COVID Mom Rage

“I want to curl up beside you and snuggle. This is so hard.”

“I know, My Heart. But everything matters or nothing matters.”

This is a mantra Christian and I have been repeating throughout the pandemic. It’s our armor in a fight against an enemy we can’t see, bargain with, or even gamble against.

February 1st, 2022 

My throat felt scratchy the day after Bohemia closed. I’d broken my loose sobriety and celebrated with a glass of rose champagne and a couple of sips of absinthe when the curtain dropped on the final performance.  My gravelly voice made sense. Six shows in 3 days, on top of the fractured sleep of a new mom, plus alcohol? Of course I felt like shit. 

 12am that night

I drop the toilet lid with a shudder, my booty still quaking from the frigid seat. I don’t flush, (DON’T WAKE THE BABY) and quietly wait for the water to warm my freezing, shaking hands. I’m chilled, feverish, but maybe, please god, let it be just a cold?

The bottle of Nyquil winks at me from behind the baby oil and dry shampoo. Just a tablespoon, to release my pounding head and give me a few hours of relief. 

I do all of this in the dark, mind you (DON’T WAKE THE BABY).

I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow, hoping the Nyquil will cancel out the suspicious symptoms. Hoping my baby will sleep a few hour more.

1AM

“Maaaamaaaaaa!!!” 

I gasp, my tongue like sandpaper. Hero is fully awake and thrashing in the king size bed where the three of us sleep. The dreaded split night. As I strain to grab him and scoot us both off the edge and into the nursery so we don’t wake Christian, I knock my glasses from the pillow stuffed in the crack by the wall to the floor, under the bed. 

Have you ever tried to stay awake after a dose of Nyquil, half blind? I could barely keep my cloudy eyes open as Hero begged to be let down on the carpeted floor of his room. 

“Gool, bah bah!” As soon as he’s released, Hero scoots towards the nest of black wires emitting from the surge protector. Guilt, plus my symptoms, doubles me over. Why haven’t I tacked those up out of his reach? In the two weeks I’ve been gone nightly for Bohemia performances, he’s moving at double speed. 

I pull him onto my lap and he starts head butting my chest to nurse, grabbing at my nipples under my nightshirt. His nails need a trim and their tiny, sharp edges are cutting into my feverish flesh. This, plus the added stress about the Nyquil (what effect will it have on my breastmilk?) AND the now hard to ignore “cold”, it’s all too much. I see red. I literally gnash my teeth. I close my long fingers around his baby hands…

“It’s very important to be gentle with him now.” I hear this whispered in my left ear. From whose voice, I cannot say. I start to cry. 

 Exhaling, I carefully place my struggling boy in his crib. I put my head between my knees on the day bed opposite him and we both wail.

 “I want to hold you so badly, but I can’t have you touching me that way right now. I have to keep you safe.”

The Next Morning

I’ve been COVID testing at home for a month now, thanks to the Omicron surge, I know the drill. The skyrocketing positives in the past four weeks directly coincided with my big return to live theater as a performer, after having a baby, after the pandemic shutdowns. This time, though, there were no shuttered venues. We masked up, tested daily, and prayed for an audience that was doing the same. 

When I saw the double line of the at home test, I knew it wasn’t a mistake. I felt tears of gratitude that this was all happening after the show had closed. Then, the pounding wave of guilt.

“It’s a positive.”

“We’re totally fucked!”

Two years ago our lives were determined by ovulation strips and pregnancy tests as Christian and I attempted to conceive. 

Now, as the pandemic rolls through another variant, a nasal swab determines whether we are out of work for five days, or ten more with a new family of three. For another type career, maybe that’s a blip, or working from home. But for Christian, a chef, it means a loss of income and his small kitchen staff scrambling to cover his many duties.  

I’m lucky, in that I can do my administrative work for Nordo from home. But a positive test means no childcare. Yes, I do need childcare to do my computer work effectively. One of my many rude awakenings as a new parent.

Christian takes the baby and I sequester myself in our bedroom, falling gratefully into the big bed. Alone. But I don’t sleep. I wear grooves in my brain, remembering that flash of red hot rage at Hero’s grasping need for me.

“You did good, Mama.” I murmur into my pillow as the fever swells to a breaking point. As much as I want to hate myself for feeling that way, I know that hearing the voice, slowing down, stepping away from him was a good thing. I did not hurt or scare him. I kept him safe.

Of course, I did expose Hero to COVID. But those are bad feelings for tomorrow. 

The Next Day

“How can I help?” 

Mark’s text is like a drink of cool water. I sigh and nestle Hero’s feverish body into the crook of my elbow so I can type a response to my co-producer without waking my little one. 

“Text the Bohemia cast and tell them I’m positive and they should get tested. Tell them the baby has it too but it’s a mild case for both of us. Christian is testing negative. If you can handle the responses and questions I would be grateful.”

“It’s ironic, you have to admit.”

“What’s that?”

“You were our safety officer! You never hung out without your mask! And you’re the one who got sick! It’s the definition of irony!” 

I feel the rage bubble. It’s Mark, so I let him have it. I sit on my response and let the DOT DOT DOT speak loudly

“My sick baby is not ironic.” Seething face.

“Sorry Peachey.”

This is Hero’s second fever, the first – a run of the mill virus while I was in tech for the show -  was worse. His temperature never breaks 100 with COVID and though he’s got some unpleasant congestion, we’re beside ourselves with relief.

A Week Later

“Another negative.” Christian has a makeshift bed made up on the sofa, separate from Hero and I. Surgical masks and dirty dishes litter the coffee table. 

“Dada! Dada!” Hero is squeezing my sidewaist with his chunky thighs, and bouncing. I’m trying to keep his hands from the KN95 I’m sporting. He thinks it’s a novelty, like my glasses. A toy to play with. He’s so innocent.

When I’m overwhelmed by frustration, remembering this and hearing his giggle is my way out of the bad feelings. Be like a baby! Be happy to spend all day inside with the ones you love! That mask on your face is FUNNY, woman! 

“This is ridiculous. We’re twelve days past my positive test and you haven’t caught it? Why are we still sleeping apart? Why are you still distancing from us?”

“Everything matters or nothing matters, my Honey.”

As I turn on my heel and head back to the other room, I let the misplaced anger at our messy apartment, rise off my skin like steam.

Despite our mantra, 14 days past my positive test, Christian falls ill with COVID and we’re isolated again. Stressed and guilty and scared again.

Another week goes by

“Thank you for practicing with me! Namasté little baby!” 

Hero looks up from his fenced in corral. I’ve dumped wooden blocks out in swirls to entertain him. Every three minutes or so he scoots to the edge to pull up and check in on my yoga practice. My sticky mat laid out beside him. Sometimes I stop to hold him. Sometimes I keep going and he settles on his own.

I fantasize about the Urban Yoga Spa I used to visit daily. Twisting out grief, alcohol, jealousy, in a room with fifty foot ceilings perfectly heated to 98 degrees…what exactly were my concerns  before the pandemic and my son? Now, as we move through our Peachey Rosso quarantine that extends three weeks into February, I go through the motions with daily sun salutations in my living room at dawn.

I am frustrated, filled with rage, angry and exhausted. But I’m okay. I am acutely aware of how much I have to be grateful for. And despite it all, I know how to have fun – like a little baby. It’s getting better, we are healing, one day at a time. 

You did good, Mama. 

Opal and Hero, day 5 of quarantine.

Performing Bohemia successfully during the Omicron surge of 2022.

Safety Officer tests positive! Yes, I can laugh about it now.