Remnants of our Super Bowl supper scatter the dishes spread across the cloth cloaked ottoman; our stomachs, still full of nacho bake and chicken wings. Everyone begins to ease into comfier positions, staking territory on the large leather sectional. We don’t even watch football, but will use any excuse to to gather with others virtually, in celebration of something, anything. The only member not sinking deeper into the cushions, is the three-year-old, who is showing signs of entering that crazed period between exhaustion and boredom.
“Bath time!” hubby announces, convincing the room as much as himself as he circles the couch for the staircase. “H, you’re coming up to shower too. You’ve gone way past your allowed screen time and you didn’t shower last night, so need to tonight,”
“No!” the ten-year-old sneers over his shoulder, scrunching his eyes shut to avoid his gaze meeting anyone.
“Yes, you know the routine. Let’s go,” M’s shoulders sinking with the expectation of the ensuing struggle.
“NO!! You PISS-HEAD! Shut-y’ur-damn-mouth!” H screams, his newest expletives on full parade. He nudges his sidekick little brother A, standing on the cushion between them as a bargaining chip.
A whispers with a hesitant smile, “yeah, shut your damn mouth!”
“A, kick him in the balls!” H goads, miming the intended jab.
Eyes downcast, A manages, “no,” and allows M to pick him up over the back of the couch and begin their ascent around the corner.
From the far end of the sectional, our teen between us, I firmly, but evenly declare, “That is an unacceptable way to speak to anyone. You know your screen time finished ages ago, so if that’s how you’re going to abuse your screen time, you won’t get any. You’ve lost iPad time for the week now.”
No sooner does the last syllable leave my mouth when a large down-filled pillow comes flying across the room at me. My hands full, I lean back quickly to duck out of the way. It brushes past me without making full impact and smashes into the side table, sending my glass and dish crashing to the floor.
“Yeah right. Try it,” he adds with snark. Snicker, snicker.
I sit, paralyzed with shock; my eyes welling up with tears, heart racing, chest heaving in disbelief.
Mum across from me, holds onto her own plate and seems frozen in time. C steps over me to pick up the damage, glowering at her brother, her own eyes wide with panic. H’s gaze already back on the television screen, thumb in his mouth, self-soothing on auto-pilot.
I stagger into the kitchen, fighting to hold back my tears.
“Grandma! Did you see that play?!” his voice calls from the family room, breaking my trance. “YESS!!! DAD-DY!” he shouts upstairs. “The Buccaneers did it again! Did you see that?!” he calls out with excitement.
I steer myself and prepare the dog’s dinner plate. Once the raw turkey paste is spread and topped with nuggets of tiny dry chicken kibble, I set it down on the tile floor and go to retrieve P. Nestled into a divot in her pillow within her safe haven crate, where she had been taking refuge from the 3yo, she reluctantly emerges. I stand at the counter, watching her eat, the textured silicone mat, slowing her habit of inhaling the food and I feel dizzy. I’m still trying to understand the volatility of it all and in walks H.
He wraps his arms around me naturally, “Mummy I’m really sorry I yelled and threw that pillow at you, crashing those things.” He squeezes me tighter as I stand there frozen, wanting to yell at him.
Fuck off. Like hell you are. Let go of me. I can’t take this abuse anymore!
You know, logical feelings you’d have with absolutely anyone else. So of course I nod, and squeeze him back. He’s my boy. He didn’t mean it. He can’t help it. He never apologizes this quickly – maybe he is learning empathy?
“So can we still play board games and have dessert now?” he asks with a little bounce of excitement at my acceptance of his apology; his arms still around me, although their grip is now loosened.
My body repels itself a step back. I look straight at him. “Are you really sorry?” I ask, my eyes and heart also wondering. “Or was this another empty lie; only coming over to me because you want something from me?” I question him. I turn to continue into the front hall.
Just as my body faces away, I’m pushed forward by the impact of his foot making contact with my ass; his karate kick not hurting me physically, but wounding me nonetheless. He pivots and heads back to resume his spot on the couch, chatting happily to the stunned onlookers; the tv voices the only responses. I crumble onto the bench, staring into the dark foyer, and give way to the sobs of tears.
Is my child a sociopath?
He is breaking my heart.
I put down the leash. I gather my feelings, and I head towards the stairs, asking C to bring the dog out in my place. Upstairs I lay down with A, switching with M, as I recap the scene downstairs. I cuddle with my littlest guy and play a sleep meditation video to settle him into slumber. From downstairs I hear M calmly repeat, muffled to me, that H is to come up even if he refuses to shower. We both know now is not the time to dissect what has happened. H follows with reluctance; his objection shared instead with shoves, punches, and kicks to his dad, all the way up.
M, still without reaction, pauses at the doorway as H marches into his bedroom. “You know, we’re here trying to support you, and help you,” his voice cracking with sadness, “but if you end up alone, it won’t be because we’ve walked away, it will be because they’ve taken you away or us away. This kind of abuse can’t continue and it’s getting more and more aggressive. One day, you’re going to end up hurting someone and authorities are going to step in and say it’s not okay for us to stay together as a family. Is this really something you want?”
“Shut up! Shut up, you asshole! Shut your goddamn mouth!” H screams his rebuke, climbing his ladder and with a heavy thud, throwing himself onto his top bunk.
Across the hall, I lay beside a sleeping A, a pit deepening in my stomach. The ache not just because M’s words felt so raw, so harsh, for our son, but because they spoke aloud my own fears. I stare up at the changing colours of stars projected overhead and wonder what is to become of us. Minutes pass and I find myself holding my breath.
Ding. A text from H, via his watch, “I’m sorry for kicking you Mummy, I love you.”
“I love you too H.”
The door eases open to allow C to squeeze through and meet me bedside. My arms wrap around her and seem to unleash her own tears. I comfort her and send her off for a shower to soothe her worries. I lay back down and wonder how much A absorbed? Knowing he fell asleep listening, vanquishes the last of my strength and I message S, unloading a play-by-play of what felt like hours, yet had been merely minutes.
I don’t even know what to say. My heart aches for you. So fucking hard. She types back.
Thanks for listening. There are very few people who can even begin to understand this feeling. I send.
I feel you and hear you, I wish I could just give you a hug. You are not alone, friend.
You neither, and yes, can’t come soon enough. I hate this.
I click my phone screen off and force myself up, and off the bed. I peak into H’s darkened room. He’s asleep. He looks so peaceful. I wonder what tomorrow brings and resolve to be more composed.
I turn and head down the hallway, past the heaps of clothes to fold, the overflowing hampers of laundry to wash, the piles of miscellany that litter the landing and most of the dust-covered steps leading back down to the main floor. I have zero energy to tackle any of it, like yesterday and the day before.
Tomorrow will be different, I recite; not sure if I’m stating it, hoping for it, or begging it to be true.
The Covid-19 pandemic didn’t create these relational challenges, nor cause the rising anxiety that we, in this house, all seem to face in various forms.
Covid-19 didn’t infect our bodies or steal our financial stability like it has so many others.
Covid-19 doesn’t have us living alone, the forced solitude, slowly conquering our resolve.
Covid-19 doesn’t have my family risking our lives on the frontlines, or forcing us into grave exposure risks we cannot control.
Covid-19 doesn’t have us slaving away at a job on which countless are wagering their existence.
Covid-19 doesn’t have us battling a terminal disease without the support of family and friends.
No, Covid-19 hasn’t ravaged us in a literal sense, however, mental health resources are scarce, they’re virtual, and they add to the burden of parenting children with high needs, instead offering any reprieve.
We are stretched so thin, each day an indeterminate volatility – a wheel of fortune. I watch it all spin around me, and I hope tomorrow lands us somewhere joyful.