The (Heavy) Mental Load

The mental load is something that I have read and thought about quite a lot since becoming a mother.  This term “mental load” refers to everything that mothers have to remember and juggle in their minds; all the work that goes unseen. For example – scheduling medical and dental check-ups, booking haircuts, organising wardrobes as seasons (and sizes) change, noticing when to buy new shoes, remembering which school activities happen on which days and buying/sending/practising whatever is needed for these.  This is over above regular household chores like grocery shopping, laundry, cooking.  It is over and above our ‘day jobs’.  It is over and above our own self-care, social activities and general wellbeing – these being the very last on our ‘to do’ lists.  The physical, mental and emotional loads of mothers have never been greater than now, during the COVID pandemic.  New York Time Parenting (@nytparenting) is releasing a special project (in conjunction with @nyt gender) examining the emotional and economic effects of the pandemic on American mothers.  Worldwide, we have had to be teacher, housekeeper, cook, cleaner, playmate, entertainer, snack provider, personal online shopper, and much more.  All while holding down our own jobs.  All while trying to maintain some sense of routine and security for our children. 

I am an anxious person by nature.  I am Type A and a perfectionist.  I expect a lot from myself and am neither particularly kind nor forgiving of my own flaws and weaknesses.  I am my own harshest critic.  When I became a mother, this was all amplified because I also have a very strong sense of duty and responsibility.  There is no question that having this type of temperament further burdens the mental load, because I struggle to do things sub-par, but when there is so much to juggle, it is virtually impossible for it all to be done to the exacting standard that I’d usually strive for and expect from myself. 

Now factor in a child who has additional needs of any kind, and this mental load multiplies exponentially: extra appointments, extra activities, therapy home programmes, extra practice needed for school activities like ‘weekend news’ or ‘show and tell’, specific and limited food choices, extended mealtimes, specialist doctor’s appointments at regular intervals, therapy observations, team meetings.  It is like having an extra layer on top of an already extra layer – of things to worry about, think about, schedule, plan and do.  I think that this added layer is also part of the reason why I have a visceral reaction every time I get an unanticipated message from N’s school or one of his therapists either asking me to come in and see them or setting up a phone call/zoom meeting.  Towards the end of last year, the day after our hour-long (intense) team feedback, I got a WhatsApp from a therapist asking if I had at least half an hour for a meeting the following day.  My first reaction was that I was going to vomit.  My second reaction was that I was going to burst into tears.  She must have somehow sensed this through my response because she immediately followed it up with “it’s nothing bad”.  The thing is, even if I know or am told this, my feelings are much the same.  I know that even if it “isn’t bad”, it probably isn’t great either.  It will no doubt mean something else that I will need to do / buy / book / schedule / try / consider.  Naturally, this means one more thing for me to have to remember and also to worry about.

Adjusting to being a working mother meant practising the art of juggling and getting used to feeling that I was under-performing in every sphere.  The juggle was especially difficult during N’s first year of therapies when he was still at a mainstream playschool and all therapy was external.  On a Monday, he would have speech therapy at 8:00a.m. and then we would rush to school in the hopes that he made it in time for Clamber Club (his favourite school activity).  Then I would rush to work to start seeing patients an hour later than I usually would.  There could be no delays, no traffic jams and no parking lot chit-chat.  Because we also needed to have OT one morning a week, Wednesday mornings were for therapy only – no school and no work.  We would first go to speech therapy for 30 minutes and then drive to OT about 20 minutes away.  We would usually arrive in time for N to have a snack in the car and then he would have his 45-50 minute session.  Because I had to facilitate as well as observe the therapies, I could not use any of that time to even return calls or send emails.  I had to be present and focussed.  For this reason, it was life-changing for all of us when N started at the language unit the following year and started receiving both speech and occupational therapy at school.  Yes, I had to observe therapy, but it was from behind a one-way mirror and it was only 30 minutes once a week.  Aside from being easier for me, it was so much better for N, as the therapy was integrated into his school day and he wasn’t being rushed around and yanked in and out of the car by a frazzled and frantic mother.  I got so tired of hearing myself telling him to “hurry up”.

Anyway, I am digressing from the topic, but you can see how the physical practicalities of having a child with additional needs can get out of hand very easily.  Now imagine what goes on in the mind of the mother.  I still often wake up in the middle of the night and remember that I haven’t scheduled the 6-month follow-up with the developmental paediatrician or that I haven’t sent N’s most recent reports to his possible primary school (in preparation for his assessment).  I will be driving and suddenly realise that I haven’t set up an observation or I forgot to tell N’s OT about his new aversion to ice-cream (because it’s too cold).  I monitor our medical aid daily to check that one therapist has been paid and that I am being reimbursed for the other; to see how much is left in the medical savings and that the correct codes are being used in order for his extended benefit to be applied.  I check my phone each morning to complete COVID checklists to guarantee N has his therapy sessions and I make sure to factor in time throughout the day for other therapy protocols that need to be done regularly at home.    I also know that this mental load is only going to increase as N enters into his years of formal schooling (from next year) and has to do homework, extra-curricular activities and sports in addition to his therapies.  I get a knot in my stomach when I think about how long it is going to take to complete said homework (when just eating supper can take an hour); I wonder about how we are going to prioritise everything so that he has a healthy balance while still getting what he needs; I doubt my patience and skills in terms of providing him with the help at home that he will most likely require from me.  Today his prospective primary school called me about scheduling his pre-admission assessment.  While I am relieved that his name is on the list and all the time spent applying and following up has borne fruit, I feel extremely anxious that this is a step that is moving closer and bringing many known and unknown “add-ons” to the load.

The thing with juggling is that you inevitably drop at least 1 ball.  I suppose I always default to the fact that I dropped the ball in picking up N’s speech delay, something which I am yet to “get over” and maybe that is where this deep-seated fear comes from.  Or maybe it is just the wiring of a mother.