Chronically Parenting

After a week where my anxiety has made even the simplest of tasks into a mountain, and my pain and exhaustion have been hard to control, I have dreamt up a multitude of negative self-flagellating posts. I wouldn’t say that I am particularly hard on myself, but more that I have a fervent desire to maintain certain standards, and this sensibility goes directly against the very heart of pacing, and, though I am yet to embrace it, against self-compassion. I am - therefore - constantly disappointed by my limitations, particularly with regards to parenting our two boys. 

I could focus on the fact that I cannot get up in the mornings in time to be of any use. My darling husband does not complain at me - he know that it isn’t my choice, and it isn’t laziness - but I wish that it were a bit easier to get going so that I can support him. I could also focus on the evening routine, with meal preparation and bathtime a significant struggle, not to mention my utter inability to contribute to the washing and tidying up that comes once the little ones are finally asleep. The guilt gnaws at me, telling me how useless I am, how I let everyone down. 

I could focus on my failure to support their extra-curricular activities. I would never pretend to be the sporty one of the family (I can almost hear them laughing from many miles away), but I was always there, whenever I could be, before I got ill. Now, it is up to everyone else. Daddy is the one on the sidelines on a freezing morning while they play rugby or tennis. He joins them outside when all the five-year old wants to do is play football. Their grandparents take them on lovely bike rides when they go for sleepovers, and teach them to play hockey and wheelchair basketball. And I… watch. Or just listen. 

I could focus on being in an ideal position to help with music practice and homework but, at times, needing to bow out. I will bellow “F sharp!” from the sofa, where I have been tucked up with blankets and heat pads, and wish that they could bring the piano to me. Physical anxiety will envelope me during a tricky passage that the small boy is not getting right, and it will take every ounce of self-restraint not to shout and scream my fearful frustrations aloud. They do not understand why I leave without a word, or why their poor father gets the sharp end of my tongue. I will reach out to correct a bow hold or calm a tense shoulder, and be reprimanded with a bolt of pain. I will sit at the table and teach spelling, or comprehension, or fractions, or music theory, and have to leave before the job is done simply because I cannot sit there a moment longer.

But instead (going against every instinct), I choose, today, to focus on the little rays of light that shine on our sedentary life - the little gifts to our mother/son relationships. 

I smile at the recollection of the fiercely loving, but carefully tender, hugs bestowed on me by Younger Son every night. He climbs into my bed, snuggles under the duvet, and knows exactly where he is allowed to cuddle me. Today he wishes out loud that I “didn’t have hurt hips”, but there is no agenda, and while I feel guilty, I know that was not his intention. When, after he is in bed, I poke my head around his door and he stretches out his arms for an extra hug, he doesn’t mind when I respond that I cannot get down to him. No, he throws off his covers, leaps out of bed, and comes to me.

I think of Elder Son, who jokes that I am walking too fast for him on the way to school. Who refuses to let me have his cello on my back, even though he is loaded like a packhorse with all of his kit. Who fetches my sticks from the car when they have fallen into the footwell, despite not being asked, and will always have my flowery rucksack on his back when we visit the supermarket. Who doesn’t think twice about a mother who tests him on his spellings while lying on the sofa, or the floor, and doesn’t judge my need for pain-distracting television, but suggests Blue Planet as he knows I will let him join me.

And finally, I think of both boys as we sat together yesterday afternoon… sewing. Both boys had asked to join me in my new hobby, so I bought them a basic threading kit and expected that they would get bored after a few minutes. They did not. They joyfully compared their different projects and helped each other when their threads got in a tangle. They showed great interest in the different stitches that I was doing, and Elder Son gave backstitch a stab. They couldn’t stop saying how much fun they were having, and groaned when called for bathtime. And they were so pleased that they would be able to continue today, so pleased with the simple wonder that is the weekend. If only I could bottle their infectious enthusiasm, their joie de vivre, their pure happiness for the little things. I may be a major disappointment in many ways, but I will try to remember that there are, still, a few things I can give.