Unfit to Practice

Nina knew Lisa had balked and complained bitterly for years about the changes in her life since having children. She had no more time for her personal pursuits, felt limited in her important volunteer work, and unduly burdened by the dragging weight of child rearing. Some of Kevin’s resentments percolated around his wife’s stubborn refusal to contribute to the normal ru

“You have two children,” Nina said. “Surely there are many chores that need to be done? Surely there is a great deal of trivia?”

“Of course. Children make messes. That’s their job.”

“And tranquility isn’t really a normal state of affairs in a young family, is it?”

“No. Tranquility is an aspiration. It doesn’t come easy.”

“Isn’t one of the big surprises about becoming a parent finding out how little we control the dynamic in the household and how quickly the most basic things can get out of control?”

“I’ve adjusted,” Lisa answered dryly, understanding the direction Nina was taking. “Of course I do chores. Big ones, little ones. Petty ones. Many, many chores.”

“You make sure your children have clean clothing?”

“Yes.”

“You have a regular laundry day?”

“I do it when the basket is full.”

“Whenever the basket is full?”

Lisa had begun to fidget. The questions about her domestic routine bored her. “Yeah, whenever,” she said, looking at Riesner, who treated her to some serious eyebrow action. “Because what’s the difference if I do it on Monday or Friday as long as it gets done eventually? You know, people don’t realize how they try to re-create Victorian standards of living without the kind of help people had then. Yes, our standard of living is higher than ever, but just because you have a dishwasher, does every dish need to be done that minute? Just because you have a vacuum, should you be expected to vacuum every day?”

“‘Eventually’ you do the laundry?” Nina persisted. “Would that be once a week or twice a week?”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Probably once every two weeks, if you were to average it out.”

“Do you feed your children regularly?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course I feed them regularly.”

“How would you define the term regular?”

“Well, breakfast, lunch, and di

“What did you make them for breakfast this morning?”

She shifted in her chair. “This morning I was in a rush. Look, Joey and Heather are seven and nine, plenty old enough to get themselves cereal. The days of a home-cooked breakfast are pretty much gone.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Cruz?” Nina asked.

“Who has time?”

“Do you like to cook?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite thing, but I know how to put together a healthy meal.”

“Your petition says you are at home full time, except during fire emergencies, because your children are young and need you there.”

“That’s true.”

“What did they eat for breakfast this morning, Mrs. Cruz?”

Stony silence.

“Do you know?”

“No. Although they ate for sure. There were dirty dishes in the sink.”

“Did they get up before you?”

“No. I’m the first one up. I run in the mornings.”

“You always run in the morning?”

“Most days.”

“You don’t make them breakfast.”

“Not when I run.” Again she adjusted herself in her chair, found a position, changed it, and frowned.

Nina had never seen a witness so ill-suited to spending a long time idle, although her excessive energy might serve her well as a mother and in her work, Nina had to admit. “Did your husband make breakfast for the children when he was still living with you?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“Isn’t it true he always made breakfast?”

She sighed. “You know, I’m a mother, but I’m also a professional who needs to stay fit and strong for my work as a firefighter. I’m in the business of saving lives.” She glared at Nina. “I don’t think it hurts my children to get a meal for themselves once in a while. And low-sugar cereal with milk is a fine, healthy breakfast for children, anyone can tell you that.

“I only run five miles. Half the time they don’t even know I’m gone. And my mom lives really close.”

“And when you come back from the run, you take a shower?” Nina was reading from the deposition of Lisa Cruz taken some months before.

“So what if I do?”

“Who dressed the children for school? When you and Kevin were still together?”

“Kevin basically got them off to school. Okay? I have to run.”

“Who gets them off to school now? Now that Kevin isn’t around?”

“They’re older now. Jeans, T-shirt, grab their books, out the door. They don’t need me.”

“And after school?”

“My mother. I told you. I spend every single evening with them.”

“Except, let’s see, Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday all day.”

“Those are my prayer-meeting evenings.”

“Mrs. Cruz, how often do you do your housecleaning?”

“Regularly,” Lisa Cruz said, mocking Nina’s earlier line of questioning, this time enjoying the reaction she got.

Nina laughed along with Judge Milne, dropped her smile, and repeated her question.

But as time went on, as Nina continued grinding at life’s petty concerns until the small issues had been hammered to dust, the atmosphere of the courtroom changed. Lisa didn’t care about the trivial details of her children’s lives, however much she cared about their salvation. She got bored. Her answers became careless. Her composure slipped into irritation.

The judge listened to the boring, trivial questions, the fidgety answers, giving no clue about his thoughts. Riesner objected as often as he could, but Nina’s questions, while mind-numbing, were relevant to Lisa’s mothering skills, so Judge Milne continually ruled against him. Lisa looked to Riesner for help, squeezed her lips tightly, and exposed an utter lack of interest in or skill at housekeeping, a preference for her own needs over her children’s needs when it came to school activities, a chronic inability to pick the children up on time after school, lack of knowledge about her children’s current schoolwork, and adamant opposition to any organized sports for her son, Joey, who really, really wanted to play soccer.

After nearly an hour spent on trivia, petty concerns, and the most mundane, rude mechanics of life, including toilet-scrubbing, Lisa was visibly fuming. Her hair had unpoufed and her crisp suit jacket looked wilted. Five miles couldn’t make her sweat, but Nina’s long journey through life’s ordinariness had worn her to a frazzle.

“I’m good in the ways that matter,” Lisa said in answer to a question about Joey. “I care about helping my kids grow up right.”

“Does that include punishment when they do wrong?”

“I discipline them, of course.” Nina heard tightness in her voice.

“What methods of discipline do you use?”

“That depends on what they do. How bad they’ve been. Like, say they talk back or use bad language, well, I might explain that’s not allowed, that we respect each other and I must be respected as a parent. Then I might send them to their rooms.”

“You don’t like them to use bad language?”

“No.”

“You don’t use bad language?”

“I don’t condone it, no.”

“You don’t use it?”

She had to answer honestly or risk impeachment, although her reluctance was palpable. “Very rarely. It’s a poor way to communicate.”

“Do you spank your children?”

“No.”

“You don’t ‘smack them on the butt’?” Nina asked, quoting from the deposition.

Lisa remembered what she had said. She answered carefully. “Rarely, and only if they intentionally disobeyed me in some major way. Crossed the street without me, or did something dangerous. But never hard, never to cause pain. Only to get their attention.”