I got to the farm around noon. There were cars but not a crowd. I wondered about the protocols for social distancing but saw that everything was laid out well. I was able to pick up my 2-quart cardboard basket easily, spritz on hand sanitizer and head out to the fields.
As soon as I got to the rows of blueberry bushes, I confirmed what I'd seen around: the branches were loaded. It was easy to choose a row and fill my basket with the beautiful berries.
I was "in the zone", picking, lost in my own thoughts, when I heard a small child whining. I realized that a mother with a toddler and a baby were one row over. The mom was trying to keep the baby in a stroller moving and explain to the toddler what to pick. The toddler wasn't having it. She wanted a drink. She wanted to eat. She was hot. She did not want to pick blueberries. The mother, exasperated, left the field and went off to find the girl lunch.
Over the next hour, I picked but also: I noticed.
In the entire time I was there, with the exception of one young couple, everyone coming to pick blueberries was a mother with one or more kids. There were two dads, but all the rest were mothers with children, from infants to probably 10 or 11.
I heard all the moms say the same thing to their children, almost verbatim: you pick only the BLUE ones. Not the green ones and not the purple ones. JUST the blue ones. Those are ripe and they're the good ones. It was obvious that this advice wasn't being strictly heeded.
I noticed that there were also groups of moms. They had come in pairs with their kids and I don't think it's a stretch to observe that they were coming to give the kids something to do but it seems like they came to talk.
I overheard moms checking information with each other. What are our options for school? What do you know about online programs? What are you doing for daycare? Have you been to a park yet and what was that like?? You could hear the anxiety in their voices.
I also observed that the farm had a teenager hired to patrol the blueberry patch, confirming that masks were being worn by all, including kids old enough not to yank it off immediately. He had an interesting and friendly approach. I was impressed. If he saw a group without masks, he would start by apologizing that he had to ask but...they really DID need to wear their masks, even the little one. I don't know if later in the day, parents reacted unpleasantly, but what I saw was surprise but not hostility. Masks were put back on.
I also saw moms who'd just had it. When one of their kids did something -- unseen by me -- I heard the reaction. "No, you do NOT DO THAT" "WHAT are you doing??" "I don't BELIEVE YOU." The veneer that they had entered the farm with cracked open. The exhaustion, the frustration came spilling out. Whatever the child had done, I didn't know. I am a parent myself and in fact, over the years, have brought my own kids to this farm and to these blueberry bushes. I am no stranger to parental stress. But this felt different. I know I can't say exactly what was behind it but it sounded to me like the moms who had hit the wall. I wanted to go up to them and hug them deeply.
By the time I was leaving, I realized I wanted to write about what I'd overheard. Because all I could think about was that in spite of demographic shifts, here I was seeing moms doing the childcare. And just to be clear: there is NOTHING wrong with moms taking kids blueberry picking. As a reminder to anyone who doesn't already know, I am out to smash the patriarchy, not men.
But moreover: this is the toll that the pandemic is taking on the mental health of parents. I don't know what alternatives we have but for parents to be primary caretakers AND homeschool monitors -- with careers and outside employment -- with fall coming, meaning more of the same for the foreseeable future, makes this a terrifying and soul-crushing moment. Even in the best of circumstances -- whatever that means-- parenthood is not for the faint of heart. This is just beyond anything. It would be unimaginable, except that it's not.
What I am thinking about now is that when "this" is over, when kids are able to go back to the scenarios where they are outside the home for hours during the day, I want every coronavirus parent to get a freaking medal. More than that, I want all of them to be congratulated for surviving and get hugs and ice cream and cake and champagne and cola and a parade with all the applause in the world, a standing ovation, whatever it is that makes them feel celebrated. My only wish is that I could pull this off.
As a side note, I want to say that I was able to do this because of my privilege. To choose when to go and pick fruit, to be able to have the money to afford to do so, is because I live a privileged live. Farm work is back breaking work, and migrant workers -- the ones who have little stability but do the MOST tiring, tedious, sometimes hazardous tasks -- suffer abuse daily. Unless it's egregious, we don't hear about it and in our consumer culture, we want what we want when we want it, we don't pay attention. Cesar Chavez was a hero of mine. I am no saint but I want to be honest with myself about this point.
So, know that if you are the parent, I am in awe of you. I don't know how you are doing it.
When a woman I know has a baby, I often tell her my story of post-partum depression. I do this and say: if you start to feel this way, reach out. To me or someone.
This is the way I feel now; it still feels like a rollercoaster. With school reopening (in some form), we are about to take another huge plunge down the track. Talk to someone if you need to. Talk to me. Reach out. I know the paper signs -- WE'RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER -- are everywhere, maybe to the point of invisibility, but it's still true. It's true when we remind each other that it is. We ARE all in this together.
Holding you all in love.
Peace.
