James' World 2

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Last month I peeked my head into my son’s bed cave at 9:15 AM and whispered to him that I was off to a meeting, then to a friend’s house. When I squeezed his foot as I zipped him back in, his pre-teen body making the twin bed look tiny, I felt happy. I immediately thought of the word freedom.

And then I thought, as I often do, of a photo from 2021. In the picture, it’s also winter, and I’m hiding under that same son’s bed. We are in our tenth month of no childcare, no school, no daycare. My ear is pressed to my shoulder and my knee is in my armpit. I look like I’m playing 2-dimensional Twister, and losing. I remember the moment my daughter took the picture with her iPad, delighted because she’d found me in our game of hide and seek. In the photo, I look contorted and trapped. I am, of course, smiling.

During those lockdown months, my children were 2, 3, 4, 5. And I don’t know if you have been around any 3-year-olds lately, but there was a physical and emotional intensity to parenting during this time that is beyond any description; if you have ever been furious with a child, imagine being locked in a room with them and unable to leave for a year. Imagine how much you would want to be alone.

And so there is a part of me, emotionally but physically too, that is constantly bracing, as if I’m still alone in the house with my kids. And I can’t stop thinking about that photo because in some ways I’m still in it. I think, I know, it’s the reason that, in the years since, what I always wanted — what I still want, need, more than anything — is space. Time alone so I can breathe; unclench.

My husband, thankfully, works long days out of our house. He takes the kids out to breakfast on weekend mornings so I can have a few hours to myself; they have regular dad and kids dinners at restaurants while I exist alone in our house. A friend described herself as Gollum, the way she guards her time alone, and I felt seen. I guard my girls’ trips, my book club times, my silent baths. I curl around my precious snatches of time like Gollum with his ring, too, hissing at social obligations or even another hour of snuggles (please say I’m not the only one?).

But something has changed, and I’m only just starting to notice it. I don’t feel trapped in the same way. I don’t know if it’s that (for better or worse) social supports are back and running post-pandemic, or if it’s just my kids getting older. I do know any sliver of community care —playdates, shared pickups — still feels extraordinary.

And I know the feeling of freedom can go away at any time — a medical diagnosis, job loss, even relationships. There are many ways mothers can be trapped, and just because I feel some freedom now doesn’t mean I always will.

But still: yesterday I came out of hiding in my bedroom, where I’d holed up to get some writing in, only to find the house was quiet. I had come out into the living room, dreading the immediate dive into the what was for dinner debate, but my kids were off running around the neighborhood. My house was empty, but I was still hiding.

Who, exactly, am I hiding away from?

This possibility, this perspective, that motherhood doesn’t have to mean feeling trapped feels something like a secret. I wonder if I might be alone in this feeling, or if I’m just a selfish mother (another thing to discuss in therapy this week), or if many lockdown parents feel this way.

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romper

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