Mothering During Covid-19
“Shame, guilt, and white western standards of productivity were things I needed to cast out long before becoming a parent.”
It was December and I was due back at work in a few weeks. I didn't have childcare covered and I convinced myself that I was ready to balance the dual responsibilities of my job and a newborn baby. In reality, I had no choice. My maternity leave was almost over and I couldn't live on State disability assistance alone.
In February, I secured childcare. My daughter began to take naps and eat solids. I felt all the Black Girl Magic dust flowing over me. She had a safe space while I found comfort and freedom at work. On Mondays, I would leave staff meetings thirty minutes early. We were usually home in time for dinner, a story before bed, sometimes followed by prayers if she wasn't already sleeping. This pattern continued every week. Weekends consisted of walks with friends and laying out in the sun. I changed diapers in bathrooms without changing tables, drank coffee with one hand and supported her head on the other while she chugged back breastmilk. I finally felt like I had reached my stride. I even traveled without her for the first time. I felt at ease. I wasn't worried about her safety or eager to return home. It was strange interacting with others without her. Everyone assumed how I would feel, and in fact, it was the exact opposite. Within a week of my return, California was ordered to shelter-in-place. I spent the first few days of this experience daydreaming about what it would look like when we were back in the office and my routine afternoon pattern of dodging traffic in time for pickup.
It’s always challenging balancing work and family. Given the severity of the virus and it's spread, I felt even more stretched with the weight of anxiety and fear. I have, however, had a lot of time to reflect on parenthood. As the days turned into months, I sometimes found that I didn't know when to stop working and found myself ignoring the one person that mattered the most, my daughter. It was at this moment that I realized that I needed to make a change and acknowledge my new reality.
So much of my identity as a Black Queer Caribbean woman was defined by my work. I hate to admit it, but I didn't want to be seen as weak. I felt that admitting that everything wasn’t going well would change how others viewed me as a mother and a person. The feelings and thoughts are more about how the world views me rather than how I view myself.
See, parenthood called me to take more risks. I was being asked to ground myself in a new way. I can no longer bury myself in work or the expectation of a tipsy weekend brunch. I needed to take care of myself. I spoke a lot about self-care as a radical act but didn’t live into this until recently. Shame, guilt, and white western standards of productivity were things I needed to cast out long before becoming a parent. At many points, I hit a wall. I felt alone, anxious, and scared. While I was grateful for my job and the support of friends and colleagues, I struggled to find balance. I knew that I needed to confront this for the sake of my daughter.
I began to make a word of the day a daily ritual. The same word has been on my fridge for the past two months.
P-A-T-I-E-N-C-E
I need to be patient with myself. I need to be patient with others. Every time I don't feel unhappy or ashamed, I allow myself to acknowledge the feeling instead of pretending it doesn't exist. I give myself a few moments and then I cast it out. I name the thing that does not serve me. When I'm leading staff meetings or a webinar that will be recorded and shared with others, I take a deep breath and say to myself. Cielo will be recorded in webinars and attend Zoom meetings “This is your life. [Insert negative feeling] you do not serve me. I cast you out." This isn't a perfect practice. It is, however, something I'm committed to for the rest of my life. I've found this to be empowering. I relinquish control of things I can’t change. I want my daughter to see me at my best, but I also want her to see me when I’m frustrated and don’t have all the answers.
I don't think there is ever a going back to what was, even if some parts of the puzzle fit. The more I cast things out, the more I can grow deeper into a place of liberation and freedom.
Here are a few lessons I've learned:
1. Breathe. Sometimes when I feel off-balance, I stop in the thick of it and begin to take deepbreaths. This provides clarity and a moment of relief.
2. Laugh. I often find myself in the middle of a teething baby’s cry. This has brought me a lot of joy.Laughing is medicine and often contagious. She will begin to laugh and for a momentthe world stands still. We laugh together.
3. Get lost in something. Do something. This moment and activity aren’t about perfection or mastering a craft. Takethe space to disappear into the thing and become one with it.
4. Connect with your brave person. I’ve always been the friend you go to for advice. The pandemic and mothering havetaught me to connect more with others. I don’t have to perform with my brave person. I can breastfeed without shame or sit in moments of silence.
5. Food is an act of radical hospitality. Be kind to your body.
Jodie Geddes is a nationally recognized restorative justice practitioner. She uses her New York and Jamaican upbringing as a source of inspiration and storytelling. She is also the co-author of The Little Book of Racial Healing.
