I Fu*ked Up Motherhood Even In Covid Times
When it comes to motherhood, why are imagined pictures of how things should unfold between my son and I different than reality? Even in the wake of a pandemic, with our sheltering in place, I fantasized about the things we’d do together; the things I’d teach him, show him, guide him on; all the ways I’d at last become a fabulous mother.
Somehow, an ever-lurking superhero version of motherhood got overzealous and believed she’d have a chance to shine. She thought at the beginning of all this, with a huge unavoidable chunk of time with her kid, super mom could fly. Crooked cape and all.
Ethan is nearly 16. He’s becoming his own young man. He’s social but not too social. He has a small group of friends. He’s not dependent upon being seen or being popular, so generally, he navigates his own time. Pre-Covid-19 I didn’t see Ethan much. He’d come home from school, grab a snack, then venture downstairs to his cave for xbox marathons of Grand Theft Auto or Call of Duty. His weekends were reserved for sleepovers with friends.
Then came the shelter-in-place mandate. For millions of children around the world, spring break suddenly became an extended six-month vacation. Initially it was a week off, then two, then grim reality seeped in that the world was dealing with something unimaginable. I felt for teachers, administrators, and of course working parents who had to restructure entire lives to accommodate children at home in need of schooling.
My hopeful red cape came alive. I pictured engaged learning with Ethan. Sitting together at our dining room table, pouring over papers I’d printed out from Canvas, intensely discussing assignments. In the vision I was wearing thick black-rimmed glasses (even though I don’t wear glasses) hovering beside him, deeply inquiring into a variety of subjects. Sure, I’d have to pass on the math, but Social Studies, English, Science — I’d have him covered.
As a parent teacher homeschooling super mom, I was patient and attentive. I asked Ethan the right probing questions about his feelings related to the bombing of Pearl Harbor, or what he discovered reading The Catcher in the Rye, or why pesticides were harmful for farming. I’d uncover what my son thought about human rights through soulful essays he’d written about apartheid. In my fantasy of previously-invisible mom turned super teacher, I was the ideal of supportive yet inspiring.
I imagined integrated science projects constructing volcanoes with plaster and bubbling baking soda. Making huge loafs of bread just to observe how yeast behaved. Planting a garden of lettuce and radish, Ethan and I side-by-side, yet silent, digging in the dirt, as I proudly watched my son gently place seedlings into the ground. Then, together, we’d build the garden’s trellis. We’d take turns cutting wood, (with tools and saws I don’t own), clear goggles on to avoid sawdust mishaps, because suddenly being able to build with power tools is how super-teacher-homeschool-moms roll.
All of Ethan’s education was immersive. Due to Covid-19, my own life went on hold, including a mysteriously disappeared need to make money. Waking hours were spent with Ethan, baking cupcakes, teaching about rocks and minerals, connecting, learning, and guiding. We were off taking forest hikes, long drives, watching old movies, discussing current affairs, and playing board games.
Why do such motherhood perfection images plague me? Especially during insurmountable upheaval? These days I’m unable to envision much. I look in the mirror and I can’t even picture myself. Roots are grown out. Eyes are puffy from intermittent fits of crying and worry. I’m lucky if I’m wearing a bra. Each unsettling day I do my best to put one coping foot in front of the other amidst overwhelming uncertainty and yet, I feel like I’m letting my kid down. Will mothers always aspire to feel better about their parenting, or, are maternal hopes so high that no matter what, we’ll always come up short?
As sheltering-in-place life with Ethan pans out to be the same — only more of it — him, downstairs on xbox, me, upstairs, reflecting on motherhood failures as dreams of plaster volcanoes perish — I feel disappointed. I can’t help but think there’s something — anything — I need to do differently to reach him; connect with him; to somehow magically become a mother, other than the one I am.
I love my son so much. I want to be the one to assuredly carry us forward. I wish I had answers about these inconceivable times. I wish I could take away the pain, or suffering, or confusion as to why we’re here. The questions are so vast, I don’t have answers myself to such complicated life occurrences, yet I feel responsible, and like I should. I wish I could wave the wand and deliver all his normal and fun and innocence back to the place when life mostly made sense.
For now, I’m entirely unable to change the fate of this world’s pandemic, or the path of history we’ll look back on later when Ethan’s an adult. It’s clear he doesn’t want me teaching him about kneading yeast or gardening. The only superpower I’ve got that he’s willing to receive is to keep my son home and protected. If I feel so compelled to do something motherly or heroic, maybe I’d better start small — I could try and bake some damn cupcakes, (but not from scratch, of course.)
