I’m different now than I was when the pandemic started.I don’t just mean that I’ve stopped wearing makeup and started wearing leggings as my uniform for work and play, though, yes, it does.It all felt different because I went into the pandemic with a cute baby bump and a habit of sleeping through the night, where somewhere, with few witnesses, I became a real mom.
It’s been almost a year since my son was born, and it’s still a bit shocking to get this title.I am and always will be someone’s mom!I’m sure it’s a huge adjustment for most parents, whether their child was born during a pandemic or not, but for me, most of the surprise is because so few have ever seen someone who looks like My parents’ experience.
I am a disabled mother.More specifically, I’m a paralyzed mom who uses a wheelchair in most places.Before I found out I was pregnant, the thought of me becoming a parent was as possible and terrifying as a trip to outer space on a homemade rocket.Seems like I’m not the only one who lacks imagination.Until I was 33, I don’t think doctors would have had a serious conversation with me about having a baby.Before that, my question was usually dismissed.”We won’t know until we know,” I hear over and over again.
One of the biggest losses of having a baby during a pandemic is not being able to share him with the world.I took hundreds of pictures of him—on the lemon-print blanket, on his diaper pad, on his dad’s chest—and texted everyone I knew, desperate for others to see him tumbles and wrinkles.But sheltering at home has also given us something.It provides me with privacy and allows me to figure out the mechanics of motherhood from my sitting position.I was allowed to easily enter this role without much scrutiny or unwelcome feedback.Figuring out our rhythm takes time and practice.I learned to lift him off the floor into my lap, get in and out of his crib, and climb up and over the baby gate—all without the audience.
The first time I took Otto to see his doctor was when he was three weeks old and I was nervous.This is my first time playing the role of a mother in public.I pulled our car into the parking lot, picked him up from the car seat, and wrapped him up.He curled up in my stomach.I pushed us towards the hospital, where a valet stood at her front door post.
As soon as we left the garage, I felt her eyes fall on me.I don’t know what she was thinking – maybe I reminded her of someone, or maybe she just remembered that she forgot to buy milk at the store.Whatever the meaning behind her expression, it didn’t change the feeling that her relentless stare made me feel as we slid past her, as if she wanted me to throw my baby on the concrete at any moment.I allowed myself to exude the confidence I started to gather at home.I know what I’m doing.He is safe with me.
She watched every step of our journey, craned her neck to watch us until we disappeared inside.Our smooth entry into the hospital didn’t seem to convince her of my abilities; she glared at us again when Otto finished examining us and returned to the garage.In fact, her surveillance became the bookend of all his appointments.Each time, I staggered back to our car.
Regardless of intent, every moment we spend in public sits on top of a worrying history that I can’t ignore.
Not every encounter with a stranger feels ominous.Some are nice, like the guy in the elevator chuckling at Otto’s expressive brow sitting under his bright red hat with a green stem sticking out from the top, we have to explain that one of my students knitted his “Tom-Otto” hat. There are moments that are puzzling, like when we took Otto to the park for the first time – my partner Micah was pushing him in a pram and I was rolling around – a woman passing by looked on Otto, nod at me.”Did she ever get in your car on this?” she asked.I paused, confused.Did she imagine me as the family dog, playing the unique role of an animated toy for my son?Some of the responses to us were kind, like seeing me transfer Otto to the truck as the sanitation workers loaded our rubbish into their truck and clapping as if I was holding him up with my pinky Landing stuck on three axes.By then, the ritual had become a common dance for us, albeit a little complicated.Are we really such a spectacle?
Regardless of intent, every moment we spend in public sits on top of a worrying history that I can’t ignore.People with disabilities face barriers to adoption, loss of custody, coercion and forced sterilization, and forced termination of pregnancy.This legacy of fighting to be seen as a trustworthy and worthy parent wraps around the edge of every interaction I have.Who doubts my ability to keep my son safe?Who is looking for signs of my neglect?Every moment with bystanders is a moment I need to prove.Even imagining spending an afternoon in the park makes my body tense.
I’m trying to convince Otto that all we need is cozy caves where we can keep the audience away and pretend our bubble is the whole universe.As long as we have dad, FaceTime, takeout, and a daily bubble bath, we’re done.Why risk being misjudged when we can completely escape attention?
Otto disagreed, fiercely, faster than I knew the baby had an opinion.He let out a high-pitched scream like a teapot, announcing its boiling point, to be quelled only by leaving the confines of our little house.For months, he spoke out for the wider world like an anxious Disney princess.The spark in his eyes in the morning made me think he wanted to spin under the open sky and sing with strangers at the market.
When he first sits in a room with his cousin Sam – who himself is little more than a baby – Otto bursts into laughter we’ve never heard him.He turned his head to the side and walked right up to Sam, no more than a few inches from his face – “Are you for real?” he seemed to ask.He put his hand on Sam’s cheek, and the joy flooded.Sam was motionless, eyes wide, bewildered by the concentration.The moment was sweet, but a fragile pain rose up in my chest.Instinctively, I thought, “Don’t love too much! You might not be loved back!” Otto didn’t know how to gauge Sam’s reaction.He didn’t realize that Sam wasn’t giving back.
My baby is pulling us out of the cocoon and willing us to go out into the world.Part of me wants him to circle it – feel the hustle and bustle of the crowds on the fringes of the parade, smell the sunscreen and chlorine concoction in the public swimming pool, hear the room filled with people singing.But Otto didn’t understand that seeing the world meant being seen.He doesn’t know what it’s like to be scrutinized, judged, misunderstood.He didn’t know how awkward and uncomfortable it would be to be together as a human.He doesn’t know the worry of saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing.How can I teach him to be brave?Stand up for yourself when the opinions of others are loud and ubiquitous?Know which risks are worth taking?To protect yourself?How can I teach him a thing if I haven’t figured it out myself yet?
As my brain circles the risks and rewards of leaving home, as I talk to friends, as I read Twitter, I realize I’m not the only one terrified of re-entering the arena.Many of us experience a space without observation for the first time in our lives, and it changes us—it gives us the opportunity to experiment with gender expression, relax our bodies, and practice different relationships and jobs.How can we protect those newfound parts of ourselves when we return to some kind of normalcy?It feels like an unprecedented question, but in some ways, these are the same questions we’ve been asking since the beginning of this pandemic.How can we keep ourselves safe and stay connected?Threats can take different forms, but the tension between desire and dilemma feels familiar.
A few months into the pandemic, my mom launched her weekly family Zoom.Every Tuesday afternoon, she and my sisters and I sync up on a screen for two hours.There are no agendas or obligations.Sometimes we are late, or in the car, or in the park.Sometimes we had to keep silent because there was a crying baby in the background (oh hello, Otto!), but we kept showing up, week after week.We vent and console, lament and advise, grieve and unite.
How can I teach him to be brave?Stand up for yourself when the opinions of others are loud and ubiquitous?
One Tuesday afternoon, as I was preparing for another doctor’s appointment in Otto, I loosened the valve to curb my anxiety about the valet’s constant check-in.I was looking forward to these short walks from the garage to the hospital, and this huge dread was getting worse.I would lose sleep a few nights before a date, replaying memories of being watched, trying to imagine the thoughts that flashed through my mind as she stared at us, worrying that the next time Otto was going to cry.Then what will she do?
I shared this with my family across the screen with a tight throat and tears streaming down my face.As soon as I said it out loud, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t brought it to them sooner.The relief of just hearing them hear it makes the experience feel even smaller.They affirmed my abilities, validated the pressure, and experienced it all with me.The next morning, as I pulled into the familiar parking lot, my phone buzzed with text messages.”We’re with you!” they said.Their solidarity created a cushion around me as I pulled Otto out of his car seat, strapped him to my chest, and pushed us toward the hospital.That shield was what impressed me the most that morning.
As Otto and I carefully took their first steps into this world, I wished I could wrap our bubbles around us, calluses long, don’t care about people staring, and become indestructible.But I don’t think it’s a problem I can solve entirely on my own.As the pandemic materializes us, we are inextricably linked.There is only so much we can do to protect ourselves; we are safer when we prioritize the health of our entire community.I’m reminded of everything we’ve done to protect each other over the past year – staying home as much as possible, wearing masks, keeping our distance to keep us all safe.Of course, not everyone.I don’t live in the land of unicorns and glitter dust.But many of us have learned to create shelter for each other in the face of threats.
Watching this collaborative gathering makes me wonder what else we can build with these new skills we’ve learned in the wild.Can we recreate the same practices of caring for our emotional health?What would it look like to make room for each other to change?Reuniting without expecting that everything has to look, sound, move or stay the same?Remember throughout the day – in our bodies – how much risk does it take to show up, let alone go against the grain?
Micah, Otto and I started a tradition before leaving the house each day.We stopped at the door, formed a small triangle, and kissed each other.Almost like a protective spell, a soft exercise.I hope we teach Otto to be brave and kind; to stand up for himself in all the noise and to make room for others; to take good risks and to provide others with a soft footing; to create boundaries and to respect others’ limitations.
Post time: Jan-17-2022
