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| So Much Nope For Us Both |
Because believe me, friends, there are parents who…don’t. It’s not that they don’t stop, it’s that they don’t ever really…go. Even parents of special needs children, or medically high-needs children, or even of typical children. There’s non-go out there. Some are in denial of their child’s special needs, don’t treat their child’s medical needs, or just let their children raise themselves. (I know parents who shut their doors at 8pm and the house belongs to the littles. Can I be horrified and jealous at the same time?)
And this is for those all-go-parents. They’re tired, they want to rest but they feel a calling to something outside of it all…and for the sake of it all.
There are the parents who love being SAHP’s, or working parents who love their jobs, or career parents who are established or are building something already underway. They’re on a path and know where to go. This is not for them.
This is for the parents, like me, who put things on hold for a time for children, who had a dream in mind but thought they could work it in, only for things to take over, or for bombs to drop, or for the what-the-fuckedness that just happens, and, even still, we hope to make progress where we can…
...and then COVID-19.
In now-distant memory where socializing was a thing, I’ve lounged in quiet rooms with friends only for the alarms for my little dude’s diabetic monitors to screech through the conversation and startle them silent. They’ve looked around with the glorious no-way-this-is-your-life expression that still makes me gently laugh.
“He’s going low,” I’ve said, opening his supply pack to give him a little candy before resuming the conversation and waiting, waiting, waiting the five-minute round for another alert as to whether his levels are improving. Five-minutes after five-minutes after five-minutes of jarring sirens, over which I nudge the flow of the conversation, until he’s back in a good zone and the alarms cease.
“So, you’re ‘on’ all the time,” my friend had stated with shock lacing her tone.
Yes, and no time away—not even for a quick bite to eat—unless a licensed nurse is watching them so my diabetic can receive medical aid should the need arise. (Their dad and I had one kid-free excursion in the year and a half since he was diagnosed…and that was in January.)
If I’m honest with you, on my lowest days, I’ll tell you that my life is a bit of an asshole-situation. If you were to turn my ups and downs, trials and travails into an actual person, a reasonable human would likely say to it, “Dude, can you quit being such a dick for just a minute?”
Being the mom of two young boys on the autism spectrum, one of which was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at the age of six, with no familial support along with a partner who has a career with an ungodly amount of stress, risk and unpredictability, I’d agree that I’m “on”—all.the.time.
But as my friend added later, “But not just on. You’re, like, on-on-on-on-never-off-and-then-more-on.”
Back in the good ole days—pre-pandemic—her statement was accurate.
Now? I long for the days when, even with the support of school staff and nurses, I had people asking me, “You run a tight ship, you work out, you have goals. How do you do it all?”
Short answer back then was…Because I just do, because no one else can, because I want my dreams, too.
The answer now is…I don’t do it all and it’s killing me.
Because pre-pandemic, there was the big morning push—up, dressed, dose with insulin, make sure they both eat, coax them into the car and off to school. From there, breathing room. From there, goals. An hour here—between errands and appointments—some gym time—and hour there—to sleep if alarms kept me up all night—a half an hour before pickup when I could turn “off” the “on-ness” of parenthood and turn on “me.”
When most people think of turning off, it’s for entertainment or pampering. Binge watching, binge reading, zoning out at the beach, watching a football game, getting a massage or a good meal. For most people, this is a healthy reset that helps them step back in to heaving life along with a bit more verve.
For a parent with no brakes, sitting down to watch television or even nap can feel like a setback. There’s a deep restlessness that turns into anxiety when the ambition isn’t fed in some way, with some progress, with some new knowledge or clarity. From time to time, when we're too tired or burnt out, we can enjoy a movie, a facial or a nice day at the pool.
But, on the regular, sidelining the peculiar energy that goes to our long-game is agony.
We need those “breaks” because we have no brakes.
Enter COVID-19.
At first, I considered it a little hiatus that would allow me to research, rest, discover new methods for my madness.
Seven months later, and having no breaks for my no-brakes is sawing away at the mental lifelines that have kept me pushing through so much thick-and-thin. As I’m staring into the bleakness of a pandemic that has no central leadership, no community vision and no end in sight, I’m nervous that my fraying creative-state will not only worsen exponentially but be irreversible.
From seven in the morning until noon, I’m managing two high-needs boys’ educations via laptop when it took teachers and various aids to help them in-person. I have to support them not only in the curriculum (and faking excitement for factors of three is draining me to the core and I even dreamt of fractions—srsly, no.damn.breaks?) but in their emotional meltdowns over any given frustration or exhaustion. After that, it’s lunch. Cleanup. A bit of a break, where I try to exercise without everything I miss at a gym. Then, ABA therapies with two different therapists through two different phones. After that, make dinner. Then, the damnation of homework. Finally, maybe an hour of downtime, wherein I take a shower, wash my face, arrange my hair, try to block out excited gamer shrieking, echolalia, stimming while also heeding alarms (and with a high-risk child, your heart never takes it in stride) to get some work done—maybe some marketing and maybe attempting at some contacts and maybe a note or two about a project—before it’s child-grooming time interspersed with more cleanup, story-reading and corralling into bed, with several reminders and re-tucks to boot. Then, we’ll see if alarms keep me up all night. If they do, doesn’t matter—the mornings are booked solid and the day repeats.
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| My Sensible Hat for Crazy Hat Day |
No outside help. No extended family to step in. No big world waiting with good vibes and chill people. Everything feels closed off and closed in, even when I’m outside.
It’s a lot of busyness and boredom, loneliness without any real healing solitude, a lot of doing-your-best with no rubric.
It feels purposeless.
And I know some preachy pricks will be shrieking that there’s no greater work than that of being a parent, while metaphorically attempting to elbow COVID by shouting at parents like me to “stay home if you don’t like it!” because it’s not their fault “your kid is sick,” so they can get their gel pedicures done unmasked. (Shut it. We know exactly what you are.)
When people tell me that I should feel fulfilled in being a good mother, I have an answer only responsibly ambitious parents will understand.
“I’m supposed to be a good parent,” I say. “My kids deserve no less. But what I want for me outside of that is what I will teach my children in finding their own path and purpose. Me being consumed by one role and for others isn’t the life I want them to live. And, frankly, it’s not the life I want to live either. I want my children and my life’s work, and my dream is to have both.”
So, being put on hold—again, having to stop my progress by pedaling backwards in my soul—like Fred Flintstone slowing down his stone car with bare feet—to stay put while everything within me is willing me into movement, even if it’s in the wrong direction, is the kind of difficult only a few can relate to.
It’s more than not being able to go out. It’s about not being able to level up and not knowing how in the current circumstances or when we can really try.
No, taking a five mile walk won’t help. No, taking a drive won’t cheer me up. No, sitting outside in the fresh air won’t fix this. Those are the only getaways from the bustle of my home, which—with alarms and such—is never quiet and—during a pandemic—simply isn’t possible.
This is just hard. This makes me cry a lot, this makes me grieve, this makes me anxious with watching the minutes, days, months pass with an ever-changing landscape that is overwhelming to consider navigating later when so much is still unknown right now. No matter how I try to stay present and take five minutes here and there to bone up on some knowledge of my industry or some hope for what’s ahead, having no breaks to really open up the motor behind my still-intangible dreams is grating to say the least.
So, to all the parents with no brakes and no breaks in sight, my heart aches with you. Sitting in the drudgery of having to pay attention to so much and not yourself—not even for that good chunk of time that lets you sink your teeth into the feeling that you’ve grown toward some bigger part of you—of having to support little people and be the only friend they can see and hug and show things and play with, of having to backup the spouse or ex so your family unit can catch-as-catch-can during all of this bullshit, of having so much up to you, I know where your energy comes from and I know you miss it.
I know you feel alone and it’s because you’re in the rare position of feeling like you’re meant to rise but also feeling cemented to the ground, maybe sinking. You feel stuck, but you’re also strong, you’re also intuitive and powerful. You know you’re meant for more and you’ll get there.
But, right now, we just have to get through this. Just this one more thing. And as much as it might feel like too much of a big thing, remind yourself that you’ve always felt like you’re too much for your life and you’re determined to find a bigger one. You were willing to push and stretch and cram and shine any which way you could back then, so you can find ways to do it now. You won’t give up. You’re not made to. But you can cry and recalibrate and keep trying. Because this will pass and because we need you as big as you’re meant to be.
