Working parents’ summer of burnout
In a cherished childhood memory, my brother and I are running through the sprinklers on the front lawn. We may or may not be sporting the same bowl haircut. Giggling, we bolt through the rainbowflecked spray at top speed until we crash into each other, our heads knocking together. A flash of brightwhite pain hits, and then we both go down hard.
It’s a story I’ve repeated to Gege and Didi as a warning — “be careful!” — but also as entertainment, a hilarious cartoon pratfall in their view. They’re at an age when they still laugh at our jokes, no matter how corny. They aren’t making overt moves toward independence, no eye rolling or holing up in their bedroom — yet.
Even though we’re living in the house I grew up in, for my sons, the anecdote stretches the limits of their imagination. I might as well have told them that we’d traveled to the moon. Can any child truly picture their parents at their age?
This past spring, when chemicals and maintenance fell by the wayside at our seasonal neighborhood pool as we all sheltered in place, algae bloomed on the surface. It had the look of split pea soup.
We peered through the fence, disgusted and disturbed by this symbol of how out of whack everything had become. If a slimy monster lurched out in that moment, we wouldn’t have been surprised.
It’s since returned to a tantalizing shade of blue but remains closed, and it’s unclear if, when or how it might reopen even as we head into the Fourth of July weekend. Around the state and country, the coronavirus has rebounded, pausing, or in some cases reversing, reopening plans.
As lovely as the beach is, it’s not the same as a pool. In the months we’ve stayed mostly at home, I’ve mourned the loss of my neardaily ritual, swimming laps that quieted the static of my thoughts.
Little did I suspect I’d get wet as soon as the weather turned hot by getting us out on the lawn and giving the twins the hose. They turned it on each other, then on me and my husband. Out came the poolnoodlesturnedswords and kickboardturnedshield, deployed in a game they called “water wars.” They make it rain, spraying straight up.
As I filled up water balloons at an outdoor faucet, it seemed like an apt metaphor for parenting: much time spent on tedious preparation that your children will enjoy for only a moment.
“Throw them one at a time,” I pleaded. But within seconds, they burst every balloon.
Afterward, shivering, Didi and Gege stretched out on the flagstones to warm up in the sunshine. As they shared a Popsicle, we watched ice cubes melt, an entertainment that rivaled an elaborate waterslide.
Recently, we discovered when the park across the street turns on the sprinklers, it becomes a glorious display akin to the Bellagio hotel’s water fountains. Leaping over the spray there will become a regular appointment in a calendar that, for the most part, remains blank with uncertainty.
My husband and I are among the fortunate who can work from home. Like every parent we know, though, we’re burned out. Summer is traditionally a stressful time for working parents cobbling together care, and the struggle has intensified a hundredfold during the pandemic. I’m troubled by the deepening inequities that must get addressed so that children without access to the internet and other resources aren’t left behind.
In a Boston Consulting Group survey of working parents in the U.S., the United Kingdom, France, Germany and Italy, respondents said they spend an additional 27 hours a week on chores, child care and education on top of their usual household responsibilities.
Close to half felt their work performance decreased due to the additional tasks.
When day camps reopened a couple of weeks ago, we raced to sign up. I’m in the middle of revising my novel, and the difference is vast between chipping away at it piecemeal and having a sustained block to concentrate — even if it’s for only three hours a day.
At first, Gege was less than thrilled. “I like camp when it’s not COVID times,” he said, and asked to be picked up early. He and his brother got used to it, though, just as they will have to get used to whatever the next school year will hold. Half days? Alternate days? Or back to remote learning again?
For now, we’re trying to get through each day one water balloon, one Popsicle at a time.
The park’s sprinklers will become a regular appointment in a calendar that remains blank with uncertainty.