i.lied.

I lied to my children today when i dropped them off at school. There eyes heavy with disappointment and the failure to understand that only children can feel which is worse then for adults because there is helplessness layered all through it. I lied to them and I said it would be ok.  And I reminded them, the best we can do today and always is try to be kind.  But that is a.lie too.  The best we can do is so much more then that and yet...and yet...we will fill pages of social media with rage and frustration for a few days, a week or two.  It will flare up periodically but on the whole we will return to.posts about cats and kids and trips and milestones. And why shouldn't we?  We can not be expected to live in a state of rage forever...and yet...and yet...isn't that where the change must grow from? It must come from a place that is no longer habitable. It must be wrestled and formed in pain and in hopelessness. And it must become something stronger then rage. It must become the thing that unites us. That collectively pulls us into the light. Because it will not be ok otherwise.

I lied to my children this morning. Because it is not their turn yet to hold that rage like a sword. There time will come but now it is up to us. Back against a wall, feet lost in quick sand to look inside and ask ourselves just how much we are willing to risk today, so our sons and daughters don't ever have to pick up that sword. And yet..it feels simpler to find a way to make this scorched earth home again, to build a nest in the highest branch and fortify the walls for the coming winter...and yet..

Sounds of summer

 The screams of childhood permeate my closed windows.  Did I once run between houses with my neighborhood friends as the summer nights, free from obligations, extended long past normal bedtimes?  My wish for them, is not just more nights when freeze tag erases petty arguments of the day, but also that they remember.  If not the exact players or game, but the feeling of being unburdened by what adulthood brings.  For a moment I consider opening my window to let in the evening breeze and their laughter.  But somehow I fear by doing so I will somehow shift to them some of the weight that I carry.  And just for one more night.  For one more summer.  For just a little longer, I want them to believe they are light enough to be carried up by a balloon. 

moments

Moments not metrics. Moments not years. Not months or weeks or days. Not hours, or minutes. Moments like snapshots. His smile boarding a Rollercoaster, the sound of her voice singing along to a favorite song. Them, heads together asleep in the hotel bed. Him ordering a steak and her saying "I'll have what he's having". And at least for now it is my privilege to witness these moments and sometimes be a part of them. Moments. Not trips or purchases. Not vacation homes or theme parks. Moments. Quiet and loud. In between the big discoveries. It's why I happily wait off stage, at the edge of the pool, at the bus stop. It's why I say yes to going on the giant roller coaster, the water slide, to one more game of cribbage.  Moments, like pictures in an album. In hopes that as they grow these moments will stay with them, and remind them in their darkest moments that they were once, and are always loved fiercely. 

a reflection of a year

Beware the Ides of March was a common saying in our house and I am sure I was making a joke about in March of 2020 as we prepared to celebrate my nieces birthday which falls on the 15th.  Schools were closed on that Friday the 13th for a workshop day and I was busy making my nieces favorite bread for her birthday celebration the next day.  There was a feeling of impending doom as Covid cases were on the rise and everything felt tenuous and uneasy.

We would spend the next day celebrating my niece with kids running around and family. My parents talked about their trip to Flordia that they were planning on taking the next week. We ate lunch from a shared buffet and people made side comments about how nice it would be to have a week off from work.   Several hours later we were celebrating the birthday of a dear friend and his family. Our kids sharing ice cream sundaes and barbecuing ribs.  At 7pm we got the call. The schools would be closed for 2 weeks. An hour later I got an email that my office was closed for the next 4 weeks. 

And so that warm day in March became the last day in a year that we gathered without concern.

A year later as we prepare to gather again for my nieces birthday, this time with just my brother and his family and my parents, who have been vaccinated, it  is with both joy and continued worry. It has been a year of home schooling and working from home. Of time spent together as a family, canceled events and missing our friends.  We still did so much, wearing masked, socially distanced, online.  I want to say what we gained has outweighed what we lost. That the increased time as a family, board games, movie nights and magical visits from fairies and bunnies and Santa will be what we remember.  

But I would be lying. Instead my kids have learned to wear masks, seen a country divided on what to do and listened to the school board for our district fight amongst themselves about what to do.  They saw the worst in people more then they saw the best. And the new found anxiety of getting sick, of losing someone, of never being able to play sports again or return to the stage.  And we did our best as the adults to safely guide them through the storm but we were drowning to.  Overtaxed and overwhelmed. Struggling to maintain friendships, to get work completed while also teaching elementary school math. To figure out a new way to shop for groceries and navigating who, if anyone, should be allowed in our bubble.

I read an article when this all started that talked about how the adults get to chose how our kids will remember this time, and that is kind of true. But our kids are not unaware of what is happening around them. Will they grow up seeing more what divides us then connects us? Will they be fearful of the world?   

I look back on this year and I can not remember how we made it through.  But we did.  But that was all we did. We made it through. 

Marking What We Have Missed

The pandemic that has kept us isolated and nervous since mid-March shows no sign of slowing.  And as time marches on I find myself worried less about virus and focused more on all the small things we aren't able to do this year.  And worrying that we won't be able to do them next year either.  And even though I work so hard to keep things normal for them, how will they remember this time?  Will they remember the later bedtimes and board games and laughter?  Or will it be the year that time stopped and all the things they loved to do got put on hold.

• No Easter with my parents where every year the bunny hides eggs and toys for all in attendance
• No spring theater production with the kids holding puppets as ensemble cast members in Dr. Dolittle
• No Ballet recital where my girl would spin her hair in a tight bun, her outfit colors of the ocean
• No Field Day at school where I got to volunteer and watch the kids and their friends run amok in matching shirts
• No baseball practice, long afternoons sitting on the sun with one of my closest friends while our boys run laps and practice catching fly balls
• No baseball games on sun filled Saturday mornings where the girls play on the swings while the boys wait in the dugout and the parents talk lazily on the sidelines
• No last day of school where I pick up the kids and we blare Schools Out for Summer while we drive past the line of teachers waving goodbye
• No first day of summer where everyone sleeps in and the weather is usually crappy
• No trip to the Jersey Shore where we would sleep in a fleabag motel right on the beach and eat fudge and cotton candy on the boardwalk until we felt sick
• No Ballet camp where I would work from the hallway of the studio for a week while my daughter smiled non-stop for 3 hours a day
• No football camp where the boys got used to their pads and ran laps trying to outrun their coaches
• No summer theater show where Moana and The Jungle Book would have been staged
• No football practice where the parents would park with their cars facing the field so they could turn their lights on when the sun fell below the tree line
• No back to school shopping with my mother, going from store to store shopping for pants and dresses and underwear and sweatshirts and new shoes
• No first day of school where we would race for the bus and then I would follow them in to gather with the other parents to watch the kids arrive off the busses
• No Ballet and tap classes where I would watch my daughter dance and gossip with the other moms in the hall about schools and lice and in-law visits
• No football games where I could cheer for my boy and his friends, watching him always find me in the stands after a big play
• No fall theater show where I would work back stage, helping them with costume changes and being able to watch them shine

and what is to come? How long will school be online? Will there be no birthday parties this fall? and what of Halloween?  Will there be basketball? Will my in-laws be able to come up for Christmas? Will the Elf on the Shelf show up? 

With every decision we chose between the risk of the virus and the risk of holding our kids back.  As the world begins to re-open, do we re-open with it? And how do we create a new normal? One that allows us to look back on this time not as a time when so much was missed, but as a time when something new was gained.  Only time will answer that question, if only we knew how much more time we will have to wait.

Spring in Maine

Dairy queen will open soon

And the ice will melt from the trees

and the streams will rush with life

And dairy queen will open soon

Clocks will jump forward

We will pick ripe strawberries and blueberries

We will buy seedlings full of hope at the farmers market

And dairy queen will open soon

The snow will melt to make way for green grass

The birds will start to sing songs of redemption and rebirth

The days will be longer

Bedtimes will be later

And Dairy Queen will open soon

We will have meaningful debates about the value of the last week of school

About which beach has the best sand

About when we should go to Boston

Longing for the days we will spend sitting in the back of a pickup truck eating ice cream from Dairy Queen

The perpetually grayness will fade into spring colors

Blues, pinks, purples

Easter bunnies and peeps

We will hunt for chocolate eggs

And eat lamb around a big table

And we will say what we are thankful for

And there is no doubt that one of us will say we are thankful that Dairy Queen will open soon.

Today

I woke up today and you were still gone.   I got the kids breakfast and put them on the bus. An inconvenience and a luxury. A luxury to kiss them goodbye.  To have dinner in the crockpot ready when everyone gets home.  A luxury you will never have again.

I woke up today and you were still gone. I read somewhere that a sign of hope is setting your alarm to wake up in the morning.  And couldn't help imagining you setting your alarm Sunday night.  Preparing the house for another week ahead of school and work and kid activities.  Was it still going off when they found you?

I woke up today and you were still gone. I want to text you and ask you how I'm suppose to handle this because you are the person I would have normally texted.  And I know you would tell me to keep swimming. To "not trouble trouble".  So I sit in my office, emails coming in, meetings to attend. I have conversations at the bus stop and training dogs and the bike trails the town put in.

I woke up today and you were still gone. And if I am lucky enough to wake up tomorrow you will still be gone. And I will miss you in all the small moments. And years from now I  know if I am still lucky enough to keep waking up I will reach for phone to text you.  Because we were supposed to be old women together.  Because you were robbed of the luxury to tuck your kids in and watch them grow.  Because I was robbed of one of my best friends.

I woke up today and you were still gone.