Pandemic Won’t Fold Us
“Mom, when this stupid coronavirus is done I really want to go out to see a movie.” I immediately feel my chest tighten but force a smile, and pause folding a shirt from yet another basket of laundry. I look at my almost five year old daughter and say, “Me too. I want some popcorn and I want a lot of butter. It will be so much fun to go on a date with you.” We look at each other, silent. We both are thinking. We both have feelings. We both have done our best in the last ten months to navigate the complexities of the pandemic.
Our family, the five of us, are truly in love with one another. Pre-pandemic (then, there were only four) we did most things together. We did fun things: breweries, Saturday morning jiu jitsu practice, and the beach. And we were a team for the less fun things: Costco, doctor appointments (the pediatrician refers to us as Team Bowman), and chores. The pandemic has only strengthened our connection. Perhaps our strength is galvanized because we want to come out the other end okay, or at the very least, minimally fucked up.
As I wait, in the silence for my daughter to say something, I acknowledge the tightness in my chest and name it-- anxiety. I identify the culprit-- the movie theater. The thought of sitting in a theater teeming with people is something that I am not sure I could do, not soon, and not even for her. She breaks the silence. “I want to go with my whole family.” Fuck, my heart rate elevates, anxiety tips towards panic. I grab a t-shirt from the magically-refilling laundry basket. I observe the color, texture, and fresh laundry scent, grounding me to the here and now.
The pandemic has denied us access to family. I have also denied us access to family. I have drawn boundaries. I needed to. Every decision I have made is discussed to near death with my husband, my therapist, and my nest of intimate friendships because I know that every decision made will have an impact on my children-- especially the emotionally intelligent near five year old. Much like a captain of a wayward ship, I fear the next wave will be the one that capsizes the vessel and sends everyone under my command in the water, cold and violent, grasping for a life vest. Motherhood has me feeling like a captain looking for calmer waters. Beneath the anxiety, I have a steady confidence that our crew will survive a frigid swim should the ship go under. I know this because my crew is thriving in the stormy conditions of the pandemic and family messiness.
As my heart rate slows, I ask, “That would be great! I am sure your dad and sisters would love to go to the movies. It will be a family date.” With a hint of impatience she counters, “No, with my whole family.” I prepare for her to mention my dad, her Papa G, as a part of her whole family. The very man whose alcoholism and narcissism made him exit our lives over a year ago. I hold my breath as I wonder if she will include my sister. Another person that I have recently denied access to; I chose to make that boundary, not the pandemic. My daughter grabs a sock and sifts for its partner.
I struggle with my choice. It feels especially dirty to take space from a family member, knowing that I am adding more discomfort and pain during a pandemic. But if I think about myself--which feels inappropriately selfish because as a mother, I’m rarely my first thought-- the space feels clean. I see a silver-lining emerge from the pandemic; I have a callus comprised of uncomfortable moments and painful decisions for months on months, granting me a strength and tenacity I didn’t know I possessed but I am surely going to lean into for all choices.
I toss her the sock she’s been searching for. “Oh, who is your whole family?” I hold my breath, an action I hope she doesn't notice while I wait for her answer. She rolls the socks into one another and rambles, “You, Dad, Sloanie, Dapho, Grammy, Papa, Grandma T, my cousins, and my best-friends and their families.” She grabs another pair of socks and repeats this task she has mastered.
I exhale--Papa G is not a part of her family. I am both sad and relieved she doesn’t include my sister. Her whole family consists of the people who the pandemic has snatched from her routine, not the people I have plucked from her life. I attempt to sit with all the feelings but I am jolted from my thoughts by the alert on the dryer-- another load of clothes is beckoning my laundry basket and we all know laundry doesn’t put itself away.