The People We Remember

Part 2

It was the first time I'd ever spent so much time confined with my son. My parenting strategy with Andrew before the lockdown was inspired by my management style with my start-ups. I would look at the work that needed to be performed. Then I would divide it into discrete areas of focus: cooking, hygiene, exercise, therapy, education. Then I would pay top dollar to a team of people better qualified than me to perform the specialized roles.

Then came the shutdown. And Andrew's Montessori school was shuttered. And my team of nannies, therapists, tutors, chefs and cleaners were no longer available. And my money and status and power could no longer insulate me from my responsibilities as a mother. I was left to fend for myself with my boy, equipped with nothing but my life skills.

We had settled into our new routine in the early months. Me waking up and getting Andrew breakfast. Me trying to get him into a rhythm with some sort of ridiculous online home learning program. Me nagging Andrew when he exceeded his screen time, first gentle, then flustered, finally enraged. Me breaking down during the day, feeling like a complete failure as a parent.

"I don't want you to work now. You're always working."

"I have to," I explained without conviction.

"Then can I play with someone else?"

"Not right now Andrew."

"What about Daddy? I never have calls with him anymore."

Daddy betrayed us. Daddy has a new family with a younger, prettier woman who was a student in one of his graduate courses. Some things cannot be forgiven. My parents had warned me. They said his values were different than mine. But he's a genius I told them. That's not what matters, they counseled.

"What about Grandma and Grandpa? They always have time to play."

They do have a lot of time on their hands.

"Why can't I go see them in Pennsylvania?"

"Because we can't travel now. No one can. You know that."

"Why not."

"I told you. Everyone must stay home. Just to be safe."

"But I miss them."

***

"Mom, Dad I need your help." We were speaking via video chat on an evening when I was particularly exasperated. "I am sorry I haven't been a better daughter."

"What are you talking about. You're a wonderful daughter."

"No, I am not." Tears were streaming down my face. "I was mad at you because I knew you didn't like Steven. You think I made mistakes. And you were right. I was too proud to admit it."

"Don't think about that," my mother said. "Think of everything you've done. Think what a wonderful son you're raising."

"I am not raising him. It's a disaster. I have no idea how to do it."

"We're here for you, Sara. Always. We can't travel now. No one can. But what can we do?"

"Spend time with Andrew on the video chat. He's lonely. He's confused. I don't know how to make it better. All these degrees and all this money and I am totally useless."

"You know that's not true," my father said.

"Please just spent time with him on the video. Spend as much time as he wants," I pleaded. "I can cook for him. I can do his laundry and make sure he takes a bath and brushes his teeth. But I need my time right now. I am working on something important."

"Put him on the screen with us, Sara. We love to spend time with him. Just like we loved to spend it with you at his age."

I was always very different from my parents. It was probably inevitable. They were both raised in an absence of love, attention and affection. And to compensate for that I was raised in an abundance of it. And perhaps for that reason I took it for granted.

They say that people are conditioned to value a resource based on its scarcity. My parents grew up in households where their parents were never around to share time together, to listen to each other, to express their feelings. And because my nature was so different than theirs, I was repelled by those things.

When I was young, I didn't want to eat dinner together. I didn't want to talk about my day. In high school, I would take my food and go straight to my room to work on my studies. I had it in my mind that all those things my parents celebrated were just little things.

I wanted to be involved in big things. Not the kind of actions that might make one or two people feel better, like sending a card to a lonely aunt or helping an elderly neighbor prune the hedges in her garden. I wanted to do something that would impact millions, or even billions, of people. Like Steve Jobs and Marie Curie. Those who people who shaped the course of the history, the ones we remembered.

But Andrew had always been more like them in that regard. They could go for hours on the video chat. When they weren't face-to-face onscreen, he could write about every little thing he was feeling and put in a message. That was how it started. As the months dragged on, the hours of video, text and emails accumulated. I found a way to incorporate all that into my work. Project Itako continued to accelerate.

***.

"Mommy, Grandma and Grandpa say we have souls. They say we are spirits that are alive before we're born and after we die."

"A lot of people believe that, Andrew."

"Do you believe it, Mommy?"

"Why don't we watch a TV show together, Sweety."

"You're not answering me, Mommy."

"Did Grandma and Grandpa tell you about when I was your age, Andrew?"

"They said you believed something different."

"That's right. I said that people made those ideas. The idea about God, and the world of spirits that live on after we die."

"Do you believe that now, Mommy?"

"I'll tell you what I do believe. I believe people can do amazing things when they put their mind to it. I believe we can find a way to solve the problems that scare us more than anything."