A truthful story of quarantine parenting (originally written in June, 2020).
The hush of white noise burst through the phone, startling me. 1 PM. I sigh, open the app, knowing exactly what I will see.
There, my daughter, eighteen months old. One and a half years for the non-parents. “Why do you count in months after a year?” One recently asked me. I shrugged at the time. But I know why. Each moment is so precious, I would count her time on this earth in seconds if I could. Forty-seven million, three hundred forty thousand, nine hundred and two… nine hundred and three…
But in this particular second, I am staring at her likeness on my phone screen. A pixelated black and white version of a toddler, squirming amongst an ever-growing topiary of stuffed beasts. Bears, moose, dolphins, an occasional rabbit, a Snoopy covered with lipstick red kisses, a crinkly ladybug. The girl wriggles as if her life depends upon it, but she does not cry out. The white noise fills her room, and now my own. The blackout shades intended to encourage sleep day or night, serve only to heighten her curiosity.
I know her best, I am this girl’s mama. I know she will not sleep.
Her dad, loving, generous, always well-intentioned. Also working full time from home, as am I. He put her down for her naptime early. He does this often. Ten weeks into our quarantine, we tell our respective colleagues that we have a good routine worked out. Feedback has been positive for each of us on our ability to continue to perform to expectations at work.
Feedback at home is not so glowing, in either direction.
“Hey Mom, I was attended 14 minutes ago” quips the screen. Eight hundred forty seconds. Her ghostly eyes stare up at me. Through some strange toddler ESP, she knows I am watching. Her movements start to calm. Her head rocks back and forth, as if in one final protest before drifting off to sleep.
He was right this time. She is falling asleep.
But my righteous indignation does not subside. We have a schedule. We have a plan. We have an agreement. The current details of our days are monotony. We eat meals. We work. We play. We sleep. We exercise. We occasionally leave the house for fresh air or errands. I try hard to keep her not just entertained, but also educated. We read stories in several languages, we join her preschool for “Virtual Circle Time” every weekday at 10:30 sharp. We do various activities on colors and numbers and letters. We know, very enthusiastically, all our animal sounds. I research and plan new age appropriate games, adventures or projects on a weekly basis. I cook mostly plant-based foods for our family.
The emotional labor of being a working mom is overwhelming in normal circumstances.
Like watching a very sad montage of domestic duties and professional frazzle set to an upbeat 50s tune to make it seem lightheartedly exhausting and cute rather than depressing and futile. Piles of laundry – clean or dirty? – scattered around the house. Half written emails that I thought I sent the night before. Empty wine glasses. Unbrushed hair and un-bra-ed breasts.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” has become my official introductory phrase for every virtual meeting. Dishes. Bottles. A calendar that is continually pushing. A phone full of tens of thousands of photos of my girl. Wooden puzzle pieces that have been chewed, teeth marks unassigned to either child or dog. Grocery lists. To-do lists. To-bake lists. New toddler safety items lists. Lists of things to clean to ward off the virus. List of places to go once allowed. Lists of lists to be made.
Our girl has entered advanced toddlerhood early, it seems.
Using this extended time at home with her parents to test every boundary, proudly chirping “no” in response to every request. We use soothing voices with her and verbalize understanding when she is frustrated or upset. We give her simple options, encouraging her to develop her voice and opinions, we ignore outbursts designed to test our attention, we limit screen time and sugar.
The burn out is paralyzing. The constant request for “more.” More cheerios. More “up.” More of mom’s – spot on I might add – Cookie Monster impression. More of that same damn ‘Ants Go Marching’ song. More airplane rides.
Waking up these mornings seems to require an act of heroism.
And here she is – falling asleep – two hours early. Dad gets time back into his schedule, Mom will sacrifice hers on the back end. I refuse to leave my “office” (bedroom) to confront the matter. It would be sacrificing my sweet, sacred professional time. Five hours max most days. Eighteen thousand seconds.
I text: We need to get on the same page about her naps.
Him: She was fussy, I asked if she wanted a rest and she said yes.
Me: But she had a morning nap, her PM nap shouldn’t be for another two hours.
Him: I know that, but she asked for it. What am I supposed to force her to stay awake?
Me: No, but you could entertain her or find something to do. When she naps during your time, I’m the one who has to deal with it.
Him: Either way, one of us will deal with it.
I used the words first, and yet reading him recite my own phrase back to me feels like ingesting poison. Deal with it. Is this how I am parenting my daughter? Can she sense our willingness to pawn her off on one another like a bargaining chip? Has our stress and our juggling and our exhaustion reduced her to another item on our schedule? The shame and guilt rip through me with real physical pain.
How can this exceptional girl, this perfect being, this “best thing I’ve ever made,” be so… life-sucking?
How can I possibly be the great mama she deserves while also upholding my professional obligations and reserving time and energy to dedicate to my beloved career? When someone asked about a certain time for a meeting the following day, a colleague of mine commented that I am “off” during that time.
I was so grateful that this person has respected my boundaries enough to internalize them, and yet… “off?!” Honestly, if I had to characterize one of my two quarantine lives as when I am “off” it would DEFINITELY be the one where I am alone in a quiet office with a cup of hot coffee, bulldozing through work while my husband watches our daughter downstairs. This is the peaceful part, the easy part. THIS is my “off.”
“I was helped to sleep 2 hours and 11 minutes ago.” Seven thousand eight hundred and sixty seconds.
He was right this time. She slept long and well. She clearly needed it. She may be in a good mood when I retrieve her from her dark cocoon and transition her back into the warm daylight. She will smile and giggle with me, babbling away and chanting our dogs names – her two favorite, and most commonly uttered, words. “Nat-choooo!” “Whoa-waaaah!” (translation: Nacho & Lola).
The foreshadowing whimper cuts through my frenzied typing of a press release like a freight train through the night. I type faster, more ferociously, racing with the inevitably abrupt end to my workday. From now until after bedtime, I will close my laptop. I will read one hundred picture books. I will sing one thousand songs. To be clear, it will be probably three discrete books and five discrete songs, but repeatedly, hundreds and hundreds of times. I will serve a healthy snack and make a healthy dinner.
We will cry. We will laugh. We will play basketball and blow bubbles and draw with chalk. We will take a bath and wrestle and scream (both of us) as I attempt to brush teeth and hair and wrangle her into stretchy cotton pajamas covered in planets and stars. After snuggles and stories with Dad, she will finally settle into bed for the evening, and I will finally get back to work.
Except (a big except), I will be physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.
But in a second, she will be tired of these books. She will stop requesting these songs. In a second, she will be too big to be held securely in my arms. In a second, she will stop asking to be picked up. In a second, she will be too cool for silly dances and slobbery smooches. In a second, she will be grown up.
I steel myself for the oncoming wail.
“Hi Mom, I woke up three minutes ago.” One hundred eighty seconds. I silently, hopelessly plead with the universe for just one second more.
-CJK
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