I wanted to be a mom since I was a little girl. Some girls dreamed of being actresses or scientists. Some dreamed of being teachers or artists. I dreamed of being a mom. Of course as a child, I didn't fully understand the meaning of motherhood. I remember my mom saying to me often in my teen years, "you'll see someday when you're a mom." Being a teenage girl I rolled my eyes as most do.
Turns out as is the case with most things—my mom was right. Once I found out I was pregnant with each child, that motherly instinct kicked in. It wasn't about me anymore. I had a huge responsibility. I knew it would be tough. I knew it would require sacrifice. I knew I had prepared my whole life to be a mom and I know I was blessed to have one of the best as an example and guide. Whatever life throws at me and whatever obstacles we have to face with our kids I would be able to do it.
And then a once in a lifetime pandemic hit.
And the thing about once in a lifetime pandemics is there is no one else who has lived through them let alone parented through one because they are ONCE IN A LIFETIME.
This would be okay though. This would just be a few weeks. It might be a good thing. It will force us to spend more time together. We will watch movies and not be on a schedule and do crafts and share family moments together that we will always remember. The problem? Weeks turned to months and months turned to years. Throw in school closures, remote learning, politicization of a virus, mask wearing, shaming, walking the line between "following the rules" but also craving normalcy, and everything in between.
I watched my daughter miss the end of kindergarten. I watched her and my son on zoom saying goodbye to their friends. I picked up their belongings from school because the day they left school they never realized that would be the last time in that classroom and everything was left just as it was. I watched my now first and third grader start school online. I saw the joy wiped off of their faces. The boredom of sitting in front of a screen. I tried to make the best of it. I never let them see how upset I was about it all. It seemed that almost everyday I had that lump in my throat. The lump that if you opened your mouth you would burst into tears. But I couldn't do that. I needed to hold it together for them. There were so many nights I climbed into bed and cried. And not just silent tears. I sobbed some nights to the point I couldn't breathe. The pain of watching your kids miss normal childhood experiences was too much to bear and while I knew I wasn't alone it was a very lonely feeling.
I became more anxious. There were days I was really down. I was more on edge. I was no longer the mom and wife I was. I was never perfect but this was my lowest point by far. It consumed my life. Covid data, mask data, case data, hospital data—it was all I focused on. I needed to tell everyone what we were doing to kids was wrong and I needed all of the data at hand to show that I knew what I was talking about. I tracked cases and would get nervous if they were increasing. Would we switch back to remote learning? Will events be canceled again? Will masks ever come off? How many years will this affect my kids' education? Will they be behind? Will they be scared they are going to kill a teacher or their grandma as they heard so many times? Were they ok? Would this impact them for life?
I yelled. A lot. At my husband, my kids, my mom, the schools, strangers on the internet. I was angry. I always thought as a mom that no matter what it was I could fix it. I couldn't fix this. It felt like living in a dream where you try to scream for help but no words would come out. No one would listen. You couldn't go against the narrative. I truly never thought advocating for kids and their mental health would somehow be twisted into being a horrible person. I'm 37 years old and I've been called some names in my life that weren't pretty and some of them I probably even deserved. But these names? Racist. White supremacist. Selfish. Entitled. Bad mother. I couldn't comprehend how any of those names had anything to do with what I was trying to fight for. Yes, I was fighting for my kids. But I was truly fighting for all kids I believed.
In the summer of 2021, I felt like it may finally be over. For the first time in over a year, the breath I had held in I exhaled for the first time.
And then Delta came.
And the anxiousness and nervousness and uncertainty came back. This time was harder because I had experienced a little bit of that relief and within weeks it was ripped out from underneath me again. I fought harder this time and I was louder this time. I didn't care what I was called because I knew in my heart what I was doing was right. I cried more. I fought with my husband more. I snapped at my kids more. I lost sleep. I lost hope—which was probably the worst thing of all to lose.
It seems like maybe things are turning a corner and this may be over soon. At least over in the sense that the fight may not be as tough and that normalcy will be restored fully.
But I grieve. A part of me will always grieve for the moments my kids lost that they'll never get back. I will grieve the wife and mother I was. I will grieve the people who I thought I knew and assumed they cared about kids. I don't know if you can go through something for two years and not have it fundamentally change you.
In wanting to be a good mom and in fighting for my kids, I ended up not being the mom I wanted to be or the mom my kids needed. I'm angry at the policies put in place that hurt kids but more than that I'm angry that the people that put those policies in place not only robbed our children of so much but also robbed them of the mother they deserved to have for two years.
So I'll continue to grieve. And like they say with grief, it comes in waves. It may get easier but I'm not sure it can ever go away. I I don't think I'll ever look at the world the same. In some ways that may be good and in others ways maybe not so much.
I want my kids to know how much I love them. I want them to look back at this someday and not remember the crazy, stressed out mom. And maybe they won't realize it until they're a parent someday, just as I didn't realize it until I became a mom.
More than anything, I look forward to the day I'm not anxious. The day I don't have the constant lump in my throat. But I'm not ready to let my guard down just yet. I don't know if I will be anytime soon. I'm too scared to get my hopes up and then have them knocked down again.
But most of all, I'm waiting for the day I can finally let out the breath I've held in for so long. It may be over tomorrow and it may drag on for months. But the day I'm able to breathe again is the day that I can say it's over. Even if just for me.
Thanks for writing this, Meghan. I'm sure it's of no consolation to you that there are many of us who feel the exact same way, and you're not alone in going through all of this. Instead, we suffer in silence, mostly because so many people (especially those without kids) simply can't comprehend the struggle.
The holidays especially were tough; my daughter is roughly the same age as your kids. Knowing that they only get one shot at being 4 and 5 at Christmas is absolutely gut-wrenching. Kids only have so many years that they believe in Santa Claus, and to have two of those ripped away from them (through no fault of their own, but rather misguided "experts" and the sheep who hang on their every word) is soul-crushing as a parent.
We had a trip to Disney World planned for September of 2020, when my daughter was 4; prime time for believing and seeing the princesses she'd seen in movies. That trip was canceled, and that window for her is long gone. Now at 6, we're trying to plan to go again, but she's moved on to new interests.
The depression and guilt and sense of hopelessness that I feel about not being able to provide the normal childhood experiences that you speak of will absolutely haunt me forever, especially because from the outset, I recognized that this was all theater (a recognition that cost me family and friendships of people who thought I was nuts). I just couldn't figure out why it was occurring.
Please keep writing, Meghan, and know that you're not alone. To repurpose a nauseating rallying cry, we're all in this together, and that's the only way we'll get through it.
That was well said and I’m sure as raw as it can be expressed. I was always one of your #1 supporters. Keep advocating for what you believe in him and for your children. You’re an amazing mom and person. Don’t let anyones harsh words and bullying make you think any less.