Quit Trying to Win the Quarantine

That’s it. It should go without saying, but I guess it has to be said. Please, for the love of toilet paper, quit trying to win the quarantine.

We win, by surviving it.

Pre-Cornavirus, social media was already the ultimate humble bragging platform.

I can barely button my jeans from high school after giving (natural) birth to baby #4. Oh well.

Maverick and Iris will only eat vegetables, they don’t even like processed food ;) #justsaynotogoldfishcrackers

During shelter-in-place we are being visually bombarded by Pinterest-Mom’s everywhere, attempting to showcase their family thriving during this madness. While the color-coded progress charts have dwindled significantly from week 2, we don’t want to see your homemade hand-print pots your husband helped your six kids make for Mother’s Day. This sh** is actually bananas, I don’t need a recipe for your low-fat bran-banana muffins.

It would be one thing if you’re trying to stay connected with family and friends by spreading some joy or hope, but inviting me to start a Virtual 30–Day Detox Challenge, while doing push-ups with your kids, is not inspiring me to do anything but block your account. If getting into shape is your biggest challenge during this time, consider yourself #blessed. Most of us are not in our houses trying to come out the other side with bilingual, potty-trained, scholars—we are just trying to make it out, period.

The irony, however is now we actually need social media to witness a-day-in-the-life of those we love. I would give anything to wrap my arms around my nephew’s little body and sniff his head like a bouquet of flowers. But in the meantime, I am thrilled to watch him describe, every type of moving vehicle with wheels, their color, size, and purpose. Do they happen to make a noise? Perfect! Make them loud enough so my sister mistakes it for a goat mid-aneurism.

Most people are taking a much-needed social media break. If we do happen to scroll through, the most motivational posts these days are ones owning the fact that THIS IS HARD. People are actually dying Karen, so no I don’t care to try your new space saving pantry organizational system.

We need the uplifting stories, we need resources, and we need acknowledgment of healthcare workers. Stop reading about America’s utter failure under tragic leadership and the country club elite/WWE fans, who take issue with anyone telling them what to do. We win by listening to doctors and scientists and using other countries successes, that could be our successes.  

If you haven’t already done so, I recommend deleting NextDoor entirely, unless you use it for 3am feeding entertainment, like I do. Those engaging in “let’s passive-aggressively police our neighbors” through proper face mask etiquette and parent-shaming, are so up on their high horse, they actually believe they are providing society with a necessary service. I read a thread where one gentlemen suggested the greenbelt only be used for walkers and instead of running “runners should consider jumping rope somewhere away from pedestrians”. Another women told parents not to allow their children to ride bikes and scooters anywhere near her driveway. Clearly, there are no winners here.

Congratulations on your quarantine creativity, creating a biodegradable “Life Cycle of the Butterfly” diorama. We will just be over here eating raw cookie dough for breakfast, while the kids start their second consecutive of what I call “homeschooling” by YouTube.

The Mother of All Days

The invisible load of motherhood during sheltering-in-place, has taken our already full plate and stacked it like it’s Thanksgiving after 60 days of fasting. It’s no secret, parenthood isn’t about equally distributing the weight of responsibilities— right out of the gate it’s uneven; it’s more about showing up for each other when we need it. And Dads we need you to show up on Sunday.

Not with things or flowers. If this time has taught us something, it’s that we definitely aren’t missing material objects.

Not with family time, on this front, our cup runneth over. See, when our kids are around us, they will take and take and we will always be there and giving. Even when it’s begrudgingly, we love these demanding creatures with everything we have.

What we want is a day where we don’t have to give.

What we need is time alone.

Time just for ourselves; where we aren’t making food we can’t finish, answering every request that is not our own, and flip-flopping between all our roles which now include new titles like home school educator and at-home employee.

Of course, we want the children to celebrate us in their own creative ways. After all, they joyously gave us the privilege of celebrating this holiday. Of course, we will honor our own Mothers on the day, and it will look different than ever before--but we will be inventive in this world of restrictions. After that, we will gratefully hand the reigns over to you.

Maybe this sounds selfish and strays from the Hallmark image of a family picnic or breakfast all together in bed. But we passed Hallmark right around the start of “virtual learning” and wearing masks and gloves to the grocery store.  

This means, Dads, too will get to be creative. Maybe, you’ve already mapped out an entire day’s worth of outdoor exercise and adventure, 6 feet from other families. This way we are free to wander from room-to-room without stumbling into a tiny human inquiring about a suspicious brown object next to the toilet bowl.

Other options include backyard activities or epically long walks. If all else fails, we will happily claim a room and relish in its solitude.

It’s not just that we have earned a day of quiet or that we deserve it, it’s that we need it. With this time, we can recharge, in order to regain the strength required to carry our family through this. The greatest way to give us the Mother of all days will be whenever someone calls out for Mom, only Dad will answer.

Uncanny: The Likeness Between Early Recovery and Lockdown

As a writer, I have been intentionally quiet about this subject. Once it’s said, it cannot be unsaid. Once I’m labeled, it cannot be peeled off. It is not the label that bothers me, everyone that knows me, knows I’m a recovering alcoholic. I just celebrated 7 years of sobriety. It’s here, on this platform, I haven’t ever shared before. In this world, there is another shelf for sober mothers, and while that is what I am, it is not all I am. It would be easy to dismiss me now as unrelatable. But I’ve found a window into what will ring true for everyone.

My sister forwarded me a letter a teacher wrote to his students. He said,

“We don’t get to choose when we were born. We don’t choose what natural disasters, epidemiological emergencies, stock market crashes, tyrannical regimes, or wars our generations face. We only get to choose how we react. If you love literature, write. If you are an artist, make art. Make art filled with whatever you have, even if that art comes from anguish.”

I have something I’d like to contribute—because if not now, when?

The experience of early sobriety and sheltering-in-place during a pandemic are so parallel it’s uncanny. The feelings spark something in my brain which says, I have been here before. I’ve sat in this discomfort already. How can I be here again? Like a relapse, except there is no bottle in my hand.

Maybe you, yourself are in recovery, have grappled with the idea of quitting, or love someone who is struggling. Those of us lucky enough to survive each day overcoming addiction have tried to explain these feelings to family and friends—but it has fallen short, because there wasn’t anything similar worth comparing. Until now.  

These two webs--early sobriety and the pandemic, are so intertwined in fact, they can be read as one.

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It came out of nowhere. Except, it didn’t. It had been building all around me, it was just easier to ignore the signs. They were much too terrifying, and now this will change my whole life’s trajectory. The door has been shut and nothing will ever be what it was. There will only ever be a before and after.

In early days there is just so much optimism. I’ve been given the gift of time. A rush of adrenaline.

Ok, this is not so bad. I can totally do this.

The cloud is pink and fluffy like cotton candy—perhaps I can sit atop and float through, unscathed. I say things in this time, that will embarrass me later. I’ve exposed my soft underbelly, too soon in the process. But my defenses were down.

I will go through the motions of perceived thriving, since image is everything at this point.

Look how well I’m doing.

You can look, but you won’t see.

My senses are heightened during the shift. I’m learning to appreciate something I could have easily passed right by. Maybe I could do this, I’m learning more about myself.

The pink cloud lasts as long as it lasts. It doesn’t slowly dissipate, as I’d expect. It leaves and I feel completely ridiculous for believing any of its lies.

There has been a mistake and I have been wronged. I feel like a toddler stomping heavy feet up and down in protest.

I don’t want to!

Don’t make me!

I don’t like being told what to do and I will resent everyone and everything. Every space of my mind I go for an escape, there is none.

Oh, I’ll just.

What about?

But what about?

No.

I want to look for the loopholes. But the answer is always no.

I awake with a feeling of dread. Something dangling just outside my reach. I want to crawl back into bed and sleep until it’s over, but there is no end date. It would be impossible to pinpoint at the moment, but the unidentified object in all its heaviness is helplessness. I want to change this reality, but I cannot. I have nowhere to put this thought, so I immediately shove it aside, but it will rot in a corner of my brain, a forgotten portion of a garden where no one tends. The loneliness is palpable.  

I miss the idea of what was. But that reality starts to fracture and I know so many things have to change within.

People are dying and they die from this every day. Shouldn’t death be the ultimate reminder to stick it out? One would think. But we can convince ourselves of anything these days. Continuing on the way that I was is Russian Roulette with my life, or someone else’s life. It couldn’t happen to me. I resent the idea and this space I’m in.  

I try and say, “Ha Ha! Make this fun. It shouldn’t be so serious.”

If I don’t laugh, I will scream and cry and cry until it kills me. Gallows humor at its finest. No matter what light trickles in, there is something darker looming in the background. I am constantly reminded of what’s out there, waiting for me.

I am attempting to live in a new reality, where so much is off limits. I need so much help, but no one can do the heavy lifting, it is placed squarely on my shoulders. I contemplate more destructive behaviors to get out of these feelings. They are like wearing the skin of someone else. I’m so uncomfortable it’s almost repulsive.

I am angry now. Yes, rage, this feels productive. Finger pointing, name calling, and blame. Anything, but looking to solve the problem. Loved ones have rallied around me, symbolically of course, because they don’t know, they couldn’t possibly understand this house of madness I live in.

More time passes and this isn’t what I thought it would be. I have experienced so much fear and I don’t like fear as much as I liked anger. Fear doesn’t have a taste, so much as a smell.

I have circled back to helplessness, because it still lingers, like smoke and I’m grabbing and grabbing only to realize its nothingness.

This is what it is. What could that even mean? This thought feels important. But I can’t yet reach it.

Within the fractures, tiny miracles are occurring. Small sprouts along the cracks in sidewalks, so forceful the effort is admirable. Goodness. I’ve missed you.

The wreckage is still there, and the reality is that this is out of my control. I can only do the next right thing. These steps are so small, but monumental in their own right.

I need to place this in hands that are not my own. The weight, is too heavy to carry alone. There is still so much unknown. But I can feel relief in the serenity of turning over control. I have fought against, refused, and blamed—but now I have ceased fighting, everyone and everything.

And this feels like the easier, softer way--to believe in something bigger than myself. I need to accept this. In order to survive this, I need to accept it.

Acceptance. As it turns out, has been the answer all along.

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