I Can’t Parent, Work, and Be a Teacher All at Once

She says for the umpteenth time

Oh, 2021. You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Not only did a bunch of wannabe GI Joes wreak havoc on American democracy, but you also alerted us to the problems in the pipeline for vaccine distribution (or lack of it).

I swear to God, if you take Betty White, it’s going to be on like Tron.

This year also brought consequences for non-mask wearers: schools went back to 100% online learning. Turns out, the consequences for non-mask wearers are the same for those of us who followed the rules, so you know…this is why we can’t have nice things.

My kids’ transition to hybrid learning wasn’t miraculous, but in the end it was badly needed. It was 2 glorious hours (2.5 with travel time) without children in the house. I no longer needed to print endless assignments, at the last minute, praying that I had enough printer paper because I’m still accustomed to swiping it from work and not buying it. It meant fewer Zoom calls.

And now it’s gone, despite the raging Karens on my school’s Facebook page forming petitions and screaming at the board of directors. A few of them showed up in protest to school today with their kids and their backpacks. I’m not sure what you’re hoping to accomplishe when six of you are standing in an empty school lot. I bet that sure sent a strong message to the folks in charge.

I maxed out my vacation accrual so I took today off to focus on the first day back from winter break.

Geezus fuck. I can’t do this. I mean, I know I often say I can’t do while pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but really…I can’t. This morning is spent running between both kids’ rooms. Why not have them work in the same room? Because then they’d need to wear headphones, and I wouldn’t hear all the things my kids are ignoring. Plus, neither of them can tolerate headphones for that long, every day.

Did I say I took a vacation day? I log into work for a few quick emergency tasks while sitting on my son’s bed, simultaneously nagging that he needs to turn his Zoom camera on.

Through a fluke, I remember we have a meeting with the school’s intervention specialist for my daughter at 9:00 am. I scramble downstairs and throw myself on the couch next to my quasi-ex-husband so he can participate in the call. As soon as the call is over, I slap the laptop shut without saying a word to him. We don’t talk much if the kids aren’t around. You know, exactly like before I separated.

When morning classes end, I hustle downstairs to make them lunch. I’m still in my pajamas. Microwave SpaghettiOs. Spare me, oh vegan and organic eaters of the internet. The pasta is made with hidden vegetables and these cans were my “In Case of Emergency, Break Glass” meals.

With trepidation, I serve them the faux pasta and wait for them to holler that the food is unacceptable for their refined palates. This wasn’t noticed! Yesss. Unfortunately, my son forgets he’s eating. With low muscle tone, he doesn’t feel the food in his mouth to continue chewing. So one of us sits nearby during mealtimes to holler out, “take a bite!” and verify food consumption is occurring. Every meal is almost an hour. I spend up to 3 hours a day instructing and reminding my kids to eat.

I have enough time to squeeze in a workout. I’ve finally gained back the muscle lost while recovering from a revised tummy tuck, sclerotherapy, and two laser peels (not all at the same time). Halfway through the video, Alexa reminds me of my earlier request that my daughter has PE today. I stop the workout, help her get set up for virtual gym class, and run back to finish working out. It’s hard enough as it is to work out, let alone when you’re surrounded by constant distractions.

Showering after is a hustle. My son has an IEP and today is his online physical therapy day. He yells that he hates it and doesn’t want to do it. With little patience, I tell him “tell that to Miss Kathy, not me” as I walk out of the room.

Shortly after, his Behavioral Therapist shows up at the door. My son gets in-person behavioral therapy three days a week.

I check the time. If I act quickly, I can squeeze in going to UPS. I have a million online returns. I also have to fax (yes, fax) the updated bank information for the kids’ 529 college funds. We created new bank accounts when we separated. It didn’t work when I tried online because for this new joint bank account we set up, he’s the first name on the account. My name is on the 529 accounts. Fucking bureaucracy. One step forward, ten steps back.

Returning home, I VPN into work to help with another issue that needed an immediate response. Now it’s time to take my daughter to her tutoring classes. These classes were supposed to be done by July 2020, but you know…COVID. I have to start the process early because my daughter will melt down over her socks or about going. This facility used to be within walking distance of my house. They consolidated locations and now I have to factor in drive time.

Today was about an 8/10 for sock drama and 4/10 for tutoring hysterics. That’s a win in my books.

Was I productive while waiting in the lobby during my daughter’s tutoring lesson? Of course I wasn’t. Instead, I mess around on social media because I like wasting the precious resource called “time”.

By the time we get out, it’s almost dinner. My first inclination is to pick up fast food but I vowed this year to cut that shit out. My kids were eating fast food and takeout daily. Last weekend, I had a semi-freakout over their lack of eating anything beyond chicken nuggets and fries. Time to put my money where my mouth is.

Fuck. I need to do groceries. Before you make a big scene to your children about the merits of eating a variety of home-cooked food, you should actually have the aforementioned food available. In the freezer, I find a Bertolli’s fettuccine alfredo pasta mix. Not exactly homemade but I have to cook it on a stove and it’s a good stepping stone to them eating the real stuff.

My quasi-ex-husband is done with work and I immediately ditch all of them so he can nag for an hour for them to chew their food. I wrote a Medium article during that time. Not this one. Another nonsensical one.

Dinner is done, time for homework. It’s rough. The quasi-ex helps my son while I help my daughter. It’s hard to do online practice tests and exercises when she’s falling behind. We plow through for forty-five minutes.

Tangent: fuck iReady. Fuck the developers who clearly don’t have kids. Fuck whoever sold that shit to my kids’ school. Fuck the person who bought it. It’s about as mentally stimulating as watching a game of Pong all day. I’m trying not to shoot myself in boredom as I stare at the shitty interface. Do you know what is a good program? Prodigy. It’s a game that hides that it’s teaching your kids things. You have to pass tests to get in-game goodies and level up. That’s how you teach kids, especially ones stuck at home during a pandemic. Fuck iReady.

I digress.

It’s time for showers. My son is having an “autism meltdown”. I call them that because they’re not like the usual kid crying after say, breaking a toy. This is an irrational, psychotic level of panic and crying. I lead him to my bathroom while he bemoans online school. Still sniffling, he goes to pee before he showers. Except in his post-meltdown daze, he sprays the floor and wall next to the toilet.

I yell at him to stop (in a very “don’t rush into traffic” level of yell), which makes him jump. I rush to him and tell him it’s okay, he’s not a trouble, and that he just has to clean it up. Too late. Another melodramatic crying fit while I run to get cleaner and paper towels. I tell him that I’ll always yell when it’s something that needs to immediately stop. He tells me between sniffles that when I yell, it makes him love me less.

I’m really winning all the parenting awards today.

It’s now bedtime and my quasi-ex is letting my daughter play on his phone. “I thought we agreed on no screens before bed, the blue light makes it hard for them to fall asleep.” I’m even less effective at instilling change now that we aren’t a couple. Nagging an ex is like the Black Mirror episode with Jon Hamm where no one can see or speak to him at the end.

He reads them a story on my daughter’s bed. He’s very animated. Except he’s too animated. I realize I sound like a buzzkill but it’s past their bedtime, they have school in the morning, we have a hard time getting them to fall asleep without help, I’m mutha-effing exhausted, and he’s over there pretending to tickle them so they laugh hysterically. “Awesome” I mumble. “An adrenaline rush before bed.”

The ex puts my daughter to bed. My son agrees to just 20 minutes of me in his room before I sneak out. We’re trying to curb his fear of sleeping alone. He has hiccups from the tickling earlier.

Try getting a kid to sleep when they’re hiccupping. Now try to get an autistic kid with hiccups to sleep. He begins panicking and crying that he’ll have hiccups forever. He doesn’t know that I’m the Grand Master of hiccups. I get them all the damn time. That also means I’ve perfected a technique to stop them. Maybe I should teach an online class. I’d call it, “Tell Your Hiccup to Shuttup”.

I hadn’t set a time on my phone so I estimate 20 minutes and bail out while my son is still awake, knowing full well he will come to my bedroom repeatedly at night until he can do it while I’m fast asleep. It’s almost 10:00 pm.

And now, “my” day begins. This was an easy day. It’ll get worse tomorrow when I have to squeeze in my actual job as well.

I can’t do this anymore. It plays at least once in my head per day. But here I am, treading water, repeating the same daily pattern for 307 days. Fuck.