It’s late afternoon and the sun is streaming through the front windows. It feels a bit like a Friday, despite it only being mid-week. I stand on the kitchen side of our island/peninsula, watching the boys in successful parallel play. Pleasant surprise and relief settle over me, turning my expression into a smile. It’s “Fake March Break” for the kids in virtual school; their true spring break, postponed until mid-April this year, due to the pandemic.
Yesterday and today have been Wellness Among Us virtual workshops of gaming, socializing, learning new tech for music and to help with assignments – a HUGE undertaking of an amazing group of Grade Five teachers. My ten-year-old was incredibly excited to begin and had a fantastic session yesterday during period one. He met four new friends and they played board games online. It made my heart sing to hear his mic on with these strangers, taking turns making virtual rolls of the dice and chatting as their characters moved spaces on the board. I was able to do my whole workout in the next room, without interruption, or having him run off course! Wins all around.
It all shifted after the first recess. H headed back into their breakout room to resume the game of SORRY, only to have a couple more kids join – no problem! Just double up, and continue on. Then a few more. Getting difficult, but doable.
“You can be on my team,” H interjects over the excited chatter, now rising in volume.
“Guys? Guys! Can you hear me? We can just double up,” he tries, again unheard.
He attempts the chat. No luck.
After his waves go unnoticed, he turns off his camera, and his shoulders slump. Even more kids join; apparently all of them go to the same school and are reuniting. Great for them! Not so much for the four kids, sitting in silence, unable to make a move, waiting in an apologetic purgatory. They aren’t supposed to switch rooms, so they don’t want to leave, but frustrations mount.
A teacher joins!
H sits up a little straighter and tries to get her attention. Nope, she joins in on the group hype and doesn’t hear him either.
H pushes his wheeled ball chair away from the desk, with a shove of his keyboard.
“What’s the point?” he concedes.
“I offer again to type something or say something – I don’t often interact physically in any classes, as I wouldn’t be able to if he were in-person. I usually opt for a quick email to the teacher, to read when she has time. Here, I don’t have a choice, and H agrees.
Hello, H’s mom here. Five of them were in the midst of playing Sorry before recess but at least 12 students have joined since and don’t seem interested in participating – H is also wondering how that would even work logistically as it’s a 4-player game? I type in the chat.
“H’s mom, hi! H, why don’t you just be patient and try doubling up to play. Give it a chance, okay?” she responds verbally to the whole room, without really looking at her camera to make eye contact, or reading the situation. She does manage to draw all attention to H though – not with their readiness to hear him out, but with their momentary curiosity, before they all continue right where they left off.
H exits the zoom meet.
After lunch, it’s a new room and I have convinced H to give it a shot. He’s eager because it’s coding. H loves coding. It soon wanes when H realizes it’s a task that he already knows how to do easily. Without direction to take it further, or ways to keep him engaged, he gives up on that as well. What were they supposed to have done? Have multiple levels of experience? I get it, but I also fully comprehend why H’s busy mind had wandered.
Still, I managed to get him logged in and eager to begin the day’s sessions again this morning. Enthusiasm gains traction when he recognizes that the teacher running this session is a favourite from his home school, that had moved on to other opportunities a couple of years prior. I message a quick private hello too – so rare to get the chance to “bump into” a friendly face during a pandemic! Certainly one unmasked, these days!
She teaches them to make a Calming Room – a virtual space with images to click on that connect to links, or help with feeling relaxed. Like a vision board but interactive! Right up H’s alley, and in-step with the format of assignments he currently does, so applicable in a variety of ways. This is great! He sets up his Google Slide, selects a background image and —
He shoves his keyboard into his monitor base and buries his head in his arms.
“What’s the matter?”I ask, alarmed.
“It’s boring.” The routine answer that usually means he’s overstimulated and can’t concentrate or has lost his step in the instructions and doesn’t know how to get back on track.
“Did something happen? What were you trying to do next?” I reach forward, trying to assist with the derailment that has happened. I was sitting right there. What happened?
“I don’t know how to do the next part. I missed it,” he mumbles from below his brow, his lips curled into a frown that his entire body also seems to be attempting.
“Why don’t you ask?” I suggest.
“I tried, she can’t hear me and she’s not noticing the chat.” He says with defeat, with both his words and arms.
“Give it a second,” I press, but the moment has passed.
Next up, H’s own teacher is running their Mindfulness workshop, and any hope I had, drains. This would have been a challenge at the outset of the day, but now, he is full steam into negative-town and has zero chance of focusing enough to meditate!
As expected, more “I’m bored” comments ensue.
I stand up from my crouched position and peak out the window.
Clap!
I make the executive decision to open the giant brown box that is sitting on the porch, delivered just hours earlier. It’s the Lego sets H ordered with the money he saved. His face immediately brightens as he clicks off the meet and rushes to the door to retrieve the box. I open it for him and pass him the colourful boxes within. He slices open the first in excitement, and sets to work.
Later, I find him building at this very island in complete silence. Oh, what I would give for quiet! I ask if he’d like some music on or something, but he shakes his head, no. The silence and step-taking of each Lego piece, is his comfort zone. As calming and happy a place as he ever gets, while awake. If I could hire someone to sort our broken Lego sets to re-build, I would be all over that!
I take the time to make myself a tea and relish the few minutes of found silence, just watching the serene intensity of his concentration. I even snap a photo to remember this moment.
In gallops a rambunctious three-year-old. He climbs up on the upholstered barstool, beside his brother. I tense up, anticipating the discord between them. Instead, A looks on at H’s progress and gently touches a character, asking to see more. Instead of snatching it back and snapping at his little brother, H uses a soft voice to explain the Lego scene before them and offers up another character to inspect. It’s like I’ve drifted into a daydream; the soft afternoon sun, washing a glow over them. Their patient voices, a daytime lullaby. Mum pulls up the third barstool and drops onto it with a tired thud, breaking my reverie. Our verbal exchange is brief. Not wanting to stir the elusive silence and pierce the peaceful mood, our eyes acknowledge the agreement.
“Whatcha doin’ Heida?” A asks, as H types something into the form on his iPad and A tries to understand the words on the screen, not yet knowing how to read.
“I’m loading a game to activate the Lego to play together.” H answers thoroughly; an upgrade from his one word retorts that usually leave us wondering.
A nods, as if in total comprehension, “but why’s it not movin’?”
“It’s updating,” H responds without looking up.
“What’s it doin’ now?” A asks as if oodles of time had elapsed in those seconds.
“It’s updating,” H answered assertively, but with kindness.
“What?”
“It’s updating,” H answers with a little tension now.
“Maybe your iPad doesn’t have enough memory?” I suggest, sensing the negative direction of this line of questioning.
“Yeah, I’m going to erase a few apps,” H agrees with a swipe and a few taps. The screen looks unchanged.
“Did that work? What’s it doing now?” I ask.
“It’s UP–dating,” he answers with his eyebrows raised. “A little faster now though. Look, the bar is moving.”
I nod and check my own phone screen.
“H, what are you doing on there?” Mum motions towards the iPad, A between them, as if just arriving in the room.
“IT’S UPDATING!” H snaps, his voice terse.
“I don’t appreciate you speaking to me in such a mean tone!” Mum scolds him.
The verbal reprimand hits H with a physicality. He recoils from the perceived impact, from seated to standing. His chair tips backward, out from under him, wobbles, then settles. His arms flail into the air, the right, holding the iPad. His cheeks flush and his eyes gloss over. Full fight mode, he looks cornered, with nowhere to flee.
“Whoa, what did I say?!” Mum balks, her brows furrowed.
From the other side of the counter, across from them both, I’m primed to mediate.
Choosing my words carefully, I counsel my mother, “I think the tone you’re hearing is frustration, rather than H being mean.” I look to H for confirmation that my words bring him validation. “When you use words like what he is saying is ‘mean’ he hears that HE is mean too, and feels rejected,” I interpret.
“WELL. I’m just trying to show an interest in my grandchildren’s life! Should I not?!” She rebukes. “I’ll just keep quiet, SHALL I?!” her entire face now flustered, her mouth annunciates each syllable with anger, and hurt. How can someone not understand this extreme rejection sensitivity when they so clearly experience it as well?
“It’s not a criticism. I’m trying to explain H’s reaction. He had just answered the same question from A several times, then from me, and is getting impatient with the iPad. Please try to read the situation first.”
Her arms cross. Her lips purse. Her forehead glistens. Even her hair looks tousled. I can see she has mentally left the room, even if her body stays seated.
“Why didn’t you take the opportunity for some peace and quiet, and take some time to yourself?” I wonder aloud.
“I do need to make some calls, but what time is M coming? Don’t you need me to stay?” she asks. We both look to the sage green analog clock on the wall.
“Well now, yes. She’s supposed to be here in fifteen minutes,” I say. “So yes, that would be helpful. It’s always a madhouse at transition times when she arrives and leaves, and you always seem to disappear just at that moment.”
The sun, now low enough to be streaming directly in the west-facing front windows, is blinding us. I walk over and pull down the shades in the front hall and dining room, to give us some reprieve. A is looking a little antsy, but is still attentive to the new distraction in front of him.
H’s game finishes updating (finally), and he starts it up, using the physical lego in front of him to interact with the landscape on-screen. I let out the breath that I didn’t know that I had been holding. Crisis averted with H.
“Hi! It’s Mario,” says the miniature red-capped plumber in H’s hand, just as the familiar Nintendo jingle of my youth chimes in.
“Look Grumma! SEE, this is how it works!” H says with excitement, already over what had just transpired. “Grumma! GRUM-MA!”
“H, Grandma is in a whole other world, why don’t you show ME?” I offer.
As if on cue, she snaps back into focus and resumes from her previous rattled state.
“I’m listening! I haven’t checked out anywhere!” she hurls at me in retaliation to my perceived threat. “I’m just so TIRED and burnt out. I can’t handle never knowing what to say, when, and being criticized ALL the time! I never seem to get it right, and I’m just SPENT!” she yells at me as if reaching the climax of some big argument that had been happening all the while, in her head.
Something in me snaps.
The calmness I’ve felt watching these boys interact so positively, is instantly obliterated.
“YOU’RE burnt out?!” YOU?” I spit out in utter disbelief. “THIS is something YOU’RE managing all day, and evening, 7 days a week, and then not sleeping at night, is it? This is something that’s on your plate, and that YOU’RE needing to be responsible for, is it?!” My heart rate quickens in sync with my volume increase. “How do you think I feel? I have no ‘off’! What is it that you’re doing to help yourself then?” I ask. “I’m with the boys, why aren’t you having a cup of tea, and taking a break if you need it so desperately then? I can manage if you’re feeling that badly! But NO, you’re not doing anything but exploding every couple of days with the same old story!” I’m fully engaged in this explosion of feelings now, and my body is trembling from head to toe.
I am the one speaking to a psychologist regularly, the one that has my kids connected to psychologists, that has a psychologist for my marriage, to manage all of this! I am the one doing research and making calls and sending emails every chance I get. I am the one offering emotional support to everyone around me and could just use my MOTHER! You have never been able to be the support a mother should be. I’ve had to be that person my entire life, for everyone else! Still, fine, you’re burnt out. What are you doing about it? I am the one making sure I’m staying connected to friends and getting enough fresh air and exercise and is taking MEDICATION! YOU’RE burnt out? BULL SHIT!
I’m yelling now, and yet not in a rage that I recognize from before I started meds last fall, but a loud, level tone. The outpouring of all I’d been holding, cathartic. I distance myself physically from her and away from the boys, my breath quickening far too fast. “I need you to leave the room, go make your phone calls, whatever, but either you need to leave or I do, and if it’s me, then you have both the boys to handle,” I call over, finding myself clear across the level. Leaning onto the cabinet, with both hands, my back is turned towards the kitchen. I lower my head and concentrate on regulating my breathing.
“Please! Just go!” I plead, quieter now.
I hear mum walk past behind me and up the stairs. She retrieves her purse, I deduce by the familiar jingle its straps make. She walks back past me again and I hear her in the front hall. My anxiety quells and my breath slows, but my heart is still racing. The front door closes and I hear the lock turn. The boys are busy with the Lego still, and Paw Patrol plays for them on the small, wall-mounted kitchen TV. When did I turn that on? I’m certain I must have, because I would have needed to enter the access code that we have for all of our screened devices. I look to my right and notice the outdoor couch is covered up, and M and H may want to sit by the fire table for their session. I take the boys’ preoccupation as an opportunity to go and set up, hoping the crisp air helps cool me down as well.
Outside, I unlock the gate in preparation, and begin pulling off the couch cover with far more vigour than required.
M arrives at the gate, with a cheery hello.
“How’s today going?” she asks, her eyes smiling; her mouth already covered with her mask.
I pull my own over my face and answer, “not great. I just blew up at my mother. Not my finest hour.” I fill her in on the explosion from moments before.
She sighs with empathy.
“H had a good day though! He found it difficult to join in the social activities due to insecurity and inability to keep up. A win, given that he had probably had one of the worst weekends ever!”
“Oh no. What happened?” She steps a little closer, but off to the side so I can step up back onto the deck stairs to make sure the boys are still at the counter and getting along. Yes.
“He was so dysregulated despite so much outdoor time and socializing – I think the fact that his friend is moving away is sinking in, and we had an outdoor birthday for his great-grandmother too and I think it was all a little too much though after a week that I really pushed him academically because the new meds seemed to allow for the attention. It was a lot. I can see that now, just saying it out loud.”
She nods in understanding. “Weekends can be so loaded.”
“We started morning administration on the weekend and increased dosage today, so I’m hopeful, but we’re trying to tread lightly and my mum just seems to press all the wrong buttons.”
I sit down, suddenly lighter for having shared with someone who understood.
“Well, I hesitate to share this with you now, but I have some news,” she says, cocking her head to the side and fidgeting with her hands. She seems to hold her breath until I nod for her to continue.
“We’re moving to Niagara Falls.” The ball drops.
M is the last support service we have in place. Everyone else has moved on, figuratively or literally, or is out of reach with covid restrictions in place. We had just resumed in-person, backyard visits after a long and challenging virtual-only winter, through Toronto’s lockdown. Now in the Grey Zone, we were all so hopeful for spring and vaccines – and some RELIEF.
I stand to check on the boys again – the patio door, so marred with hand prints and slobber from both the preschooler and dog, that I have to change my angle to see. The blood seems to drain out of me, and I need to sit back down. M is rambling with all the reasons she has to finish working with H soon, despite not moving until the end of June, and why their move is even happening. I’m listening, and it all makes perfect sense – and really, I AM happy for her and her family. Hell, if I could up and move and take a fresh start, somewhere more affordable, to have a bit more cash flow to help with all these support services we now require, some more outdoor space without neighbours to avoid. . . My mind starts to wander and I’m reminded sharply, of our amazing teen, and how excited she is for the high school dance programme into which she was just accepted. How gifted she is, and what amazing opportunities there are for her in this, the biggest city, in the country. And of course, how averse she is to any change. In a year of everything unprecedented, we’re all ready for precedent times, not major life changes. How did I get such rigid kids? I had so much change and excitement in my youth. We have provided so much stability and love, and yet have stopped short of nothing to infuse adventure and enrichment in theirs? Should they not be independent of mind as well as they are of opinion?! M’s looking at me for confirmation that I’ve accepted her dramatic change to our lives and I realize she has stopped speaking.
“We’ll cope. We always do. Warm weather is coming, school will be over, and I can take them out to do more things to keep him engaged. Keep them all engaged. Really, we’ll manage.”
The patio door opens and both boys are exiting, under the impression that both are coming out to play.
“A can come out as well. Really, it will be good for them, given we’ve eaten into our time. Honestly, go inside, have a cup of tea and take some time for yourself.”
Her words are music to my ears. We’ve connected so much over these eight months. She really understands H, our dynamic, and me really. We will miss her.
Back to that one hour on Saturday to have a “break,” and be down one child. Another fantastic resource Toronto has lost to this damn pandemic as the mass exodus of families moves out of the urban centre, to less expensive and more expansive places – many making a connection to nature, become part of their everyday life, instead of only their vacations.
When we’re all stretched so thin, something always has to give.