Parenting and the pandemic

Last night, once the kids were finally in bed (S recently discovered that he can climb out of his crib! Exciting!), I just wanted to crawl into the fetal position - which is what I did. I had nothing left to give. As I curled up on my couch, all I could think was that I couldn’t do this anymore. Not for another day. Another week. Another month. I would’ve called it quits then and there; but, of course, that was never a real option.

I know for a fact that I’m not alone in the way that I am feeling, and yet it feels so lonely. I lost it again this afternoon, just like I have every day lately. Snapping doesn’t surprise me any longer; it just makes me incredibly sad in its aftermath. Inevitably, there comes a time in the day when I can’t stand the yelling any longer. I can’t explain to S again that he can’t watch TV right now. I can’t explain once again that I’m trying to work, or that I’m trying to study. I can’t deal with wrestling with my kids to get their clothes on to go out for some fresh air; only to come back to another wrestle to get them clean.

Full disclosure: My husband and I are incredibly lucky in the sense that we’ve had help all this time. My (fairy) godmother came to Germany with us back in January, and got stranded here due to Covid-19. She goes above and beyond to support us, and yet…

I am still the mother. I am still a mother who is starting a new career. I am still a mother while working part-time, and I am still a mother while studying full-time. I prioritize my kids (and I always will), but I’ve been pregnant and/or breastfeeding for the past 3+ years. I had just started to feel like my own person again when the lockdown hit. And, to be frank, I refuse to let that feeling go - but juggling everything is proving to be near impossible.

This pandemic is taking its toll on so many aspects of our lives; personally, it’s taking the biggest hit at my parenting skills. I started off optimistic - at first, day care centers were supposed to reopen in 5 weeks. I was excited to have breakfast with the kids every day without having to rush out the door. I looked forward to doing yoga with S in the afternoon. I looked forward to the quiet moments nursing L before putting her down for her nap. It was scary, but I really thought we could make it work. Fast forward two months, I’m not so sure that we can.

But again, of course, “not making it” is not a real option. At what cost, though?

I’ve been reading about the toll that this pandemic has had (and will continue to have) on mental health. I personally haven’t had mental health issues in the past (other than a lingering hint of anxiety). I am, by all standards, a healthy individual. I am happily married. I have a roof over my head. I love living where I live. My kids are healthy. I am so, so grateful. Yet, I too am losing it.

By this point I’ve given up on reading the news. If it isn’t about the day care centers reopening at least partially, I’m not interested. I was livid when I heard that playgrounds would reopen before the day care did. How exactly does that help working parents (someone still has to take the kids and watch them)? Let’s also talk about what a brilliant idea it is to mix different groups of kids every day. Every time I pass by the one near our place, it’s packed. Day cares are still closed. I am still losing it.

Tell me I’m not the only one who isn’t quite a model for positive parenting these days. It is so hard to admit that you’re failing as a parent, but can we be honest for a second? We could all benefit from knowing that we are not alone in this; now more than ever. We’ve gone from having bad days to having bad weeks (months?). And as of yet, there is no light at the end of the tunnel, which for me is by far hardest part of this whole ordeal.

Yes, former generations had it rougher and many, many, many people still do - but we are all allowed to feel shitty every once in a while. And, to be frank, this is the worst I’ve felt in as long as I can remember.

Bottom line is: I absolutely love my kids unconditionally, but I need a break and I won’t find it in my weekend glass of wine. Make no mistake when you see happy pictures of my kids on social media (or anyone’s kids, I’m confidently assuming). The struggle, my friends, is extremely real.

If you have any proven coping methods, do send them my way. Let us virtually lean on each other. I know this will pass, but until it does, I guess we just have to our best not to lose our minds - one day at a time.

Limitations

I'm a fraud. "Why on Earth did I think I know enough to start a blog about motherhood?". I'm a fraud, I'm a phony, I'm so embarrassed - that's all I could think, on loop, as I sobbed around 2am the other night. It'd been one hour since my son had woken up to eat, two hours since I'd gone to bed. There he was, balling, and I had no idea what he wanted.

At first I thought we had it covered. "Can you please try to burp him? Did you check his diaper?", I whispered in the dark to my husband, face half-buried in my pillow (we take turns). The crying continued. "He can't be hungry, he just ate! Keep trying to burp him". Every minute of a newborn crying in the night feels like hours. I quickly, too quickly, started losing it.

Then I reluctantly asked for my godmother's help. We've been lucky enough to have her around since S was born - but to ask for her help at 2am meant admitting that we don't have it covered. She happens to be a trained nurse who's worked in childcare for the past 40 years, so her presence has been just a bit reassuring. But those days are almost over, as she'll soon head back to Brazil. "When did he eat last?", she asked. "He can't be hungry, he just ate", I answered, defensively. 

In the meantime YY was still trying to burp him. He burped! - but the crying continued. He passed S to my godmother. She took him away and patiently calmed him down. Then I lost it.

I started sobbing, telling myself I don't have this, we don't have this, I need sleep, I can't, I won't - but I will. My godmother asked me to prepare a bottle, as she knew I couldn't breastfeed at that moment. "But... He just ate", I muttered as I mixed the formula. That was it. He was hungry, and I was in denial. I preach that "fed is best", but at that moment I had trouble feeding my son formula. I couldn't accept that my milk wasn't enough. I felt like I wasn't enough. 

As it turns out, S is slightly underweight for his age, and we'll have to feed him formula multiple times a day from now on. I look back at that night and try to make sense of my desperation. From a distance, I understand that I'm not a fraud, or a phony, and there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I am doing the best that I can on the daily - mind and body - but sometimes that doesn't cut it, and that's okay. The problem is accepting it.

The pressure of parenthood is unlike anything I'd experienced before. I salute parents everywhere, and think about them sometimes as I feed my baby at 2am. I wonder how many of them are out there at that very moment, exhausted, feeling inadequate, feeling like they're not enough. Feeling like a fraud. Feeling like I so often do.

Is that, I wonder, a sign that we must be doing something right?