Parenting During a Pandemic: Mom as Football Star

I've never thought of myself as any kind of great athlete. I've always loved to bike, and in recent years have taken up recreational running. I can also walk crazy distances. Back in the day--as in way, way back--I played volleyball and basketball. But that's mostly it for my athletic endeavors. Recently, I've come to realize that I have unacknowledged athletic prowess which I would say falls under the heading of "blocking and tackling." Fortunatley or not, that prowess has nothing to do with actual gridiron games, and everything to do with trying to stave off some kind of disaster on the home front. 

Last night was a perfect example. All went really well for my eldest son's return home from Officer Development School in Newport, Rhode Island. My daughter had decorated our apartment within an inch of its life to celebrate that, but mostly to celebrate her brother's birthday, which was the day before. Her decorations included putting up a gold lame curtain in front of the door to the bedroom that my sons share. All good, so far. But some time in the middle of the night, Noah must have realized that part of the curtain came down. Not able to take it in stride and just go back to bed, he came in to wake up my husband and me, and to perseverate on getting the curtain back up. "We'll do it in the morning" was not going to fly. And my husband, who'd had 6+ hours of roundtrip driving under his belt that day, and had an early work start ahead of him, was instantly agitated. Which of course made Noah redouble his efforts, adding his "Don't be angry, daddy" to the mix. Which had the opposite effect, since all my husband wanted to do was go back to sleep. And Noah was the obstacle in his way. 

Dog tired though I was, I got out of bed and tried to rehang the curtain myself. No luck, since I couldn't find strong enough tape. So I tried to mollify Noah by climbing into his brother's bed, hoping I could coax Noah that way to go back to sleep. But up he popped again, back into my bedroom. Desperately trying to keep him from waking my husband again, I fairly scream-whispered, "Let's go back to bed. We'll fix the curtain in the morning." His older brother, conveniently, had fallen asleep in the den, meaning at least I didn't have to wake him when I went back to their shared room. This time, I got into bed with Noah hoping, in vain, that being nearly on top of him would make it easier for me to keep him from getting up again. Of course that didn't work. So again I got up. I looked around for some stronger tape and hung the curtain much lower. It seemed to stick. Of course the height was a concern, but I managed to convince Noah that it was ok just like that. And he actually went back to bed. I woke in the morning in my own bed, though I've honestly no idea how and when I got myself there. Per usual, I woke exhausted from another night of interrupted sleep, but relieved that my blocking and tackling averted disaster this time. And allowed my husband and my other kids to get a good night's sleep.

Parenting During a Pandemic: The Best of Us

The only social media platform I use is LinkedIn. Which is kind of funny, because I'm really not interested in all the career-related advice and self-promotion that populates much of the platform. Thankfully, there are other kinds of posts to pay attention to. Or to share. In that spirit, I recently posted a photo and a description of my autistic son's latest visit to our local hospital's infusion center, where he gets regular treatments for his ulcerative colitis. My comments focused on how well-liked he is there, and how generous and warm his response is to the staff. In response to my post, Neil F, who knows Noah from his years as a participant in a special needs basketball program commented, "He is one of a kind!! The best natured human being..." That brought a smile to my face, but it also made me realize, once again, how wonderful it is to go through the world just like that--as a unique and incredibly good natured human being. Maybe it doesn't sound like much amidst the cacaphony of other stuff out there--angry, bragging, dumb, ridiculous, and so on--but isn't that how most of us would love to be thought of? I know I would.

Without intending to, Neil's comment reminded me that modeling is something we tend to look to high achievers for, viz., we seek to emulate those who are successful, famous, lauded for some reason or other. Which means we often focus on superficial things like money, status, credentials. Most of the time, character is barely considered in our calculations of what has value and why. Living with Noah turns all of that on its head. He doesn't have traditional "achievements" to call upon. Heck, he didn't leave high school until age 21, and college will never be in the cards for him. My son can't travel independently, take full responsibility for his self-care, understand money (how to earn it, use it, save it, etc), be left alone overnight, do a complex set of tasks completely unsupervised, or engage in truly age-appropriate social interactions. He doesn't have a single friend. Not because he isn't friendly, but because he doesn't understand the give and take of a friendship, or have shared interests with most of the peers he's encountered through the years. Noah's gift is to be that person who, entirely unwittingly, holds a mirror up to everyone else, and allows them to see where and how they fall short of his standards regarding how to be in the world. So Noah in the hospital not only reacts to the kindness of the staff; he inspires it. He puts some extra spring in their steps, is the reason they smile a little bigger, and for a little longer. He's the one they ask for jokes, because he makes them laugh. He offers to share the snacks the staff give him because, well, that's just reflexively what he does. He learned long ago (thank you, Sesame Street!) that sharing is a good thing. And Noah is all about the "good thing." In a world with so many problems, anxieties, and pathologies, there's something gratifyingly simple and reassuring about being the person who is the best natured human being. And I'm so grateful to Neil for reminding me of that...

Parenting During a Pandemic: Letting Go

Everyone has COVID stories. Some are sad; others ridiculous. And still others, truly tragic. Mine is a mixed bag of a bunch of stuff. None, thank God, rises to the level of tragic. But since I rarely let my emotions sit still, and I've lived at a high stress level for so long, it's highly likely that I just suppress--or just blow past--things that might catch others up short. Back in the early days of COVID, my eldest contracted the virus. That was in March 2020. He lived in a different state, so the whole process of figuring out if he was sick, how sick he was, whether and when he needed to get to a hospital, and so on, was all done via text message. Which is a special brand of maternal torture. Then of course there was the bald fact of having a very sick child (turns out he had a COVID-induced case of multi-site pneumonia) two states away, alone in a hospital. The most I could do was wrest a photo or two out of him so he could hold a medicine label over his head and I could see what the doctors were giving him. Since he couldn't breathe well or consistently enough to speak with me, I read the label. And of course it meant nothing to me. I focused instead on my son's glassy, feverish eyes, and his sweaty face. My mother's heart really, really hurt. But there was nothing to be done. We could only let him know we loved him, remind him to use the oxygen left in his hospital room if he needed it, and put our full faith and trust in the doctors and nurses treating him. Fast forward seven months and we're about to turn our son over to another bureaucracy, one in which whatever faith and trust I might have had has been shattered. Not completely, not irredeemably. But badly shattered nonetheless. On October 11th, my husband and I will drop our son off at Officer Development School, a Naval facility where he will immediately go into a fourteen day quarantine, along with everyone else there to learn how to be an officer in the United States Navy. This past year and the three before it have made me wonder if this country deserves my son's service, his commitment, his patriotism. I know that the pustule masquerading as Commander-in-Chief does not. And I openly asked my son if he had any reservations about serving this CiC. "No" came back the firm, immediate reply. I am actually glad that my son can see past the time-limited person at the top of the American military pyramid to the greater purpose the military serves, and the ways in which it can and has represented the best of America. Not because war is a meritorious enterprise, but because the military has managed--perhaps better than any institution, corporation, or other collective enterprise in America--to represent something as close to a meritocracy as we might ever get in this country. So following his Army cousin's advice, my son signed up, because if good people don't serve, who will? This first phase in the Navy is about six weeks, and will be followed by a more task-specific training in how to be a Navy JAG, in understanding the Uniform Military Code of Justice and all of the other requirements of being a lawyer on either side of a case, viz., representing the defense or the prosecution. I joke that the apartment I once thought of as spacious has come to feel like a studio, with five adults and two dogs living in it full time. My son has been sleeping on a trundle bed all these months, in his younger brother's room, stashing his clothes on the window ledge or floor. His autistic brother routinely climbs over him at all hours to come into my bedroom and wake me or my husband

so being woken at 5a.m. to start his Navy days might not feel so bad. At least during quarantine, he'll have a room all to himself, and he'll be obligated to do all kinds of physical fitness tasks. For a workout nut like my son, that probably sounds like fun. But I'll miss him terribly, even for these forty or so first days. He'll be at ODS during his birthday, but home in time for his brother's birthday and Thanksgiving (which fall on the same day this year). My husband will miss having someone to drive him to work, to chat with, to make the commute less lonely. In their months of commuting together, my husband felt like he got to know his son all over again. He's an older child now, with college, a couple of years of full-time work, and grad school under his belt. We haven't seen this much of him in probably a decade. It's nice to meet him all over again and to realize that the person we've liked and loved mostly at a distance, is someone we still like and love up close. No, he hasn't learned to pick up after himself at home, and he still needs to be asked to do things like walk the dogs and load the dishwasher. But I never expected that much change. In fact, I kind of liked the lovable slob he always was. And still is. But I will have some hearty laughs thinking about the quarters he'll be trained to bounce off his bedsheets, having barely figured out how to throw a comforter over his sheets in his shared room in our crowded studio apartment.

Parenting During a Pandemic: From Really Good to Good Grief

My son came home from a week-long stay with his aunt and uncle out of state. All went well. He made homemade ice cream with Aunt Cheryl, went grocery shopping with her, went to the zoo with Uncle Ken, and otherwise settled into a happy routine. Not long after returning home, he dug in on an issue that's popped up on and off for months now, viz., his determination to go back to an amusement park he likes. Not to go on the rides, mind you, but to buy a t-shirt. We've explained to him over and over and over and over and over that Adventureland is closed because of the virus. And no, we don't know when it will re-open. And no, dad's not in charge, so he can't make it re-open. And no, they're not answering the phone this evening because they're closed. And yes, dad will call on Monday and see if he can get more information. And I see my husband's patience getting stretched beyond its limits. And I try to run interference, though Noah insists on asking my husband. Over and over and over and over and over. And even if I give Noah exactly the same answers, that's just not good enough. He can only hear it from my husband. He only wants to hear it from my husband. Who's cooking, with the fire on under several burners as Noah is harassing him about Adventureland, about when it will re-open, and why it's not open, and when can we find out, and when will he call, and why isn't he in charge. And it's impossible not to see an explosion coming. So I reach for the emergency meds. "What's that?" "Your emergency pill." "I don't want that!!" "OK, then you have to calm down." Which leads to a new crescendo in the perseveration, followed by a slight decrease in intensity. All the while I'm thinking that this is never going to get easier and he's only going to get stronger and more determined as we get older and weaker and how is that ever going to end well and my god does this apartment feel like a studio, with all of us living here together. And how is my other son trying to study for the Bar exam with all this chaos, and after an eight hour round trip drive to bring his brother home no less. And why can't we catch a break. Well yes, Noah's week away was a break, but re-entry didn't give us an hour's respite from his craziness. And what if his programs don't come back in person for another year, if ever? How is this going to work? How am I going to keep this nearly 25 year old productively occupied, and how am I going to keep him from driving us to the edge of and over into insanity? He's still at it, still pinging from my husband to his brother to me, asking about when he can find out about the gift shop, about the t-shirt. I keep telling him that we'll call again on Monday, and maybe someone can tell him how he can get a t-shirt. In the midst of all this nuttiness, I distracted him briefly by giving him a shave of all things. Anything to get him away from my husband and the gas burners in the kitchen. Now there's a full court press to try to get him interested in buying a different shirt, one you can buy online, unlike from the gift shop at Adventureland, which of course doesn't have an online buying option. Because the cosmos apparently hates us. Because if there's a way to make things even more stressful for us, it seems the universe will find it. Because devotion, love, humor, distraction, pleading, and more devotion, love, humor, distraction, and pleading just aren't enough. And because our frayed nerves apparently need to be stretched beyond their human limits. And why not, in the midst of a pandemic, with everything about life disrupted, and with new, lingering COVID after effects, including extreme exhaustion, which make dealing with my son's torture-like perseveration that much harder. And just like that--or at least for however many minutes it takes to place the order--we get a reprieve. Noah's been convinced to get a different t-shirt. It seems he's settled on a Count von Count t-shirt. And now we'll move on to the perseveration about when exactly that t-shirt will arrive. On which day, at which time, and why is it late? And why hasn't it come yet? And when it will it get here? And repeat. And Noah won't lose interest in the Adventureland t-shirt--because he NEVER forgets anything--but maybe we're buying ourselves some time. Maybe we're buying some calm. Or maybe we're just deluding ourselves. We've starred in this movie so many times that the only reliable thing is knowing that it will repeat.

Parenting During a Pandemic: Love Hurts

It rained hard the other day. We needed it. The earth felt scorched, and not just metaphorically. I waited for the rain to subside and headed out with my new recycled woven plastic rainbow-colored tote (an early birthday gift from my daughter) to buy some provisions. First stop was a local food shop where I intended to get some bread and maybe a side or two to add to the main course salad I had planned for dinner. Then it was off to the health food store to see what they had by way of fresh organic fruit. As expected, everything fit in my new tote, though perhaps it was a sign that having filled it on the counter, the tote promptly tipped over onto the floor, where most items fell out, though none was crushed or otherwise damaged.

Such an ordinary thing, this brief outing to the store. Which is why it was so upsetting to return to an apartment turned inside out by my middle child's "episode" of aggression. In a fit of some kind of anger/frustration, he'd pushed his sister, hit his brother, and had to be restrained. He refused his emergency pill. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he fixated on his father having slammed the oven door, and on having hit his sister. His father had not, in fact, slammed the oven door; he'd shut it after removing a tray of cookies. Noah kept insisting that his sister apologize for hitting him, which she admitted to doing, in self-defense. Begrudgingly, she offered up a "sorry," which I had hoped would get Noah to stop perseverating. "Did she apologize?" he kept asking me. "Yes, she did Noah. She said sorry to you." Then he tried to calm things in his go-to way, which is to approach his sister and insistently tell her, "But I love you." It sounds strange. It's a weird kind of combination plea/declaration. She often resents it, and I'm not sure I can blame her. How can she believe that her brother loves her when he talks so often of hitting her and sometimes turns that talk to action?

My husband has wondered aloud more than once lately if our having reduced one of Noah's very long term meds by half is what's driving this behavior. It's impossible to tell. We're all cooped up, in much less space than when we lived in a house. Noah's schedule has gone from a mix of engaging outside activities to nothing, and it's been like that for months. We are all bored, confined, and losing our minds just a little bit. His mind was always more complicated and in some ways he has more to lose than the rest of us. It's this toxic brew of all of us thrown together, trying to muddle along, be kind to each other, be together in a healthy, loving way, and at the same time give each other space in a place in which space--physical and psychic--is at a premium.

Nothing about this is comforting, and god knows I don't have a magic answer. This week, I'm just grateful that my daughter has a job to go to, that my husband can take Noah with him to work, and that I can luxuriate on the days when the apartment is emptiest in having this temporary island of tranquility all to myself. I'll need to hold to that for when the door opens and everyone returns. What storms might brew then is anyone's guess...

Parenting During a Pandemic: Who's in a Chokehold Now?

Everyone's carrying something.  I even read a book once with that as its title, more or less.  My husband always reminds me that you don't know what goes on behind closed doors.  That's as true in my life as in anyone else's.  And I do wonder about pulling back that curtain, even a bit.  Is it an invasion of my kids' privacy, of my husband's, or even of my own?

But I also wonder if pulling back that curtain--putting it "out there" in a way--might not serve some useful purpose.  The same way I read of other people's painful experiences and can empathize, perhaps there is something in my experience(s) that rings true for someone else.  And in that truth might lie a point of connection, a drawing out from the isolation that those who have really challenging parenting roads often live with.

And sometimes, the absurdities of life just need to be shared.

Late last week, I was on my way back from my stint at a local food pantry. It's a long, tiring day, one that doesn't leave time (save for the ten minutes or so for lunch) to check in at home.  And that day, I'd left my daughter home with my autistic son.  They can and do get on each other's nerves, but it's never really been an issue.

Close to home, I got a call from my daughter.  She sounded upset, but on the other side of whatever it was that seemed to have her close to tears.  I told her I'd be home in a few minutes.  She told me that her dad had just walked in.  Where he found her in a chokehold, courtesy of her brother.  I'm not sure how she managed to call, but he had a good hold on her, according to my husband.  Thankfully, she remained calm.  Because when my son gets stuck, his strength is something to be hold.  His long, lean arms become like bendable steel beams.  If he wants to hold you, you are not breaking his hold.  I should know.  When he's gotten upset with me at times, not knowing how to channel his feelings, he's squeezed me--really, really tightly--and it's been frightening.  He's feeling adrenaline coursing through his body and he doesn't know in those moments what to do with it, how to channel it.  He knows hitting is wrong, so he comes very close to the line, but struggles mightily not to cross it.  And it's the rest of us that get caught in that struggle.  This time, it was my daughter.

When we can't get my son unstuck, when we can't talk him off the ledge, we have to resort to what we call his "emergency meds."  We've done that precious few times thankfully, but it's a scary, tense experience when we're in those moments with him and have no other recourse.

Years ago, I called the psychiatrist who provided the basic meds he was taking, during one of these "stuck" episodes.  I think I was most amazed that I actually got the doctor on the phone.  He told me that we should take my son to the ER.  I told my husband we couldn't do that, that all they would do is physically restrain and then sedate him.  And all we would have done is traumatize him.  So we muddled through, terrified, until we finally calmed him down.

Some time later, when I took my son to his epilepsy doctor and recounted that episode, he was horrified that the psychiatrist offered us nothing.  He immediately consulted a psychiatrist colleague of his and got us a prescription for what turned out to be an anti-psychotic medication.  I have husbanded that medication like a precious jewel.  I keep it hidden, to make sure no one takes it by mistake.  And to remind myself that it is truly for emergencies only.

My older sister came over the other night with her husband for drinks and snacks.  In the course of catching up, I mentioned that my husband had come home to find my daughter in a chokehold.  I saw this strange look cross my sister's face.  It was something--at least to my reading--like a cross between horror, embarrassment, and relief.  Horror speaks for itself. Embarrassment I think is about not knowing how to help.  And relief, of course, is about not having this be her parenting journey.

I made light of it because really, what else could I do?  If you're not walking this walk, you have no idea.  And if you are--even in the midst of a pandemic, and in the midst of the uprising against police brutality--you know that it's not only people who have brutal encounters with the police who wind up in chokeholds.

Parenting During a Pandemic: Moving Forward, Standing Still

These are turbulent times, to say the least.  There are moments when I feel hopeful about the prospects for achieving long overdue change, for bending the arc of the universe that much further toward justice.  There are other moments when I feel utter despair, when I lean into my belief that the entirety of Republican America is hell bent on burning the house down...with all of us inside.

Through all of this, I remain a parent.  Also a wife, with a parenting partner. The mother of one child who is autistic, and also lives with epilepsy and ulcerative colitis.  The mother of another child who contends with anxiety and panic issues.  And yet another whose stoicism sometimes worries me the most.  I fear what his silence is masking.  Is it his own fear, his rage at how things have played out in the America he has committed to serving? Is it something else altogether?

I have always tried--and will continue to try--to model for my children who and how I want them to be in the world.  I don't dictate their responses, though.  I have been the only one to attend a protest so far.  My daughter gets anxious in crowds, so her going might be more counter-productive than not.  Instead, I feel pride in her willingness to ask people of color when she doesn't know, or thinks she might not understand.  I feel pride in her standing up against bullies online who still belittle the struggles of America's black citizens, or make facile comparisons with white folks' experiences.  I applaud her leaning in to difficult discussions, and trying to make sense of the deluge of opinions and the volume of commentary under which a less thoughtful person might feel buried, and defeated.

I would take my autistic son, but the chance that he might act out in some way would be unfair to  other marchers, especially since it would be indescribably difficult to explain to him what's going on and why.  Although in truth, I could explain it quite well in simple terms he would understand, something along the lines of:  there are bad people in America who are mean to other people because of the color of their skin.  Noah is very much NOT ok with mean or bad people.  That's a lesson we've taught that he's learned well.  And I'm more grateful than ever in this moment that we made the effort to communicate that to him, his barriers to understanding notwithstanding.

As for my eldest, I wonder if it's especially painful for him to bear witness to all that is unfolding in America.  He is officially an officer in the United States Navy, though he has yet to assume his post.  People in uniform--though not the one he will wear--are the object of justified anger on the part of many millions of his fellow citizens.  Those uniformed individuals are part of an armed bureaucracy that has for too long tolerated the abuse of black Americans.  Is the military a kind of parallel to that in any way?  It has long been considered a place far more meritocratic than the private sector in America, far more willing to embrace diversity, and to recognize that life and death decisions among its ranks need to be as close to color blind as possible.  Choosing to see skin color in a fox hole can get everyone killed.  Is it a perfect world?  Not by a long shot.  But still...

I asked my eldest if he wanted to join me or go alone to any of the protests.  "It's not my thing," he replied.  Some might pounce, get angry, judge him for not being woke enough to march.  But that would just show how faulty snap judgements can be.  He knows more and is more aware than so many his age.  And what he knows comes not just from what we've taught him and from what he imbibes through reading and the like, but through the web of relationships he has developed through the years with peers from a breathtaking range of backgrounds.  He has listened well, learned well, and been not only a good friend, but a good ally.  So I don't push on marching.  That's always been more of my thing.

I do wonder more broadly what forward momentum looks like in these times.  What is it within a single family?  How do we measure it, if we measure it at all?  How do I nurture what I know is good and "right thinking" among my kids, while not pushing aside any challenging, complicating questions they might have?  How do I improve my own listening skills as a parent, so I can hear not only their words, but their silences?  How do I deal with any of my own missteps, especially now, when every misstep seems so weighted down by other stuff, and by the collective weight of past mistakes and missteps?