Drowning

What happens when I'm burnt out, and life gives me more?

Photo by Stormseeker on Unsplash

Raising children in a polycrisis is a gift and a curse. There are moments when I’m overcome with dread, pondering the potential future they will inhabit. AND, the task of keeping them alive is so all consuming that those thoughts are rare and fleeting. I have little capacity to stay up-to-date about the the latest absurdity on the global political scale. My reality has shrunk to the size of a bathtub.

The following piece is inspired by a wise man (the comedian Jim Gaffigan) who described having multiple children like this: “Imagine you're drowning...and then someone hands you a baby.”

Attempting to bathe a four-year-old boy is more challenging than bathing a cat. If you’ve never attempted this task, a cat would rather die than be submerged in water. Taishan is a four-year-old boy, and cats are his favorite animal—he resorts to speaking in meows when feeling nervous or shy. By some alignment of the planets, witchcraft, or coercion, I’ve managed to get catboy in the tub. But, there’s a problem.

“I need more water!”

I am happy to oblige. I open the faucet, the one that Maya has been asking me to fix for weeks because it feels loose. No hot water emerges. I attempt to close the faucet. Cold water continues surging into the tub. I twist the handle back and forth—nothing changes. Taishan is now screaming. “It’s too cold. It’s too cold. Turn off the water!” Five-month-old Tala, who was in the midst of falling sleep for the night is now awake and upset, screaming.

I’m drowning. I’m stuck in another impossible situation where nobody is going to get their needs met any time soon. I extract Taishan from the bath tub.

Now he’s screaming, “I want to take a bath!”

I wrap him in a towel and apologize that bathing is being postponed until tomorrow. The water level in the tub rises rapidly as my brain attempts to do something useful while being attacked on two fronts by screaming children. First, I run to the tool shed and grab a hex wrench hoping to tighten the loose handle on the faucet—nothing changes. I envision water spilling over the sides of the tub and permanently destroying our bathroom. A flicker of inspiration pulses in my sleep deprived brain—open the drain of the tub! The water level slowly dips, along with my anxiety. Then, I transition into having an ecological heart attack seeing all this precious water go straight down the drain. I retreat inward. C’mon brain. Think, damn it! Another slow motion synapse fires—turn the water off! I’ve never done this before in our home. I trek downstairs into our root cellar, an 8’ x 5’ concrete tomb, traversed by a maze of pipes and wires. I locate what looks like a water pipe with a blue switch and turn it clockwise. The water shuts off! Relief floods my body. I return upstairs and evaluate the tub as the water disappears down the drain. I test other faucets in the house and confirm the water for the entire house is now off. This would be a problem for any living being, but not having water in a house with a baby is a CATastrophe. How will we wash bottles? How will we do her daily bath? How will we do laundry if she throws up on our sheets in the middle of the night? OH, SHIT! How will Maya make coffee in the morning? I attempt several quick fixes on the faucet while Maya juggles Taishan and Tala who both continue to scream—nothing works. I search Youtube and discern that the positemp cartridge needs to be replaced. I lug up some jugs of emergency water from the root cellar and resolve to fix the issue in the morning. Both children eventually surrender to sleep.

The morning brings greater brain capacity. A trip to the hardware store procures the needed part. The faucet is repaired. Water is restored to our home. And, yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I am drowning.