CHOOSING LIFE: Mothering in 2020
Words by Amber Burns-Jones
Photos by Kendrick Jones
The other day was a first...
I sat on the toilet with my computer in my lap, scrolling social media and reading articles about home design. The bathroom is the only place where my absence isn’t questioned by my kids or partner. I sat there, ass out, twenty minutes post-relieving myself, and plotting on how I could steal a few more minutes of solitude without anyone in my home noticing. But they would notice. They always notice. Just then I heard my once calm and excited children in tears. I heard the frustration and tired restraint of my partner as he struggles to unlearn toxic parenting practices. I heard them, a collage of toddler anxiety, baby curiosity, and partner at his wit’s end, each of them longing for my return. For I am the salve. I am the balance. I am the salvation. And who or what, for the love of God, is mine?
“My body sometimes does not feel like my own. It is a vessel. It is a portal. It is nourishment and comfort.”
This situation could have taken place during any timeline. The circumstance of a pandemic wasn’t essential for this to be a reality. But the conditions intensify the sensation. For there is no relief. No homeschool co-op. No daycare. No day program or cousin sleepover. There are phone calls and screens that hold my children’s attention only ten minutes at a time. If I am able to stay awake past 9 pm (which is rare), I may be able to squeeze in a cocktail and movie with my partner before the first round of nighttime feedings begins. Did I mention I have two sets of twins? Ages three and one. And I’m exclusively nursing. Let’s not forget that part. My body is always in demand. My body sometimes does not feel like my own. It is a vessel. It is a portal. It is nourishment and comfort. I am the breathing teddy bear my babies snuggle against as they drift into sleep. Childrearing isn’t easy for anyone, especially when attempting to traumatize your children as little as possible. This weight is meant to be held by many.
“I brought life into this world as it descended into more visible mayhem.”
My first set of twins were born in March 2017, and were instantly thrust into the arms of our family, both blood and chosen. They were children of the community, accompanying us to events, brunch, and sometimes work. They were passed to/from the arms of elders and cousins and neighbors, each keeping a watchful eye on the precious beings when given to the next set of trusted hands. We would go days without seeing our children. Their presence was in high demand. The family would fight over whose turn it was to host the twins. Most days, the name of the host didn’t matter, because, by the end of the second hour, other family members had descended on the house. Whoever had them not only hosted toddlers but five-plus folks. It turned into a party. Everyone had their turn to love on the children.
In March 2020, our eldest children celebrated their third birthday at the Speed Art Museum surrounded, as they always were, by loved ones. Kentucky declared a state of emergency the following day. Our youngest children celebrated their first birthday in December 2020, nine months into the pandemic. Nine months of almost no contact with anyone outside of our home. Nine months of little to no awareness of how loved they were, by so many people, who yearned to hold them in their arms.
“And without that support of the village, I am compelled again to wonder, ‘Where is my relief?’”
When my father comes to visit, we stand on either side of our glass front door. My eldest children smile, jumping, reach for him and yell “Paw Paw!” The two youngest hide behind me, stare curiously, and, after several minutes, wave ‘bye bye.’ Sometimes they recognize him as a familiar face from video calls. Most of the time, they approach him as they would any stranger, with caution and delayed warmth.
Many parents can’t afford to social distance to the degree that my household has. Many don’t have the privilege of working from home, flexing time, or having a live-in parent who leads daytime child care. Although we count ourselves as one of the privileged in this instance, the reality that our household is all our youngest children know is hard, to say the least. Communal childrearing feels most natural to me. It is how I was raised and as a result, the words cousin and sibling are often synonyms for me. I have many mothers and fathers and places I call home. In my children’s first year of life, and the way things are going, possibly their second, they do not know that deep widespread love. And without that support of the village, I am compelled again to wonder, “Where is my relief?”
I brought life into this world as it descended into more visible mayhem. These feelings were already alive within me but layered with isolation, they began to fester. Every year I experience a moment when I think of leaving the family I have built. My curiosity imagines other paths, alternate lives, and passions.
“Nine months of little to no awareness of how loved they were, by so many people, who yearned to hold them in their arms. “
Thus far I have chosen to stay. Last year was no different in this sense. As curiosity prickled under my skin, I felt my choices dissipate. This time I had nowhere to go; no options to flirt with. Many borders were closed. Many friends, like me, were living in chosen isolation. Staying no longer felt like a choice. I felt trapped and guilty for what my children were missing.
This is not a silver lining piece where I share some form of enlightenment this experience has granted me; wisdom that can only be forged in the flames of trauma. No, I’m sharing what was, what is, what happened in 2020 and continues to be true today. I’m grieving. I’m shifting. Adapting. Moving with and against change as it suits me, to mixed results. Mostly, I'm choosing to love and live through it all. So I may be here to tell these stories tomorrow. So I am here to hold and kiss my babies. Stroke my partner’s hair, no longer waiting for children to be fast asleep, but in the light of day, between zoom meetings. Planting sweet kisses when webcams go off. I am being, in all my messy exhausted glory.
About the creatives
Amber (Left) is a southern writer, conjurer and birth doula.
Kendrick (Right) is a creative capturing the magic and mysticism of everyday life.