“AM I DOING THIS RIGHT?” MODERN PARENT CONTEST
Chasing Dreams In The Pandemic
We took social distancing to a whole new level
It has been exactly 14 months, 10 days since I last saw my husband and children. As a virus had just started to sweep several parts of the world, I underestimated its potential and took off.
Yes took off to a different country, leaving my kids aged 6 and 8 behind. My pulse raced faster than the luggage on the check-in belt as I braved a face to bid them goodbye with no return date in sight.
Glancing at the family, one last time through the small opening before making my way to the aircraft, I fought those tears from falling. They were as adamant and brutal as the snow outside.
With sniffles hidden behind that covid mask and glasses still fogged up from the chilly air in snowy Rochester, I flew away to another world, without having a valid visa to return.
My husband was working on a temporary work visa and chances of renewal were bleak. I did not want to be dragged to my home country and relive that nightmare with two almost American kids.
Thus, after ten years of living as a family, I decided to move to Germany and study to become a nurse.
I have been enjoying my singlehood a little longer than expected. Just one week after I landed in Frankfurt, the whole world came to a standstill.
My son’s Indian expired passport got stuck in India and its corona crises. My mother-in-law, who was supposed to come help in the USA, was stuck alone in New Delhi.
My working husband worked overtime to rapidly teach himself to be breadwinner, chef, and housekeeper all rolled into one
The pandemic actually worked in his favor. Had it not allowed him to work from home, he would not have been able to manage the sudden responsibility that came upon him.
Unknowingly, I entered into a profession in demand, nursing strangers in a strange land, talking to them in a foreign language, while not having any time to talk to my own.
At a time when the whole world was keeping their family close, we practiced social distance at a whole new level.
As a special-skilled worker in the USA, my husband was tied to his Indian employer. He could only beg them to file our green card. He chased his bosses like the dog after the bone. They showed him the bone, putting one condition after another, never fulfilling their promise.
Granting certainty to their employees was not in their favor. They made a lot of money through contractors who worked harder than most Americans for only a quarter of the salary. Besides, it would take forever to get a green card.
Something needed to be done, and I had to do it. If my husband made too much of a noise, he could be sent back immediately, threatening our legal stay too.
My husband moved to the USA one month after we got married. News of my unplanned pregnancy came at this inopportune time. My new partner was leaving soon for the states and I was expected to spend an uncertain amount of time with my mother-in-law — a single widow I did not know.
Throughout the pregnancy, I was sick. The fetus in me made me throw up every bite I ate.
In the middle of the second month, the Opera firm I sang for, surprised me with my dream scholarship to France. I had waited all my life for this. When I was single, they had no funds. Suddenly, when I was too far along in the pregnancy, God decided to hear my prayers.
I had to refuse. I blamed the monster in my tummy for all the bad luck I was facing. I blamed myself for being the cruel mother I could not help being.
Every moment I spent trying to wait for the baby was a pain. He came one month early. I had to be operated on in an emergency as the BP went up, and the baby’s heartbeat down.
When I saw my tiny hardly 3 lb son, I knew I had to give him my all. We tried to give him the best, and our best included, raising our offsprings in one of the most powerful countries in the world.
In 2011, I traveled to the USA with a 3-month-old son. My daughter was born there. We spent four years here, not realizing that the kids had made this their home.
In 2014, when my kids were 2 and 4, we had to move back to our homeland when the visa failed to renew.
Even before he could understand why Mumma was suddenly selling his things, my son was shoved into Indian school, trying to teach tiny fingers to hold a pencil and write cursive overnight.
As his tiny hands struggled to maintain the dexterity, his tiny lungs struggled to breathe in the polluted air his body wasn’t used to. He was on an inhaler every two hours.
I managed to secure a job as a music teacher in his school, which became the worst decision I made. A teacher’s kid was supposed to be exceptional in academics and influence other students.
I spent four hours daily bringing him up to speed, in an environment he did not belong to, hearing a language he did not speak. His little fingers succumbed to the challenge, formulating the Devanagari script, but his body was not able to keep pace.
He started having accidents even when potty trained.
My husband could no longer face the music. He secured a contract and a visa to get back to the US. They are still there, but there was no way to make America their home forever.
The American dream was proving a threat to my son’s development. School in the USA had labeled him slow and on the spectrum. He was taking speech therapy that was not helping, because, no therapy could change his personality.
He worked silently building castles out of cardboard, carving trash into movable objects, but did not speak unless absolutely necessary.
This demeanor, he inherited from his father who drilled down to every detail of a subject when questioned but kept quiet when he had nothing reasonable to say.
My son was a perfectionist like his dad. He wanted to ensure that his answer made sense. When in doubt, he would keep his trap shut and contemplate. The latter outweighed the times he would actually talk.
Today as I got back from my night shift, my son found the international code to dial my number from the landline and called me for the first time.
‘Mama’, cried his voice, muffled and fearful.
I swallowed a lump in my throat waiting to hear the dreadful news he had to bear.
No one called from the landline, and especially not at this hour.
“I have class in 7 minutes. The computer is blacked out. Please tell my teacher I can’t log on”, he sobbed uncontrollably.
Relieved that this was the only issue, I informed the teacher, knowing fully well that his genuineness would not be acknowledged or appreciated.
Each time we moved, we moved for his sake. This over-adjusting child swallowed the cultural shock, accepted critique.
He tried his best to please everyone. But his best, like at this time too, was not enough.
It’s been a week. The family has been having soaring fever at home.
My husband informed one teacher about their absence through email. He failed to do this every day, as none of them had the strength to get up and check emails. He did not tell me, being the paranoid mom I am.
But the teacher did.
Hi XYZ,
Leonard (name changed) is continuing to miss many classes and assignments. I continue to have concerns regarding his academic progress. Is it possible for him to set an alarm for class?
Thank you,
As my son’s helpless cries ring in my ears, I have no choice but to drown my fears in the weight of ink.
In a midst of a pandemic threatening lives, we lose precious family time in our quest to gift our children the most rewarding life.
Is it worth it? Will we ever make up for the time lost? Will yet another 360-degree change of culture and language do them good?
Too many parents make life hard for their children by trying, too zealously, to make it easy for them.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Shout out to Sarah Lau Parker for helping me put life into this piece.
Shireen is an avid writer, budding Opera singer, apprentice nurse, dog sitter, dog walker, walker…. Jack of all trades and master of one — Mother to two children aged 8 and 10!
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