Parenting alone in Germany during the pandemic

On some days, when the birds are chirping and the sun is shining and I’m standing at my kitchen window, hands plunged elbow-deep in sudsy water, I wonder what kind of mother I would be if I wasn’t so exhausted.

I watch as the neighbours pack up their camper van, mount their bikes on its rack, and drive off to the forest for a few weeks away and wonder, if I weren’t doing this on my own, would we be doing that? I see, from my second-floor apartment, the family across the street digging in the dirt, inserting an azalea bush that will burst into a flaming pink next spring. At the beginning of the pandemic, they bought a trampoline. In July, a swimming pool. 

My daughter used to watch out of her bedroom window with envy as these neighbourhood kids jumped and splashed and played. But as the months of social distancing have worn on and it's become apparent our family of two isn’t included in these other families' pods, she has turned more inward. Reading books about horses, fantasising about a different reality. 

As one of over 3.5 million children in Germany whose parents could not afford a summer vacation even before Corona, she's used to spending her time off school at home. And as the daughter of a single mother, she’s learned how to entertain herself well. Neither of us had been prepared for a pandemic that kept us indoors, isolated from the rest of the world for months in a sunny apartment that always felt too small, but we managed. 

We live in Cologne, Germany, and had been watching as the first outbreak swept through a nearby community in mid-February following Carnival celebrations. Supermarkets sold out of pasta and toilet paper within a week, their shelves empty before the child support payment with which I do my grocery shopping hit my bank account. Once that money arrived, though, we got a 14-day supply of non-perishables. No potatoes or lentils or rice or sandwich bread. But we had enough. 

I ignored the incessant emails from the embassy warning US citizens that if we wanted to go home, we’d have to do so immediately. Home, for us, was on both sides of the Atlantic; for this moment, I chose Germany. Even as Germany has reminded me over and over that it is not my home. Employers pass over my CV, noting, illegally, that with a child at home I won't manage long hours. Administrators deny public assistance because I'm not yet a citizen. Bureaucrats demand I get my absent ex-husband's permission to do anything, including stay or leave. 

The decision to stay came with a price. For four months, I would be solely responsible for my daughter. No one else would be there to assist with schoolwork or relieve me of household chores. It would be fine, I thought. Nothing new, really.

My daughter’s school struggled to switch to e-learning; first they granted the kids a week off, then sent a packet of worksheets to print. It was double the workload and my printer ink dried up halfway through. With shops closed, we waited two weeks for a new cartridge delivery, and while we waited, we patchworked our way through her education, replacing English lessons with audio books that she could listen to while I worked. I sent emails to clients, looking for odd jobs I could do while seated beside her at the kitchen table. One by one, these businesses replied that their freelance budgets had dried up.

As the weeks passed, our only connection to the outside world became a daily walk in a nearby park. Friends stopped "just checking in." My daughter's classmates never texted, claiming the grief at not being able to see each other in person was too overwhelming. Several of them, when they did phone in to the school's video conferences, revealed they'd escaped to second homes in the mountains or at the lake. 

I swallowed my own envy. In comparison to many other single parents in Germany, 90% of whom are women, I have nothing to complain about. My child does not belong to the 20% of children in Germany ­– one of the world's wealthiest nations – who was at risk of poverty before the pandemic even began, a number that has surely increased as the country enters recession. My landlord is an elderly woman who raised her children on her own; she’ll understand if, after my savings are depleted, I need to pay rent late.

But as I sit here listing my daughter’s too-small clothing and outgrown toys on eBay for next month’s rent, I wonder how much longer this can continue. The shutdown may be in the past, but the pandemic’s effects are still rippling through our lives. I wonder if we will ever get to a point where our politicians believe in a universal basic income. If they will ever tax the inheritances of the wealthiest around me instead of instituting increasingly punitive measures on those who’ve lost their jobs or applied for welfare.

The German government has been praised worldwide for its response to the pandemic, not only medically but also economically and socially. But these reports neglect the bottom section of society; those day laborers and the self-employed who don’t qualify for unemployment assistance or public housing assistance. The single mothers who, like me, were already exhausted even before this virus entered our countries, extended its reach.