One rainy morning this week during online home learning, my child’s first-grade teacher generously allowed for a few moments of spontaneous sharing. My 6-year-old child gleefully ran from room to room with his iPad to find the item he wished to showcase: his new puppy, Charlie.
I was nearby and heard the commotion, but I was on my hands and knees, mopping up the surprisingly copious puddles from the puppy’s slobbery morning drink. When the kid appeared with the iPad camera ready to find the dog, instead he caught me, looking like a frazzled “mature” (ahem) Cinderella.
I heard his gentle teachers twitter a bit, and the kids giggle outright, but before anyone could really assess how odd the moment was, the kid whisked the iPad away, continuing the search for the dog. I sat there blankly for a moment or two, allowing my sad un-caffeinated mind to reabsorb this bizarre life that I seem to be leading, day after day after day.
Only a few hours later on the same rainy Wednesday, I had mercifully found a moment or two to gather some thoughts and finally work on my writing project about the never-ceasing demands on the time, energy, and hearts of caregivers, and how capitalism governs so much of our internal dialogue.
In a moment that was rife with irony, the same first grader and the same relatively new puppy were engaged in a bit of goofy play when there was a loud crash followed by screaming. I wouldn’t have to be a veteran mom to know that there would probably be blood at the very least. Those are really the givens of parenthood, right? Definitely blood, certainly vomit, but of course, always love through it all.
The 6-year-old had a vertical gash in the center of his forehead, and as I examined him I saw that it sagged open to release a trickle of blood straight down his nose. Luckily, his glasses weren’t broken. The puppy flopped past us, wagging his tail, hoping the game was still on, despite the prolonged moaning and crying from his playmate.
But then began the parental debate about if we should make the trip to urgent care. We waffled: How bad was the cut? Would it really need stitches? Was it really worth the risk to go into a medical office with a child? I called grandma, and we thought it over as we rifled through the first-aid kits, searching for butterfly bandages.
COVID-19 cases on the rise in Massachusetts — and the fact that this cut wasn’t life-threatening, thank God — meant that we decided that any unnecessary exposure felt, well, unnecessary.
I sat and held my little boy, thinking of the single and/or low-income parents in predicaments where their children’s health and safety is at risk. I had a moment to imagine how many caregivers don’t have a car or safe transport to even get to urgent care, let alone the funds to pay for the visit and medication. I suddenly thought of the many parents who have to leave their kids unattended for hours at a time so that they can keep their jobs in order to get food on the table. My thoughts then wandered to the older siblings who are tasked with caring for their younger siblings, and the vast isolation that so many kids are grappling with. My heart aches for the kids who are hurt, lonely, scared. I empathize with the parents feeling much the same.
There’s a rage that continuously wells up in my heart over the state of our country and how it hurts parents and children. This rage cycles ferociously, but must ultimately take a backseat since I’m in my own daily maternal quagmire.
My 6-year-old is fine, and I’m of course very grateful, but that’s a small comfort given the sadness and pain that is all around us. We may try to keep our heads down and only focus on our own little families, but our silos can only hold so long before awareness, empathy and compassion must break them down. We are indeed all connected, and when some of us are suffering, it hurts us all, try as we might to ignore it.
So I did what any decent American would do with complex and unsolvable emotions: I ate a whole bunch of Cheez-Its, so that I could feel really nauseous and slightly dehydrated from all the sodium as I wiped up dog-bowl dribble (yes, again) and then made dinner for my kids.
I realized that many of us are forlorn Cinderellas, toiling away in these bleak thankless days.
Joe Biden will have to do as our mediocre Prince Charming, as a stepping stone to help us escape the clutches of our twisted, evil stepfather Trump. Biden isn’t the answer, but he will do for now.
Please — don’t forget to vote.
Chelsea Kline is a social justice advocate in western Massachusetts and a mother of three. She writes a monthly column for the Gazette.