Before I had my child, I dreamed of making a living as a published author. I earned my MFA in Writing, graduating when my baby was five months old. I spent the next few months querying literary agents and finally landed one after more than 25 rejections.
My middle grade novel manuscript went on submission and racked up even more rejections, and with each “It’s just not for us,” my dream faded just a little bit.
After one particularly crushing rejection wherein my book made it to the acquisitions meeting at the publisher but failed to earn support from the whole publishing house, I decided to focus on something else: freelance writing.
It surprised me, how much I enjoyed writing for other people. In the first year I kept my hours low because my kid was only two-and-a-half and I didn’t want to take time away from him.
I worked during his naptimes and those sweet hours of post-bedtime peace and quiet. The flexibility to adjust my worktimes as needed based on whatever was going on with my son was swoon-worthy to me.
But as the months went by, I got more work
A good thing! And yet, a stressful one. My kid stopped napping, but he did start preschool for two-and-a-half hours a day.
This became my time to work, and I remember feeling so happy in the late fall of 2019 and early winter of 2020. I was living my dream life as a writer and a mother, despite failing to achieve my publishing dreams.
My income had begun to really make a difference in the life my teacher-partner and I could give our son: we live in a small house in a less-than-perfect neighborhood, but with my income added to my partner’s, we could go out for coffee or ice cream, visit children’s museums, and take little weekend trips in our beautiful home state, Alaska.
You know what happens next
March of 2020 shattered this ideal life, as it did for millions of people around the world. My kid’s spring break never ended, my partner’s hours at work increased as he adjusted to virtual learning, and I started staying up till midnight or one in the morning to finish all my work.
Which I was very, very grateful to have.
During the 2020-2021 school year, I was luckier than most parents
My kid’s school stayed open. Still a preschooler, he wore a mask every day, and I wholeheartedly believe it kept him safe when someone in his class contracted COVID-19 and he had to quarantine for two weeks.
Anytime he had a sniffle, we locked down into instant quarantine. We headed to the doctor for COVID tests that made my child shriek. But still: for a large portion of the year, I at least had those two-and-a-half hours to work.
By mid-June of 2021, I was feeling good about the upcoming school year. My partner and I were fully immunized. COVID-19 case counts had dropped dramatically in my state. Now 5, my kid would begin kindergarten in just a couple of months and I couldn’t wait to have six-and-a-half precious hours a day to write, write, write.
My manuscript had finally sold to a publisher — a dream come true. But freelance writing was, and still is, my bread and butter. With my kid in kindergarten, I’d get to spend time marketing my debut novel, writing my second book, and freelancing.
But then came late July
And now, August. Thanks to the Delta variant, COVID-19 cases in my area are up 43% from last week. Our hospitalization rate and death count are rising. As of right now, the week before the kindergarteners go to school, my school district has failed to implement a mask mandate to keep kids safe.
I’ve put a pause on connecting with area teachers and librarians for author visits until it’s safe to do so. Launch events for my book have been modified, put on hold, or rescheduled. I fully support it all, but it’s still a letdown.
And I’m feeling frustrated, sad, angry, and tired to the very depths of my soul. In a pre-COVID world, I would be feeling elated right now, knowing my kid would be attending kindergarten at a school he knows and loves, knowing I’d get time to work on everything I need to do for my writing career.
I’d get to promote my new book and stay caught up on all my freelancing work. Sure, my kid might get sick once or twice, but he’d only miss maybe a week, max.
After school, I would pick him up, feeling accomplished and ready to be a fully present mama.
But the before times are long gone
Now, I expect the phone call. I’ve gotten it before: your child has been exposed to COVID and will need to quarantine and get tested after five days.
I’ll feel the tightening in my chest. I’ll watch my kid closely. Every sneeze will make my heart drop.
Does he finally have COVID-19, after all this time of escaping it? If he does get it, I’ll worry for weeks after he recovers, watching for signs of the dangerous MIS-C complication.
Or maybe he won’t have it. I’ll feel relieved. I’ll also feel like I’m drowning in the work that piles up with each missed day of school. I’ll let my kid watch Vivo! and his favorite kid influencers on YouTube all day so I can stay afloat, but mom guilt will push me deeper underwater. The writers of the world who aren’t parents will keep writing and publishing the novels they started in lockdown, and we mamas who write — and those who don’t — will limp along as best we can, falling behind with each quarantine.
It’s exhausting. It’s disheartening. It seems like this will never end.
But there’s a pinprick of hope — and that’s what I’ll be holidng onto.
In the meantime, I’m keeping my personal goals reined in, because this school year I won’t have a guaranteed school day to write and work. Instead, each day will be another massive unknown.
I’ll try to hold on to the hope that maybe next year, things will finally get better. But mamas, it’s getting harder and harder to believe even that.
*Laura Ojeda Melchor is the author of Missing Okalee, a middle grade novel about sisterhood, loss, and friendship, out September 7 from Shadow Mountain Publishing. *
