COVID Diaries: Mom Needs a Break

Oct 14

What it’s Really Like When Your Children Are Full Remote Learning

In my lifetime as Mom (10 years and counting), I have had a hard time reconciling those moments of desperately craving escape from my children with missing them as soon as escape arrives. After not seeing my children for a stretch of time, I still get the maternal version of butterflies when we reunite. I had an epiphany the other day to help explain this seeming disconnect, magnified by the state of living in a pandemic: I don’t need a days-long (weeks-long?), palm-tree-filled break from my children; I need a break from caring for my children.

Caring for them is not the same as loving them. I love them constantly and unconditionally (obviously). I do not want to care for them constantly and unconditionally. For those of you reading who are thinking, “what do you think you signed up for when you decided to have kids?” First, if you are reading this blog and asking this question, please email me – how did I find you? Second, there are a lot of parts of parenting that are impossible to realize beforehand. It is not an “informed consent” situation in many respects, but most of all, parenting in a pandemic is on no list anywhere.

Being Not Mom

I have written before about the importance of preserving the fullness of our identities after “parent” has been added to the list. It’s essential to our well-being to continue living all the other parts that have nothing to do with wiping butts or cutting crusts off “just right.” We need to continue revolving in grown-up worlds, whether it’s the workplace, a friend group, or a faith community. We must nurture and fulfill our own needs in order to most heartily respond to the bottomless needs of our children.

“My daydreams have downsized from sunning myself poolside in Maui, to curling up on my couch in a quiet house to watch shows and read novels for hours without interruption.”

One of my most profound struggles in these last six months has been how hard it is to do all of it, all the time, often at the same time (can I get an Amen? Because I know I’m preaching to the choir). Being with my children every day, all day, every evening until I boot them to their rooms around 8:15, is not balance. We may get little mini-breaks if one or two is out with a friend, but it’s pretty much never all three. There’s always one vessel of need somewhere in the house. Even if they are occupied in another room, that door could swing open at any second with “Mommmmm!!!!!” (Can we talk about the uncanny timing of the Mom screech every time I have just sat down to pee! Just me? “I’M IN THE BATHROOM!” has become the new pandemic life chorus.)

To be fair, two days a week I go into an office to do therapy as my therapist self. I am away from my house and my children for those business hours. At first, I wondered why it didn’t seem enough, why I didn’t feel the improved balance I “should” from getting a break from parenting. Then I figuratively slapped myself upside the head to explain that as rewarding as my work is, it is not exactly rejuvenating, especially at this moment in time. The whole purpose of each hour of doing therapy is that I’m there to care for others, to open up space for and hold pain and suffering, to direct my energy into helping people and families figure out ways to heal wounds, get unstuck, and live better. It’s fulfilling, but when I don’t get the other breaks, it’s especially exhausting. (And also consumes about 10 times more energy to do over Zoom.)

Venn Diagram of Impossible

The hardest moments have been when the two roles of Mom and therapist don’t just overlap like a neatly organized Venn diagram, but collide in a messy disaster bereft of nice circles. I am fortunate enough to have a partner with a flexible schedule so I can leave the house for two days of sessions, because in case you were wondering, doing a therapy session and being the adult available to remote learning children do not go hand in hand. To serve my clients, I do need to open up a couple of times outside of these office days. On these occasions a couple of times a week, I sternly and repeatedly advise my children: YOU CANNOT INTERRUPT ME FROM 12 TO 1. CAN. NOT.

Let me tell you how that has worked out. One day during a serious discussion with someone struggling with worsening depression, my client could no doubt hear in the background “MOMMY THERE’S A BEE IN MY ROOM! MOMMY! A BEE! IN MY ROOM!” As all good mother/therapists would do, I ignored him until he went away and lo and behold nobody got stung.

Possibly the worst moment in these entire six months of so-called balancing work and home, was when I headed into what I expected to be an intense and serious phone session. Firm warnings had been issued beforehand. During the call, I was highly focused on whether this person needed hospitalization. I heard the creak of the stairs up to my attic office, and my heart quickened. No this is not happening. My 1st grader entered and proceeded to have a meltdown, quite audibly. He pushed my chair around to get my attention. I stood up. He thrashed and cried. I ignored. I had to assure my patient, “he’s fine” as I had never felt so mortified.

Feeling judged as a parent is nothing new to me, but when that judgment could come from one of my clients? This ultimate crossing of boundaries pushed me to a new low – feeling like a failure both as a therapist and as a mother.

Forget Flow

Then there’s that other identity to wrap into my personal Venn diagram – writer. I’m not binge-watching Netflix those other 3 days of the work week I’m not being a therapist, I’m working on forging a writing career. It’s not a “side hustle,” it’s an important identity that requires investment of time, practice, and an abundance of mental space for creativity to flourish. Guess what’s super hard to find when trapped in a house doubling as a school with three elementary age students? All of the above.

Remember when we had the Olympics? I think of the ice skaters, gymnasts, and divers and how level of difficulty figures into their scores. Building a writing career in the midst of this exceedingly fragmented time? The level of difficulty is off the charts. My version of flow may be writing, but any type of “work from home” you are attempting likely requires continuous concentration that has proved impossible. Did you see the viral video of the mom interrupted 27 times in 11 minutes? That’s my life. That’s all of our lives. How long is it taking to shoot off “a quick” email?

I’m relieved in a sad way that I’m not alone. Surveys have shown that women are indeed interrupted an off-the-charts amount while attempting to work from home with children. Even more validating yet infuriating, mothers’ work hours decreased 4-5x more than fathers’ work hours in March and April, which leads us to the not surprising recent statistic that EIGHT TIMES MORE WOMEN THAN MEN DROPPED OUT OF THE WORKFORCE IN SEPTEMBER. I know we don’t need all these numbers to know with such certainty that this parenting/working in a pandemic IS NOT WORKING, but I guess it’s nice in a totally warped way to have some objective back-up for our rage.

Downsized Daydreams

I know there are mothers, fathers, and families genuinely appreciating and enjoying their heightened closeness and unbroken time together. Not everyone going through this would write the same account as this one. I am also not saying we haven’t had our special moments as a family, that will surely belong nostalgically in our COVID family time capsule (the one in our minds, I’m not Pinterest-ing that).

I also know many of you have what can now be deemed a luxury -- children out of the house, physically present at their schools, at least part of the time. I’m sure life remains far from normal, but hopefully you have some moments of peace, quiet, and being Not Mom.

Meanwhile in my world, our school district has set and reset a hybrid option several times. Currently, the plan is to evaluate in January. You know, as long as the infection rates IN THE HEART OF THE FLU SEASON are better. We all know how that will go. I’m looking into the barrel of some really, reeeeaaaallly long winter months.

My daydreams have downsized from sunning myself poolside in Maui, to curling up on my couch in a quiet house to watch shows and read novels for hours without interruption. It feels like each night my husband and I look at each other with one more wrinkle of weariness aging our mid-life faces. We don’t even have to say it anymore because what’s the point? This is so hard. So. Hard.

The children are always here being children.

Loud. (You need to turn your volume DOWN!)

Messy. (Come back here and PICK UP AFTER YOURSELF, for the love of all that is holy and civilized . . . )

Not yet 100% self-sufficient. (Go put yourselves to bed now thanks that would be great.)

Full of life. Full of love. Always here. I love them right back (obviously), but I’m missing my maternal butterflies, waiting on the day for a break. I’ll take it with or without palm trees.