Our kid has had a barking cough for a week, and this is already their second week-long illness since back-to-school began. We trudged through the week, putting a mask on them, taking (negative) Covid tests, doling out daytime cough medicine and "making it through". The weekend arrived, and we were all ready for a reprieve, but instead it felt like a new hell: one that is familiar to a lot of caregivers, and one that brings with it incredible feelings of isolation. Their cough continued, while I went down as well; it started seemingly out of no where, when my neck and shoulders began to feel wildly tight.

I thought for a few minutes I must have tweaked a nerve or something, but then I started shaking with chills, and chattering my teeth, and before you know it our plans of finally watching a movie, playing cards, or doing something “fun” now that our kiddo had finished their fall-asleep-coughing-spell, had turned in to figuring out wtf was going on with me. I had the chills so badly I wrapped myself up in three blankets, and then like a comet busting through the atmosphere, I felt like I was going to explosively vomit everywhere. I ran through my house dry-heaving in search of the closest toilet. I never did hurl, and the desire to expel the contents of my stomach passed just ten minutes later, but that pain was replaced by a feeling of flooding in my joints, specifically in my knees, that I have never felt in my Earthly life. I ended up sleeping downstairs in the guest room, for fear that whatever illness I had was viral, and that I was passing it along to the rest of the household. While I felt less violently ill the next morning, whatever took hold of me still clings like a sticky residue, and my joints are protesting like I have a temporary case of severe arthritis. I have taken three Cue Covid tests, and they keep showing a negative result. I guess that’s positive news, but all-in-all, it was not a “good weekend”. My positive vibes today are boxed up in storage, down in the deepest part of my psychological basement.

Prior to becoming parents, we had a social life that felt like it was bursting at the seams with options. It seemed we always had things to choose from: people to see, nature and places to explore, the hottest new restaurant to try; we were DINKs living it up in San Francisco after all. When we made the very conscious choice to get pregnant and the universe complied with our request, things got more complicated, as they often do when the youth are involved in scheduling. Our labor and birth story were harrowing events, and then our child had "colic"; you know, that catchall term for, "they cried and cried for reasons unknown to anyone", and nothing but time whisked away those newborn tears, no matter how hard we tried. 

In those early months and years of being parents, we found ourselves withdrawing a lot from our former life. Some of these reasons were a, "no duh" situation, because staying out on the town, or hanging at a friends place until 3am, and waking up at 10am on a weekend morning to roll on to brunch were no longer on the agenda. My wife and I have been together for over two decades, and a relationship trend of ours is to pull back from being social when things in our personal life feel especially challenging. I know this is not necessarily unique to us, but at this point our child is six, and it feels like we have yet to recover from that initial pullback. When our kid started going to co-op preschool, and we'd get a few hours a day where they were learning without us around, it felt like we could glimpse a future where we'd take steps to reassert ourselves, with our kiddo in tow, into our formerly social world. We'd fit in a few breakfast dates after drop off, but then someone would inevitably get a cold, or a stomach bug or have a sleep regression, or our tiny human would grow some new teeth that hurt a bunch (because teeth punching through tender gum tissue is the stuff of nightmares), etc. 

I mean, don't get me wrong; there were plenty of things from our pre-child life that we weren't looking to return to at all. I hope to never again, for the rest of my hopefully long life, wake up feeling hungover. With the huge life change of having a child, came a massive personal shift in the things I liked, paired with a severe narrowing of the time I had to explore the world outside of being a caregiver. I still love a few glasses of the crispest white wine now and again, but nights centered around throwing back variations on liquid fermentations no longer hold the same appeal; at least not at this point in my life.

The name of the life game often seems to center around, "BALANCE", but is that actually possible? Can you "balance" work for money, with work for the joy of expanding yourself? Can you "balance" caregiving, with the heart-bursting aspects of watching/helping/aiding a human being you love so deeply as they grow up and out and in to the world? Can you "balance" spending any "free" time you have focusing on personal inner growth, while also dedicating hunks of your heart, mind, and time to expanding your relationship and marriage to a person you love and deeply admire? Can you hone your weekend family scene in your home, while also making time for exploring socially with others? I'm not sure it's possible, but we sure do try.

I watch from the sidelines to see how friends, family and acquaintances handle their lives in seemingly similar situations. Sometimes I think I should be more like so and so, or I should try to schedule more things or just put myself out there more. But, when I/we do, I feel like half of the time it falls flat, because: someone is sick, or something popped up, or the air is shit and so being outside is out, or Covid cases spiked again and so being inside is out, and it all just starts to feel like... what is the fucking point? Why get your hopes up, ever, if the planning/joy ratio is less than 50%? I know that sounds rather drab and morbid, but seriously: have you ever felt like you've spent six years trying to prop yourself up on your elbows for a better view, just to have some unforeseen force knock your arms out from under you each and every damn time you’re about to get a peek at what might lay ahead?

I know control is a mirage. I know that life goes on if we’re lucky, and that my good fortunes in this lifetime are impossibly beautiful and deeply appreciated. I’ve also recently learned in therapy that I caveat most “negative” feelings or feedback with a positive to that negative. In my mind, out of habit, I’ve been providing a counter-balance; but in reality, I’m actually longing to make the pain sting less by distracting myself.

There are friends from our former social life that no longer reach out, just as I no longer reach out to them. I know that six years is a long time. I know they have lives of their own, and their own struggles and balancing acts and such. I know that the narrative I've created of their life in my head is likely not representative of their everyday life, and if it is as magical as I’ve painted it, then I’m happy for them! People grow and people change, friendships grow and friendships change; I know I have these past six years. I admire growth and change, and I'm not asking anyone to stop. There are days when the idea of even texting someone, "hello, how are you?", feels like an anchor around my neck. 

Have I stopped caring about being social and I'm actually just mourning the loss of who I once was? I don't think so, because I feel pangs of desire to hang out with people in a carefree manor, where fear of a weeks long illness afterwards isn't front and center. When I'm stressed out and I begin to daydream my way out of a situation, I am often in the middle of a hot, sweaty dance party. In this visual, my head is thrown back, and I can feel that my wife is to my right, and our kid is to my left, and they are both also dancing their hearts out. The music is pumping and vibrating life into our bodies, and I feel so present in the moment I could weep with joy. I am undone from the constraints of worry, and the night air is rife with possibility. I am the social woman I was before, combined with the wisdom and compassion of the human I am today. It is raw euphoria. In that daydream moment I hold in my mortal hands, the feelings of balance between past, present, and future me, and wow baby, is she (“she” being me) ever so free. 

Weeks and weekends of illness and little-to-no plans happen. These moments are a part of life, and as I’m learning in therapy, (have I mentioned I’m in therapy ;)), just because it’s unpleasant doesn’t mean it’s not necessary. Growth is a painful act. While I’ve not quite grasped the theme on this past weekend’s set of uncomfortable lessons yet, I know I’ll shake off this grumpy persona I have on today, with the patience to rummage around and find it, eventually.

Holding space for anyone feeling like the social or health part of life is bumpy right now. You are not alone, even, and especially if, it may feel like it. When you are drifting off to sleep tonight, counting down the days and minutes until you feel enveloped in a social blanket of warmth, love and good health, I hope you can feel my presence there with you. If it helps, imagine I am standing beside you on that crowded dance floor of possibilities. My head is thrown back, laughter is just reaching the edges of my lips, and I am loudly cheering you on for whatever elusive balancing act of life comes next.