The Empty Cup

As districts begin to announce their plans for the fall, I want to be angry at how miserably America has failed our kids. But after 4 months of parenting in isolation, I no longer have the stamina. I must ration any speck of sanity remaining for my family. If I spend even a moment in devastation, my reserves will deplete and that could be the last straw. And since Mothers are the carriers of the invisible load, I am not allowed a last straw. I will put my children on the boat first, even while I am drowning.

If you look into my eyes; no one could locate even a glimmer of smoke at this point, the burn out happened so long ago.

This circus has me spinning plates in the air, and then someone throws me a cup.  

“You cannot pour from an empty cup,” they say.

Watch me.

If it sounds ridiculous, I assure you, nothing is more ridiculous than the two scenarios for “school” parents have been given.

It is so tempting to blame; wag fingers towards an undeniably selfish population, because at least this is an action. But again, blame takes effort. Stomping and pouting isn’t going to put our kids safely into a classroom without the risk of one day attending their teacher’s virtual funeral.

If this sounds dramatic. I can assure you, it is nothing compared to the emotional toll 130 days of answering tiny cries for hugs and friendship with “I don’t know”.

I wish I had some crumbs to sprinkle for you, but even those we’d give away to everyone else.

If this sounds hopeless, it’s not. As long as I get to hold my babies in my arms, I will add glitter to this enormous pile of poop, and smile for them. Being angry and selfish isn’t going to help them learn empathy or how to write the sentence, “I miss hugging Grandma”.

If this sounds painfully honest, it is. That’s the least I can offer, after all we’ve been through.