Saturday, February 06, 2021

In Her Words: ‘Mom! Mom! MOMMMMMM!’

Moms across America are teetering on the edge.
Dekeda Brown rises at 6:30 a.m. and takes a moment to reflect on the day ahead.Brenda Ann Kenneally for The New York Times

"I feel like a ticking time bomb that is constantly being pushed to the breaking point. Goodness, this is taxing."

— Dekeda Brown, 41, a married mother of two in Olney, Md. She works full time for a bank and is one course away from her associate's degree.

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Dekeda Brown was in her local grocery store thinking back to a year earlier, when she was onstage in New York accepting an award for Working Mother of the Year. Her husband had watched proudly from the crowd, texting photos to her daughters.

Now here she was in the wine aisle, cellphone and keys in hand, contemplating whether she should begin smashing bottles. "I was like, what's the worst thing that could happen if I just did this right now?" she said.

When the pandemic began, it didn't take long to realize that families — and mothers in particular — were being crushed by the dual burdens of work and home life. It was bad for everyone, but worse for moms who overnight found themselves bridging the gap on home-schooling, child care and, of course, holding down a job at the same time.

I began following Dekeda and two other mothers back in September.

The moms kept logs of their time — by text, email and audio — and sat for dozens of interviews. What emerged were stories of chaos and resilience, resentment and persistence, and of course, hope.

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Today's In Her Words takes you into Dekeda's story. You can read the other mothers' stories here as part of our special package, The Primal Scream.

Dekeda's work day really begins after Leilani's school day has finished and the dining room table has emptied.Brenda Ann Kenneally for The New York Times

Chaos

Dekeda was sitting at her dining room table — her "war room," as she calls it — with two laptops open, typing like a court stenographer. In her left ear, she was listening in on a conference call for work; in her right was the voice of her 15-year-old daughter's special education teacher, giving a math lesson. That daughter, Leilani, who has severe nonvocal autism and sensory processing disorder — meaning that she cannot speak words, needs help with most daily tasks and finds everyday stimuli excruciating — communicates with the teacher by touch screen.

It was late afternoon, and Dekeda's husband, Derrick, 46, had just walked in the door from work. He is a building engineer at a medical office. He waved hello, called up the stairs to their other daughter, London, 11, and made his usual beeline to the fridge.

Dekeda opened her mouth to remind him to wash his hands, but he began motioning toward the computer. "The teacher called on Leilani!" he said.

Quickly, Dekeda unmuted the computer and apologized, then helped her daughter type her answer into the screen. Moments later, she heard a pause in her other ear. It was from her boss. "What do you think, Dekeda?"

"This went on for an hour," Dekeda said of the toggling back and forth, trying not to mix up the mute buttons, apologizing to each party. "At the end, I retreated to my bedroom and cried."

Dekeda jokes that she doesn't know who she is these days, but that she used to be June Cleaver.

She worked out, got the girls off to two different schools each morning and managed to have dinner on the table by 7. On weekends, she was active in her church, coached a Special Olympics cheer squad and was an outspoken voice for the autism community; she runs a nonprofit group devoted to destigmatizing the lives of special-needs parents.

"Everything happened like clockwork," she said, "and I was so cheerful with it all."

These days, she is neither particularly cheerful nor on time. Church is now on Facebook; there is no more cheer practice, nor weekend date nights with her husband. She considers it a success if she makes it through the day without their puppy, Boomer — did she mention she got the girls a puppy in the pandemic? — peeing in the house.

"I'm an autism mom, and we always say, 'We can't get sick, we can't die and we can't have the breakdowns that we need,'" she said. "I have to keep it together for everyone else."

She is overdue for a mammogram and a follow-up with her gynecologist. She has been trying to find time to make an appointment with a therapist for almost a year. And she worries, she worries so much. About her husband's safety (he's had two Covid scares at work), about her kids' development, about all of their mental health.

Lately, London has been getting up early to make her mother tea and put the eggs on for breakfast. She offers to help her big sister with school when Dekeda has a work call. Which would be a huge help, if Dekeda didn't feel so guilty about it.

"In a nutshell, we are holding together with the same tape that we have been using since March," she said. "The tape is barely working, but we are still here."

Dekeda helps Leilani wake up and get ready for her school day.Brenda Ann Kenneally for The New York Times

Perseverance

On some days, Dekeda feels like she is killing the distance learning game.

"London will be upstairs at her laptop, fully engaged in class, while I multitask between helping Leilani and a video call for work," she said.

On other days, no matter how hard she tries to stay organized, how many lists she makes or how efficient she is, she just can't.

A few weeks before Christmas, the girls were excited because it was supposed to snow.

They had taken out their ski clothes and were waiting for Dekeda to finish work so she could take them (and the puppy — it was his first snow) out to play.

Dekeda was finishing up at her computer when the emails began to arrive, one after the next. There were six in total, from teachers at London's school, informing Dekeda: Her 11-year-old was failing. All but one class.

Dekeda and London have a pact: London can tell her mother anything and she will not get in trouble, as long as she is honest. But lately, Dekeda had worried about her normally spunky, opinionated daughter. "We'll have these chats where I think everything is OK, and then she bursts into tears."

Dekeda knew that London had been struggling with her assignments. She'd been working with her nightly to help her get organized. But she didn't know things had gotten this bad.

Dekeda handed her phone to her daughter, and asked her to read the emails. "I never baby talk to London," Dekeda said.

She read the messages, and her eyes welled with tears. "But Mommy, we've been working so hard," London said, gazing out the window at the snow.

"No, I understand. We've been working on getting these things submitted," Dekeda told her daughter. "You can still go out. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure?" London asked her.

"Yes, you deserve it. Go ahead," Dekeda told her. "We'll look at the work when you get back in."

Derrick had emerged in the living room by then, long enough to overhear what was going on. "I'll take them," he told his wife, grabbing the puppy's leash.

London, Leilani, Derrick and Boomer went outside to play, while Dekeda sat in silence with a cup of tea.

"Sometimes I have to tell myself I cannot do it all," she said. "That I cannot juggle all of these balls at once and not expect to drop one or two from time to time."

"And that is OK."

Dinner with Leilani and London.Brenda Ann Kenneally for The New York Times

Hope

There are times when Dekeda looks at her daughters and appreciates the little things she might have missed were she not at home this year: daily games of tug of war with their puppy; roller skating together in parking lots, which is therapeutic for Leilani and fun for London and Dekeda, too.

Hope for the vaccine, which Dekeda's husband will soon get. Hope for help, in the form of an autism aide for Leilani (she comes for two hours a day now, to give Dekeda a break).

The busyness will not subside in these scenarios, of course, but life may become more manageable. Anything has got to be easier than this.

The Primal Scream

The pandemic exposed "balance" for the lie that it is. Now, a generation is teetering on the edge. The Times explored the issues in special package, The Primal Scream.

Csilla Klenyánszki
  • "I just want to say, AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" We set up a Primal Scream phone line for working mothers. Hundreds called in. [Listen to their stories.]
  • "Covid took a crowbar into gender gaps and pried them open." This isn't just a school crisis, a work crisis or an economic crisis. It's a mental health crisis, too. [Read the story]
  • "Burnout" vs. "Betrayal" A psychiatrist suggests ways that moms can fight back when the system is stacked against them. [Read the story]
  • "Instead of a structural solution and policies, we've relied on the unpaid labor of women." Working moms are struggling. Here's what would help. [Read the story]
  • "You have to do this and this and this." How President Biden's proposed stimulus package might help women and families. [Read the story]
  • "It's hard enough even for lawyers to understand all of these laws, and they're changing every day." Know your workplace rights: We asked experts how to cut through the red tape and understand the legal jargon. [Read the story]

In Her Words is edited by Francesca Donner. Our art director is Catherine Gilmore-Barnes, and our photo editor is Sandra Stevenson.

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