And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
“When you coming home, dad?” “I don’t know when.”
But we’ll get together then,
You know we’ll have a good time then.
-Harry Chapin
This week I felt completely exhausted and spent, emotionally and physically. For a moment I judged myself, and then I took stock.
My family is lucky, and COVID has brought us numerous benefits. My husband now works from home. Not only is he allowed to, his employer was proactive and did it before they had to. No commute means he can let me sleep in a bit in the mornings. Zoom meetings took some getting used to, and he had some long hours in March, but he LOVES his work, we have steady income, and he has settled into the new routine. The best part is that he can help when things get out of control, like when my two-year-old decides to poop in her undies or when the Kindergartener rides his bike a mile from home and doesn’t have the energy to make it back. He is amazing at swooping to the rescue.
Unfortunately, this flexibility doesn’t reduce his 40+ hour work week, it merely redistributes it. No matter how much help I get during the week, I’m still responsible for 40+ hours of childcare with minimal support or backup.
Some part of me feels like this should be easy. The school run is cancelled. Gymnastics, Cub Scouts, T-Ball, swimming lessons, workouts at the YMCA, music class, and toddler groups are all a distant memory. There is no lifting or carrying of the toddler. No longer must I cajole children into shoes and out to the car. Much of the day I don’t even worry about clothing (for any of us).
For sure the kids and I juggle nine virtual meetings a week, but they feel like rays of light rather than obligations. There is some pressure to homeschool, but my son is above grade level in most things and the expectations are low.
Easy peasy, right?
For most of us it is not that simple. I’m a part-time student and a part-time teacher. This past week I took on a new role at work, and I’ve been training to use a new online system and preparing to teach a new course. I read an entire textbook. This is in addition to my two other part-time positions, attempting to start up this blog, working on my book, and attempting to publish some personal essays.
Oh yeah, and I’m pregnant with a high-risk IVF baby during a global pandemic. And I’m old as hell.
I am certain there are women in the world who would handle all this without batting an eye. Perhaps Wonder Women exist out there somewhere. I don’t know these women, at least not very well, and I would doubt their sincerity.
The reality is, this life is exhausting and emotionally demanding.
Beyond the things we do to meet our work obligations, feed our families, and further our educations, we also need to mentally process the world around us. And it is a dumpster fire. Putting aside the extreme polarization of national politics and perceptions of the pandemic (if you can put such central things to the side), even people who agree in principle about the reality of the virus don’t see eye to eye on what to do about it. The people we would normally turn to in our hour of need often aren’t there, either because they physically can’t be or because they don’t emotionally understand our needs. Or perhaps we are not skilled enough to articulate them or envision how others can meet them.
All this is for privileged families like mine; things are so much worse for those who, on top of everything else, are struggling with economic insecurity or homelessness.
I want to view this time at home like a vacation. Like a gift. My children will grow up and remember the awesome year they spent playing together every day. The time when they were the best of friends, positively inseparable. The year that daddy had breakfast and lunch with them several days a week. The year daddy never travelled for work. The year we never had to stalk daddy on the map to see when he’d be home. The year we turned off text notifications about schedule changes to the light rail. The year we went on walks as a family almost every day. The year their new brother arrived, the family slowed down, and we regularly checked in with each other about our feelings. It is all those things.
Yet life continues. There is work to be done, and the flaming bag of crap that is American politics is an omnipresent specter sucking at our souls.
The totality is emotionally and physically exhausting. It just is. The best we can do is be mindful and embrace each moment as we can, observing our needs, and meeting them the best we can.
Today I collapsed on the couch and held my son for about an hour. We talked about all sorts of things (okay, so it was mostly Minecraft), but we *did* snuggle and share our feelings. Something my daughter said made me think of Cat’s in the Cradle. I played the song a few times as I held my son in my arms and wept. He asked what the song was about, and I told him.
Then I said, “When you grow up, I want you to go wherever you want to go, and do whatever makes you happy. But I hope you will always find time to spend with me.”
“I will always have time for you, Momma,” he said.
I believe he means it. Yet another odd benefit of COVID, which has brought us so tightly together.
