Parenting in a pandemic
Sometimes, it is so hard to be a parent.
I’m not talking about the times when your kiddo is screaming at you, or behaving in a way that is trying your last nerve, or hanging off of you as you try to get something else done. Yes, that’s hard, too. But, I’m talking about a different level of hard. The kind that makes you hurt all over.
I’m talking about those times when you know they’re afraid, or scared, or worried about something that is so far beyond the scope of your ability to fix.
We’re having one of those times now.
We’ve been sheltered at home for over 40 days at this point. And, I’ll be really honest here. It’s actually been pretty awesome in our home. Both my husband and I are extroverted introverts that love working from home. Our daughter is thriving in her school work, even through the struggles. She’s connecting with kiddos on a daily basis she didn’t regularly have contact with.
But, there is another level for her. One that is bubbling, just under the surface. The one that causes her to reach out to anyone who will listen - us, her teachers, her grandparents, her friends - as she attempts to process all that is going on around her outside the walls of our home.
I want to tell her it’s all going to be fine. Which, I do. I also tell her I don’t know what’s going to happen, or how it’s going to unfold. I share with her that it’s scary to grown-ups, too. But, what I do to help myself is to focus on what I do know, the love I feel, and the trust I have.
I know she hears me. I know she believes me, or is trying to. And, I still know how hard it is for her right now. She misses her friends. She misses her grandparents. She’s scared - for them, for us, for herself.
Yesterday, she wrote a haiku for school. I have her permission to share it publicly:
What will summer beLike? With this thing people callCoronavirus?
With learning from home in place through the end of the school year, she and her friends have started to talk about what summer will look like for them. She’s expressed concern about not seeing her summer camp friends, whom she only sees each year at camp.
All of these worries. All of these concerns. All of these fears. And, as a parent, all I can do is hold space for them, let her process them and feel them. Because, frankly, they’re all real and valid and I don’t want to take any of them away from her.
It’s times like these that I am so deeply grateful for the building blocks already put into place in our relationship. I may not have answers for her. I may not be able to wave my magic wand and make it all okay. But, what I can do is be there for her, in whatever way she needs it most.
The hidden blessing that I’ve found is that by working to stay present for her, I’m giving myself the gift of presence… stopping what I’m doing to help her allows me to stop and take stock of what’s really important, right here and right now. I believe, quite deeply, that is one of the greatest gifts we can all receive through this period.
Stop. Take stock. What is really, truly and deeply important right now.
There will always be the things - the school work that feels overwhelming, more meetings, more tasks, more deadlines and due dates - but at this moment, what is the most important thing that happens right now?
It will be different for all of us.
I know it’s different for our daughter and myself.
She wants to bounce around, using me as a jungle gym, non-stop chattering.
I want quiet, calm, peaceful moments of reflection, gratitude, and togetherness.
As she flings herself at me, one more time, attacking my body with hers out of exuberance and joy, I think to myself - what do I need, right now? While accepting the abundance of love flowing towards me, that honestly feels overwhelming in and of itself, I know that my holding space for her joy is something she needs from me. And, once I’ve accepted it, I can ask for what I need in return.
And, with that, my hope is she continues to thrive, even in the midst of this pandemic that has created a more challenging avenue to connect with her peers and other loved ones.
That’s all I can do, right? Accept, hope, and hold space for her, for myself, for the world.
