This Is Us

Invisible: The Fault Lines of Motherhood

We take a few steps from our beds to remote teaching and remote learning, to four desks in three rooms. In our Queens, New York City apartment, we endure lock down, our entry into the pandemic. I hear eight-year old giggling and then I tell him to get off YouTube for the millionth time. I want to slam the lid shut. But he’s supposed to be in school; he needs it to connect with his friends. Now every time I look, he’s opening and closing windows like a secret agent.

He’s a social kid who’s cut off. I hear him talking to his friends. His I’m-taking-you-seriously voice, his laughing voice, his squealing voice, his excited-and-competitive voice, his frustrated voice. Phones, tablets, and laptops orchestrate a community of 8-year olds typing, messaging, chatting, clicking away Online.

8-year old has been my co-worker for over a year now, and he’s constantly clicking. Our desks are side-by-side, so I lean over and say, “Please stop clicking! I’m grading papers.” When we attempt to tug, limit, it’s-been-5-hours — at his brimming bottles of tech, he explodes. We’re online too much, planning, teaching, grading ourselves. Daily, I motion for 8-year old to get off YouTube, snapping my fingers while, simultaneously talking to my students. He smiles as he slowly shifts his laptop away from my vision.