Imagine planning a beautiful day with your children. You start by preparing an amazing breakfast of toasted ciabatta and sourdough bread with a light spread of butter, scrambled, and sunny-side-up eggs topped with micro greens and avocados to enjoy with them. You all enjoy our meal, get dressed, and head out to the local bowling alley. Shortly after starting your first game, a surging pain radiates from your left sciatic nerve causing sharp shooting pain down your leg. You push through with too many gutter balls, because all you want is to give your children a fun and memorable day—the goal of every loving parent. You then have lunch, play another painful yet entertaining bowling game, and have fun in the arcade. As you're heading to the car, your kids start bickering and it all turns to shit. One kid yells to the other, "Keep quiet" out of utter anger and frustration.
Motherhood is not for the weak.
It's even harder for those with chronic pain.
This was me. What I thought was a beautiful time was ending disastrously. We were having fun not too long ago, and now I am at my wit's end with two bickering children. For the last two hours, all I could hear and feel outside of my beating heart was the throbbing and unbearable pain on the left side of my lower back. Instead of our usual celebratory talk and high-fives at the end of a three-hour day of fun, I had to be the referee between my two girls. When one of the girls opened the door to the back seat, the alarm went off for some reason, sending my other daughter into a high-pitched screaming frenzy. The mix of noise and pain sharply elevated my frustration with the whole situation and I yelled from the driver's side, "Please stop it."
My daughter who was startled by the alarm began crying immediately, as I expected. Guilt took over because that was the last thing I wanted to do. She thought I was telling her to stop crying, which is not something I ever do. In our home, we respect all feelings, as long as it does not violate physical boundaries and become emotionally abusive. This means crying is not suppressed or dismissed. I had to quickly remind her that I wasn't telling her she had no reason to cry, but rather that they stop the bickering. We all got in the car and started making our way home after we all decided to suspend our planned visit to the thrift store. Everyone was tired and we just needed to rest.
The ride back home was all of about seven minutes, but then another argument erupted. I can't remember for the life of me what sparked the argument... Oh, I do remember! I was looking for my glasses, and suspected I may have forgotten it at the bowling alley—I did forget it there. My younger daughter pointed out that she thinks her sister is wearing it since our glasses are the same rose color. I knew it wasn't, because mine is a different shape. I said to her that those belonged to her sister and that it wasn't mine.
My older daughter then suddenly screamed out, "Stop pointing at me," a couple of times to her sister. I usually try to let them resolve things on their own, but after about the third time when she screamed another ear-drum splitting "Stop pointing at me," I had it up to my eyeballs and with a firmly elevated voice said, "Stop it now."
“The funny thing about children is that they are the reason we lose it and the reason we hold it together!” — Author Unknown
At that point, I was simply praying to get to my bed, because the pain shooting from my lower back and down my left leg was worsening. I imagined my hand reaching between the driver and passenger seats to be the heavy hand I would sometimes feel as a kid on my skin when I did not follow directions. It was fleeting, a little satisfying, but not an action I ever want to resort to. I refuse to spank, beat, or inflict intentional pain on my children, so I resorted to what I know how to do best—talk. I instructed everyone to stop talking and to be respectful to each other. They were clearly tired and just needed to get home to rest.
They remained silent for only a few seconds before my older daughter began to vent her frustrations about her sister. She talked about how she tries to be a great big sister, but her little sister keeps making her mad. I told her I was sorry that she felt that way. We approached the building parking lot and I backed into my spot. She vented some more, because that is one of the ways she processes her emotions. She kept talking to our apartment and I felt every ounce of her frustration. I sympathized with her and let her know that I heard her. I reminded her that she is an awesome big sister and I do see her kindness to her sister.
As a parent with a chronic illness, I am more emotionally attuned
to the needs of my children as a way to compensate for
the times when I am physically incapable of showing up.
I simply do the best I can when I can.
When we got inside our apartment, I took my coat and shoes off and walked straight into my bedroom. All I wanted to do was rest. I had nothing to give at that point since I felt completely depleted. I asked the girls to help themselves with their snacks, because I couldn't be on my feet anymore. I have carefully navigated my tough days with my children by being honest about how I feel, yet also making sure that my children never have to take on more responsibility than kids their age should. They know that some days are great and others are not. I also no longer feel guilty about asking the girls for space and time to rest when I need it, especially since my flares aren't very frequent lately.
Before I was able to fully retreat, we played one round of UNO on my bed. The game diffused the tension and we were enjoying each other's company again. They segued into their assigned one hour of tablet time, which would allow me to rest. They were more than excited and it worked out perfectly. My head hit that pillow with a smile, because we all got what we needed, and we rode that emotional wave the best we all could. It turned out to be a beautiful day.
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