The Bittersweet Reality

When Desired Outcomes Bring Unexpected Pain

Hello Tender Hearts,

I am writing to you after what feels like a million lifetimes. This week has been filled with the most intense ups and downs, which have held so much grief and joy, along with experiencing the most heart-opening love and the deepest despair and sorrow. I often can’t believe how much we can really hold in one body. Even when there seems to be no more room for air, somehow, we keep breathing.

I am writing to you today instead of Monday because I have been solo parenting my sick son all week.

Mad Woman

words this week seemed to have come right on time. In her piece titled on illness & autonomy, she writes, “Kids getting sick has, alas, since the pandemic, become a trope in parenting writing. We laugh at ourselves and how hard it all is, how little anyone cares, how hidden away this work is, insert obligatory line about the need for better leave. But the work of caring for sick children has not yet become the stuff of literature or art.”

This week, I have been living this art, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it yet.

I wrote this piece below a few weeks ago, and wildly, I could have just written it again last night. These realizations leave me in some sort of suspended awe of the endless cyclic lessons that are often (very often) presented in parenting. Cycles that, for me, feel both illuminating and haunting. Nevertheless, they seem to continue — as we must do.

“If you don't become the ocean, you'll be seasick every day.” - Leonard Cohen

Our bedtime routine has remained the same since my son's birth, from the starry night lights projecting on the ceiling to the rhythm of stories read aloud and the quiet humming of songs. In the early days, after we would go through the winding path to sleep, E (my husband) would quietly slip out of the room, leaving me alone while I waited for the sounds of slumber before making a run for it. For many years, this routine worked well—until suddenly, I found myself in a new place.

As my son grew older, bedtime became more challenging, as it often does. Sleep became prolonged by his numerous questions and the ongoing list of his unmet needs: hunger, thirst, too hot, too cold—needing one more hug, one more kiss. For a while, I managed this. I would remind myself that "this is just the initiation into the next phase of parenthood," the phase of finding creative ways to sneak out of your child's room. Some nights, when his restlessness felt endless, I would also try to reassure myself that "he will soon grow out of this; he won't be this young forever."

Despite my go-to phrases, his restlessness became hard for me not to embody. So difficult that I began to dread bedtime. A familiar feeling of apprehension from those early months of new motherhood resurfaced. An apprehension that spoke of the night, of not knowing how it would go, or if either of us would sleep—thoughts that left me unsettled, irritated, and exhausted. Now, years later, that gnawing unease seems to be returning, stronger than before.

When my partner and I started discussing having a child, we spoke many words. Words that represented my desire for an equal parenting approach. As a feminist, the idea of having a family involved dismantling traditional gender roles that confined me to the sole responsibilities of child-rearing. I sought another way, another perspective. A perspective that included words like equality, shared responsibility, balanced parenting, dual child-bearing, and co-nurturing. What I didn’t anticipate was that when my wish came true, it would also deeply hurt.

A significant part of my decision to become a mother came with the understanding that, as much as I wanted a child, I also cherished my career and my writing, and in the long run, I did not want to give them up. After we decided to go for it (create a baby), I reached a place of acceptance about knowing how it would all play out or how I would navigate being a mother and stay connected to self, but we went for it. My hope was that if my husband and I could find the balance that we needed, then maybe it would work. After all, he shared my feminist ideas, and I knew he would be supportive with his nurturing tendencies and expert caregiving. I even tried to be realistic, telling myself that no matter how hard we tried, there would be many days where nothing felt equal. I did this because deep down, I knew most things never would be.

Month after month of treading the currents of the night, with a hesitant stance I worked up the readiness to share with E that I think I needed a break. It was feeling like too much for me. A phrase filled with shame, for I told myself shouldn’t I just been able to lay there without feeling my skin crawl. After all, I am his mother, shouldn't this feel more, dare I say, natural? We decided to mix up our routine, and he would take over lying with our son while he fell asleep. I agreed, and to my surprise, the transition was quite easy. E was much calmer; he didn’t feel the same irritation or urgency and dread that I did. Instead, he lay there with our son, mostly peacefully. It was working.

It was almost too well.

The other night, E had to leave right after dinner, which meant I would be handling bedtime. Since we started the new routine months ago, there were many nights I took over when E was traveling, working late, sick, or when life happened. On those nights, it felt easier for me and less distressing because it became almost a sacred treat, one I didn't want every night. While lying on the floor next to him, listening to the shuffling of the sheets and the random sentences that seemed to effortlessly spill out of his mouth, I noticed I could breathe more gently, with soft curiosity and a warm heart. My internal waters were not boiling, and I could be present, and it felt sweet.

It was well past bedtime due to a short dance party that took place before dinner, causing us to start our nighttime routine later than usual. We proceeded with our routine, getting up to pee and eating a banana to settle our bellies. We made sure all our stuffed animals were snug and cozy in their places.

And then it happened.

My son began to weep for his dad. With a quivering lip, he cried out, "Where is daddy? I want daddy."

I wish I could tell you I only comforted him and reassured him that he would be home soon, which I did, but it wasn't all I did. While those words left my mouth, inside, I was weeping too. It felt as if I had lost a part in the most sought-after play. It was as if they pulled me and replaced me with, dare I say, my understudy—my chosen understudy. But worst of all, in that moment, it seemed the crowd loved the understudy so much better.

And I know that's not the case. I am aware that it is normal for my son to want a certain parent at a specific time and that he often cries out for me. I know all this, and I also know that it is what I wanted—expanded gender roles and family responsibilities. What I didn't anticipate was that the guilt in my body, all twisted and guilt-ridden, would have its own voice.

What I have come to learn is that there is one thing in our home that is not equal, that will never be equal, that is not shared or coexisting—that thing is guilt.

That feeling lives at the bottom of my throat and acts as a means of separating my heart from my mind. A spicy sensation lodged somewhere that feels unfindable and untouchable. A feeling that often lies dormant, because it can't always be swallowed, and it can't always be expressed.

After a few cries, my son cuddled up next to me. We read another book, and I told him I loved him. For a moment, I reclaimed the part in the production that I longed to be in, knowing that for now, I must share the role I wanted to share—and sometimes, it will hurt.