This Too Shall Pass

I remember vividly, standing over 4-month-old, Charlotte, on her second solid hour of crying with colic, and thought to myself, this was how mothers went crazy. I checked all the boxes and did all the things for her, but still, she persisted. I had nothing to go of off, no experience, nothing, so I didn’t know it would stop, nor did I trust that it ever would. I couldn’t tell you exactly how long this phase lasted, somewhere between 2-3 months; all I know was there was a before, during, and after. I’m confident someone told me it would pass, however within those months, I believed in my heart and my gut, that it could go on like that, forever.
It’s so easy to allow the walls of our mind to collapse inward.

If we let them.

In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t the most difficult, or painful experience. There are varying degrees of human suffering and nothing is more frustrating and less helpful than when someone dismisses a hardship and puts it on a lower shelf. We shouldn’t guess what is considered monumental to others. Regardless of its size, the feelings are real.

As the years progressed and we weathered sleep regressions, eating refusals, tantrums, more sleep regressions, I had gained and relied on one truth: this too, while painful or challenging, is temporary. Sometimes it felt like one tough phase would end, only to begin the next, but we always managed to make it through to the other side. That side, was a wiser place that empowered us with a touch more grit and a lot more gratitude.

Now, here we are—twenty-some-odd days into sheltering in place and some familiar feelings are starting to resurface. We don’t have a concrete timeline, there seems to be more questions than answers. The madness teeters a little too close to the edge for comfort. Fear and worry are so heavy in the air, we could almost paint with the layer that encases us.

We say things like, “I could handle staying home, if I just knew for how long. It’s the not knowing, that’s hard.”

It’s true, an end date would help. But with that out of our control, instead, let’s regard in gratitude all those helpers, out there helping. Perhaps, for now, we can trust in the idea, like all hard things in this life, this too shall pass.

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The Kids are Alright

Our family has gone back to basics. Suddenly, there is just more time. No one is rushing to get to school, to get to work, or baseball practice. No one is too busy to take a phone call with our parents to update them on the smallest details of our day. We laugh together at something childish our children do or say—because their simplicity and innocence place us right back into the present, where we all belong.

Yes, we can read the whole book. We can bake. Make homemade play dough.

Not to suggest this time isn’t stressful and complicated.

It’s worrisome.

And there is fear.

But our kids, if we are shielding them, aren’t feeling this in the same way we are. They are feeling and loving our presence. It blankets them in protection and makes them feel safe.

They recognize changes. They are missing the people from outside our bubble. But remember, they love us most of all. They will look back and think of this time where they didn’t need to compete for our attention.

They will remember the time school ended and then looked different. People wore funny masks. They were bored, and survived it.

They’ll remember the times we went to the pond with the ducks. The way the colors of the outdoors made them feel something on the inside. They will remember the forts made out of couch pillows, and bed sheets, lit with flashlights.

They will remember this time, where we had nothing but time just for them.

Both Sides, Now

Everyday I feel like I’m being split into two sides. I see everything one way and so clearly, another. Things like the internet. I have never been so grateful and fearful for what’s online. We need the humor to keep the heaviness light, but the news and information flooding in, fills me with a lingering sense of dread, an incessant drip, drip, drip like a faucet of worry inside my mind.

In one minute, I’m chuckling over a fake personal ad—

Women with hand sanitizer seeks man with toilet paper for good clean fun.

The next I’m reading about a single mother of 6 who survived stage-4 breast cancer, but then died from this virus.

It’s so serious, it’s sobering.

In one breath I believe: we can do this. My family will adjust. We can lay outside on our backs and stare up into the sky and do as Joni Michell suggests, identify each cloud,

“Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons every where”

But even the clouds aren’t what they seem, like so many other things these days, we really don’t know anything at all.

My closets and cupboards have never been so organized, but because my kids remain indoors, my home looks chaotic, like I’m hosting some sort of multi-family yard sale.

I am a more present parent; we have endless time for reading and cuddling. I surprise myself with my ability to wear all the hats. We are moving along and suddenly, my kids refuse to bring their dishes to the sink, and for some inexplicable reason, that is the last straw. Those dishes coming directly to the sink and needing their complete unwavering compliance, was the tiny thread that was holding up my last shred of patience that day. I weathered 11 hours of indoor literal bouncing off the walls, homeschooling, the baby eating crayons left on the ground, again—but those plates, that was it.

We are sharing moments together that otherwise would not exist, some are sacred and some I know would have served us all better at school.

I’m staying active because outdoor runs and Zoom virtual Fit4Mom workout videos are my only escape and I need them, like we need the sunshine. And yet I am mindlessly downing coffee and chocolate because worrying about caffeine and calories seems insignificant.

This, right now, is our metaphorical 6-mile walk to school uphill in the snow. Even social distancing has two sides, for us at home the sacrifice can be minimal. For others, it’s cost everything.

Somehow, we are maneuvering the wire between two spans of time. There will only ever be before this and then what comes after. So we are here, together, yet not together, writing the pages of future history textbooks, and it feels like we are on both sides, now.

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