When you’ve spent your entire life trying to help and fix, to be the responsible take-charge initiator in any crisis, it’s physically maddening to resist the urge when one presents itself at your feet. I sit here staring at the glow of my laptop screen, hoping that I can purge myself of these spiralling thoughts before they take me down. If only I could just dump them out to sort through them when I have time.
Who am I kidding?
That pile would grow mighty high waiting for that day.
My fingers tap at the keys, not pressing with enough force for them to form the words, my thoughts shorting as I wince at the cacophony of sounds that spark in my head. H’s keyboard clicks across from me, his ball chair squeaking under his bounce; it’s cheap plastic wheels not rolling but pulling across the worn hardwood. The scratch of the Hotwheel car he scrapes across his desk with his free hand, click clack as it drives over the clutter. With each fidget, the Ikea desk rattles, bumping the wall and window frame in succession. The out of sync echo of similar sounds heard over the Google Meet of his class. Even the howl of the wind as the snow picks up speed outside, a distraction both of my vision and hearing.
Screech. Thud. Thud. Bang. Bang. Screech.
The man next door scrapes his snow shovel down the driveway. The snow, not yet deep enough to really lift, he struggles with his compulsion to bang the recycling bin lid repeatedly, in an attempt to annoy us each time he passes it, and simultaneously hold his shovel. I laugh a little silently.
My own frustration interrupts me; I have not typed a single word.
Back to it!
Except the dog’s snoring a symphony of grunts from my right. The snort of her denouement wakes her and startles me. My attention drifts even further afield and reaches the sing-song voices coming from the top of the stairs. I smile even as they trigger my heart rate to race with the reminder: I have minutes – maybe only seconds. Recess is coming. Deep breath. I swig the last of my coffee and brace myself.
Footsteps big and little pound down both staircases, as they arrive from their respective levels. Into my arms jumps the littlest one, as delighted to see me as I am him. I squeeze him back and lift him onto my lap. The big one is already mid-sentence; having started at the bottom step, in her account of everything that has transpired in the last 75 minutes. The middle one races through them, clicking the kettle on for hot chocolate with a quick reach, and makes a narrow escape downstairs to see his dad. My eyes meet with my mum, and as our eyes widen, we understand each other. We are accustomed to the competition for centre stage each school break initiates, and she slips away at the chance to use the bathroom without a 3-year-old interrupting.
Does she see in my eyes that I’m withholding something from her? Does my loaded smile give my internal struggle away or does she see it and chalk it up to the other stressors she knows I’m managing?
I figuratively shove it all aside, knowing I only have a few minutes to soak up all they have to say, and to feed their tactile need to hug and touch and interact physically with me, and with each other. God are we lucky to have so many of us home together and yet the space to allow us to disperse. I check my privilege. I listen. I nod. I engage.
Recess is over and as quickly as they all descended on the kitchen, they are gone. The middle guy sips at his hot chocolate, us both enjoying the few minutes of silence before his next class begins. I sneak in a hug of his shoulders from behind his stool at the counter, kissing his cheek as his eyes meet mine and he smiles – and shrugs me off.
I sit back at the dining table, attempting a better posture to ease my backache and sore neck – maybe I should use a more ergonomic chair if this is where I am every day? What would that look like? I think it’s the dining table height as well though, and the angle that I’m constantly straining to assist H with work. Off-topic again! I open my laptop and begin to type.
Ding! Message from my sister, weighing in on whether we should tell mum the news. It’s her birthday.
Would you want bad news on your birthday or after? Is it our decision to make? Is it even “bad” news? Our brother has been hospitalized. He called the ambulance himself this time. His psychotic episode, scaring him enough to realize its potential implications on his family and his responsibilities to them. I’m assuming. I’m hoping? I’m so proud of him. Relief washes over me to know that he is safe.
I can imagine your face reading this, horrified.
“How can she be relieved he’s in a psych ward?!”
What I feel compelled to explain is that the relief is knowing we can let out that breath that we’ve been holding, while consciously trying not to.
The worry that the phone call in the middle of the night is another asking us to pick him up from the floor of some bar, our number found on his phone.
The ding of a text asking for help as he’s banging on the door, demanding to be let in but he’s out of his mind and that’s not a safe option.
Another call to 911 like I had to make because he’s half-dressed and inches from my face, threatening to hurt me if I don’t produce the imaginary contents of the bin he’s rifling through in our office, with our employees staring, paralyzed with an inability to help me.
Another call from within a police station somewhere, with news that in a delusional state he’s been accused of hurting someone.
Or THE CALL.
The call that delivers the news that he’s dead. That one sits in the pit of my stomach, underneath all of them, and bubbles up more often than I can manage.
To hear he is safe is amazing. To know that he is surrounded by professionals that are there to help, is a load off my mind. To know that there is hope for a smoother recovery this time is reassuring. So, I tell mum, and she too feels the same relief. Later we receive the update that he is responding well and hopes to be reunited with his family by next week. As unlikely as that is, I hang on to this, in order to park this worry and move down my list.
I’m drawn back to rumbling before me and notice that without direction H has stopped paying attention to the lesson at hand. He’s visibly irritated; cheeks are flushed, eyes slightly bloodshot and glazed over, his posture slumped, head in hand. What happened? What did I miss in the minutes my thoughts were corralled elsewhere? My hearing tunes into the voice projecting from his computer’s speakers: Ah, Music class. It’s not Music period right now? That’s supposed to be after lunch. Great, an unplanned – and surprise – change in schedule. Of course, he’s taken off-guard.
What is the music teacher saying? Last week’s lesson had them learning the C major scale, pointing out the difference between white keys and black, sampling the sounds and having fun with playful compositions. Here he is this week, using the most confounding analogy I’ve ever heard. What happened to the classic mnemonic device Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge?
At Grandma’s House, like any house, there’s a front door, F, and a back door, B. In the house Grandma, G, is baking an apple pie, A. So, we have a front door, grandma, apple pie, and a back door – FGAB – and of course a “Dog House”where her dog has two friends, a cat and an ELEPHANT?!
What the actual Fuck?! How is anyone supposed to remember that and learn anything, let alone a set of ten-year-old’s? Least of all my ten-year-old? Sigh. I let him go to recess early and hope for a reset next period.
Except next period is French and they’re working on learning to tell time – using an analog clock, something this kid can’t process well even in English. Looking at him, his frustration is visceral, and he starts to spiral. Luckily the class ends just in time for him to regulate his emotions and open the links to the videos on structures. My son ends the second video well before it concludes its story.
“I’m NOT doing the exercises,” he dares me to contradict. It’s almost lunchtime and I don’t have it in me to argue. Unfortunately he does. Seemingly frustrated that I didn’t take his bait, he uses most of the break to pick fights with his siblings and whine about not wanting to go back. My gaze drifts out the window; the rareness of sunshine alight on fresh fluffy snow seems dreamlike, and wills me outside to prove its existence.
“Let’s all go out!” I announce. The look of surprise on my middle guy’s face, confirms my choice. He logs in for afternoon attendance and then makes his departure. Being exempt from half the school day of synchronous learning, I don’t really need to explain, but his teacher and I have a team approach with continuous communication. She has really prioritized emotional and physical well-being for all her students, so, when I send her a quick email to explain why he’ll be absent, and what had transpired that morning, she concurs that the music teaching approach isn’t hitting the mark with many of them. She understands with H’s particular learning needs why he’s struggling to retain focus. She encourages the outdoor play and wishes us well. I love when we’re all on the same page!
The snow is such a welcome change to the dreary grey days we’ve had. Outside, I turn the propane fire table on, cozy up with a hot coffee and offer a blanket to mum, who does the same. The boys are having the time of their lives playing the fluffy white snow that has blanketed the backyard. The sun is shining enough for me to need my sunglasses. The temperature, mild enough for us to enjoy being still without freezing. Even the teen joins us for an extended recess and builds up blocks of snow to be bulldozed by the others in delight. For a good long stretch all our worries seem to fade away and we enjoy each other’s company. Oh the advantages of being home together during covid – there are many you know. They’re so often drowned out by all the huge sacrifices, losses and challenges we face. But every so often a chance comes along, and I’m learning how to catch it, reign it in, and hang onto it for a little bit longer each time. If you have any tips, let me know.