artificial insemination kit for humans
“You don’t know me at all!”
With that outburst, my 14-year-old son, Ethan, slammed the door, leaving me to lean against it, feeling defeated. This was not the first time a discussion about his messy room had escalated into a heated argument. When the pandemic forced us to leave the city for our upstate home, the bond we once shared began to fray. Our interactions became awkward, and on the worst days, they erupted into chaos. Ethan was frustrated with everything I said, and during one particularly tough episode, he locked himself in his room for 12 hours. I even had to use a screwdriver to peek in on him while he slept. While we had escaped the external turmoil of the city, we couldn’t evade the emotional storm brewing within our own walls. For the first time, I felt utterly at a loss.
Deep down, I carried childhood beliefs that I wasn’t enough as I was. A disapproving glance from my father could send me spiraling into shame. I learned to please him at the expense of my own happiness, only later discovering the value of being true to myself.
In contrast, my parenting journey with my first child, Lily, felt seamless. I was committed to prioritizing her needs, and our bond flourished as a result. We were that annoyingly perfect mother-daughter duo, sharing laughter in grocery aisles and inside jokes. We once woke up at dawn to visit a pop-up cafe, pretending to be characters from our favorite show. I learned TikTok dances with her and hosted sleepovers long after she’d outgrown them.
But after the pandemic hit, things changed. In one explosive moment, I suggested Ethan sit at a desk rather than on his bed for online classes, a remark that incited his wrath.
Later, while walking by a lake, I casually admired a swan’s grace, only to be met with his anger: “Swans? You think I care about some swan? You’re so clueless!” After another intense standoff, I realized we were at a crossroads.
One day, as I scrolled through Facebook, I stumbled upon my neighborhood’s “Buy Nothing” group—a space dedicated to sharing items rather than accumulating more. Initially, members posted requests for costumes or board games, but as the pandemic progressed, the group transformed. Posts began showcasing acts of kindness: a free pumpkin pie offered to someone in need, legal advice for a woman seeking a divorce, and even handmade gifts. One touching post came from a woman who received multiple rugs and noise-canceling headphones to help with her PTSD.
These gestures of goodwill provided a refreshing contrast to the overwhelming negativity outside. After the loss of my fifth colleague to COVID-19, someone humorously posted about self-care. Following another somber Zoom funeral, another member offered their home to a first responder. The camaraderie within that group became a lifeline during uncertain times.
This evolution in the group mirrored my relationship with Ethan. Growing up, I often felt defined by my father’s expectations. I would study Scrabble strategies to impress him, and when I chose family over a state meet, my coach cut me from the track team. It took years to realize that seeking my father’s approval didn’t lead to my happiness. Choosing not to pursue law school, despite his disappointment, was an act of rebellion that took me years to embrace.
I had believed that by allowing Ethan to express his emotions, I was offering him a different experience than my own. However, I realized that I had merely shifted from being a dutiful daughter to a hovering mother, and my desire for closeness with him was more for my sake than his. His anger was a reflection of my own unresolved issues rather than a personal failing.
One day, sitting at the foot of his bed, I admitted, “I’m trying to understand you.”
“I just don’t want you to know me anymore,” he replied. “I don’t even know myself!”
That hit home.
After Thanksgiving, I posted in the Buy Nothing group looking for a wishbone. My mother used to save one for Ethan, and I hoped to revive that tradition. Someone responded, and after a contactless pickup, I brought home the wishbone.
As I unwrapped it, I braced for his typical skepticism. To my surprise, he lit up with excitement, eager to make a wish. “Hold on tightly,” I instructed. As we pulled it apart, our eyes met, and I let go.