching him answer questions and interact with another adult sheds new light on this kid of mine. I'm so proud of him. I'm so concerned about him. Without asking or insinuating a thing the nurse has undone me by making me look at my son. Really look at him.

She quickly gathers her thoughts and dives into an interrogation period that makes my muscles tighten. I'm aware that my eyes are really wide. I must look defensive. She must realize I feel guilty.

"So, what does Kevin have for breakfast?" Shit.
'Usually....nothing.' The nurse eagerly jots down my words as though they were god's nectar. Or good evidence against a negligent mother. We jump from topic to topic about what he eats, what his little brother eats, what I eat, when we spend time together, what his father does...
I can see the pieces in my brain coming together at about a millisecond faster then they are the nurse's brain, so I find it hard to tell her the truth. Because I know what she'll think.

'His father is unemployed...he's home at the moment. He's looking for anything really. Construction. He does construction.' Oh, I'm falling apart and she knows it. I've guarded myself so well against this attacker but we both know how much this hurts me to talk about. My eyes are still wide in an offensive way, like I'm saying 'Come on! Come on! You wanna fight?'

No. I'm not working right now. We're ok. We're cutting back where we need to. But we're ok.
She asks me what we'd typically have for dinner. I try my best to make No Name chicken fingers seem healthy but now it's just for what's left of my dignity that we pretend chicken finger are a good source of protein.
In the same fashion I reassure her that I know how important the first 2 years are for a baby and that even though we're not eating as well as we'd like I make sure that David, Kevin's little brother, gets what he needs to build a firm foundation for his little life.

She looks at me and paraphrases "So what I'm hearing you say is, you're giving the better food to David, and Kevin eats poorly like you and his father?" Fuck you! Fuck her! What the hell do you WANT me to do? What would YOU suggest?
"Was that decision hard for you to make?"
'WHAT decision?'
"The decision to feed David better than Kevin.'
I'm stunned. I can't believe she just said that. This green, docile nursing student has turned on me. "It wasn't a conscious decision. It wasn't like I thought, hmm which child do I love more to feed better. I know how important the first 2 years are for a baby--Kevin is a good kid. He'll be fine... I didn't really have a choice, did I? ...So, yeah it was a hard 'decision'.' I sarcastically put quotations around my head when I say 'decision'.

This carries on for a a bit longer and with each question I answer she slowly dissects me further to the point of death. She leaves the room for a minute. I call after her 'are you getting the doctor?' I hate myself for being so horrible to her but it's instinctual and I can't control it.
She returns quickly with a stack of hot papers in her hand. She reads them off to me 'Child Pension Plan', 'Food Bank Ontario', 'Salvation Army', 'Feed A Kid' breakfast programs. I nod enthusiastically with that wild eyed look again. I want to kill her and she knows it. She quickly finishes her recommendations and leaves me to 'read over' the literature.

Not waiting for a third assault I put my coat on and grab our things. Kevin is reading in the waiting-room. He's pulled his knees up to his chin and is reading over them. He's tucked himself into the corner of the couch and from where I stood he looks so little. My big boy is so little.

'Come on. Let's go home.' I hold his coat out to him. He's come obediently to put it on. "I'm done?"
'Yup. Let's go. I need to start dinner as soon as we get home.' I squat down in front of him to help him start his zipper. He fumbles a bit but I don't have the patience to wait for his childish fingers.. He looks stiff in his winter jacket and the underside of his runny nose rubs on the top of his collar--I grab his hands and look into his tired eyes. 'We're having macaroni and cheese tonight! You like that?' He smiles from behind his collar and asks 'can I have mine with hot dogs?'

'Yup!' I say excitedly and we gather our things and turn our backs from this place that has exposed me like a criminal and shaken me as mother. Kevin is oblivious to my turmoil and knows not of the literature that burns a shameful hole through my purse.