Mothering during the coronavirus pandemic
Here’s my coronavirus paradox.
Just as we all enter the second month of house arrest, cut off from each other, I am finding I’m more connected to a certain family member than I have been in a while. My son has been living and working in the Los Angeles area for going on a year now. He’s a film and video editor for a production company – a job that provided him a good paycheck and a workplace desk. The lock down moved him to his home office, which allows him to continue to work full time and to be paid.
In the months since he moved to the other coast, I’ve written more than a few columns about how difficult that’s been for me, struggling all along with my almost hourly urge to call or text to check on his well-being.
The maternal urge apparently doesn’t always mature as quickly as the child does.
I forced myself to back away from the phone, allowing myself only twice-weekly texts and maybe a weekly FaceTime call. Learning to let him be was as hard as fighting off sugar cravings.
And then came the lock down, and my worry unfurled again.
While I was happy to know he’s staying in, I wasn’t so sure he was eating right. The anxieties about his health and happiness that I had forced down were now floating back up. Only this time the worry was based on scientific fact and not just on my imagined maternal willies.
So now, I allow myself to text him every day.
“How are you?” I ask. “Have enough to eat? Getting enough sleep?”
And you know what? He answers every time. Not only that, but he doesn’t answer in a way that suggests he’s rolling his eyes and wondering when I’ll back off.
Where our phone calls used to last about two minutes – the generation raised on texting doesn’t like to talk on the phone – we now have actual conversations. He’s given me FaceTime tours of his apartment, and has introduced me to his cat. And maybe best of all, we don’t talk much about the virus. After my obligatory opening questions about his vegetable consumption and hand washing, we move on to other topics.
He must be so relieved.
The reverse is happening here at home. After four weeks of seeing only each other, the farmer and I are suffering social fatigue. Some days we eat dinner in silence. He’s been working off some of the frustration by chopping down the dead trees on our property. He’s a farmer and a lumberjack.
When I get antsy, I send texts. My son gets at least two a day from me, and so far, he’s not complaining. Maybe it’s because he needs a bit more mothering now. More likely, he understands that I need to do the mothering.
He’s an empathetic old soul.
I don’t know when I will see him again in person. Even before the viral shutdown, I didn’t know the answer to that. Neither of us had any immediate plans to travel. The shutdown hasn’t really prolonged our separation.
But it has given me more virtual time with him. Last week, we bought him a new mattress for his birthday – he had been sleeping on a floppy castoff. When it arrived, he Facetimed me. There he was, lying in his new bed. It was almost like being there.
“Did you disinfect it?” I asked. He rolled his eyes.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you,” he said.
I told him to eat some vegetables. And to wash his hands.