Dating : Finding Joy in the Parenting Chaos

In quarantine, I am embracing chaos once again.

I have been thinking about my son’s birth while we have been trapped together in quarantine. The shock of it, the disorientation. I hear echoes of that day in our current predicament. Fear tinged with gratitude. Deep connection paired with deep isolation.

My son’s birth was not beautiful. It was chaotic. As he grew, we constructed some semblance of order from play dates, sports, and preschool. But the pandemic has shattered our illusion of control. The chaos has swallowed us again.

I learned a lot about parenting while giving birth to my son, but I sometimes lost sight of those early lessons as our days filled up with scheduled activities, birthday parties, and trips to the playground. Now, living in the blank space where our family calendar used to be, those first perceptions are my anchors, my constants in a world adrift.

My water broke without warning at rush hour on a Monday, three days before my due date. The amniotic fluid was yellow and gloppy, which I knew was not right. It took us an hour to get across town to the hospital. Something was wrong, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I thought I just wasn’t ready.

“Three centimeters, thick mec,” a nurse reported from elbow-deep inside me, confirming that my son had pooped in my uterus. And with that, my first parenting lesson: The job requires an astonishing amount of bodily fluid clean-up.

My room filled with nurses, a swarm of women attaching monitors, inserting an IV, and slipping an oxygen mask over my face. “His heart rate is 50 beats per minute,” my husband said. “That’s a professional athlete’s heart rate,” I thought, before realizing I had no idea what a baby’s heart rate ought to be.

When the doctor on call arrived, he looked at the monitors and announced, “We’re having a c-section!” like a kid on breakfast-for-dinner night. There was no discussion, no shared decision-making, no time for explanation. I was a leaky boat, and my son was about to drown. Parenting lesson two: You are not in control.

Less than thirty minutes later, after whirlwind surgery prep and a risky epidural placement, the doctors yanked my son out of my abdomen. The room was silent. “Why isn’t he crying?” I asked no one and everyone, shaking uncontrollably. I didn’t know in those first harrowing moments that my son’s silent beginning would be an anomaly, replaced soon after by years upon years of ceaseless noise. Parenting lesson three: The only thing worse than the noise is unexpected silence.

We saw our son briefly before he was whisked away to the NICU. The umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck twice, and he was in shock. He stayed in the NICU for two days, a giant among preemies, guzzling bottle after bottle of formula. When he finally joined us, he was beautiful, strong, and starving. Parenting lesson four: If they’re hungry, they’re probably healthy.

My son’s birth was not beautiful, or serene, or empowering. It was not the stuff of lifestyle magazines. It was chaos. But so is parenting. For me, the best part of being a mom is the little, unscheduled moment when anything could happen, when my son is most likely to surprise, amaze, and inspire me.

I embraced the chaos on my son’s birthday because I had no choice. And now, in quarantine, I am embracing chaos once again. If I squint just right, on the good days, I can see these endless unscheduled hours as a gift. A precious gift of time with a person I almost didn’t get to meet. And on the bad days, well, at least I’m never bored. Parenting lesson five: Out of chaos, joy.