Neverlings

We may need new words to describe this time, but parents have an ancient job to do

“Momma, are we nevering right now?” My 5-year old invented this word yesterday, but wouldn’t tell me what it means. He’s articulate, verbose even, so his lack of clarification intrigued me. Is he playing a game? Does he just not know that ‘never’ is an adverb?

I actually think on some level, he’s realizing the limitations of language to describe this time in our lives. As a parent, it’s not my job to stop the world for my kids, even in a pandemic: It’s to craft beautiful containers to safely store their emotions, knowing I will carry the box when it gets too heavy. I am their answer, no matter what the question. I define the unwanted words that wrest their way into our lives. And so, my hearts, I give you this:

The act of walking through things we never imagined, together

Never is no longer a known quantity; instead, it sheds its skin every day as we get used to more and more we didn’t see coming. I never imagined having to break my children’s hearts in stages; no granny and grandpa, no friends, no teachers, no favourite wilderness spots. My toddler turned three mid-March, and the pandemic ate her birthday party.

And while I’m shielding them from new hurts, I’m also leaning into what this means for all of us. The economy will never fully recover. Racialized communities are being policed with a viral fervour. People are being forced to isolate with their abusers. New York is digging mass graves. Just when one shock has subsided, the earth shakes again.

I’ve realized in parenthood that “always” is not a gift I can easily give to my kids. But I didn’t anticipate having to explain the ways that “never” is becoming our daily reality — and that I don’t know what’s ahead.

But walking into the never, it turns out, gives us a tender power. When we enter a space beyond our wildest imagination, we realize that what seemed impossible is within our grasp afterall. I can bend the clock’s minute-hand if we need more time to get moving. We can loll in our PJs and eat cookies for breakfast. Our backyard has become a garden of green dreams that we know will lick at the heels of our sleepy winter campfires. The whir of the highway has been replaced by the wind, shifting from soft to insistent, making us travellers of a different sort.

I won’t pretend it’s all cookies and campfires; far from it, the challenges have worn out their welcome. But I need to remember that I can still fill my children’s tiny universe with the kind of intention that only comes from moving slowly, digging deep, and listening fully.

Like all parents, I long to keep you little forever. But the world needs your gifts in ways I never imagined — so we’ll walk forward, together, my neverlings.

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