I don't want to be a part of history

Forgive me for saying what we're all thinking.

But this blows.

I didn't sign up for this.

I didn't sign up to have my breath taken away by the sight of toddlers in masks, or my heartbroken when our kids put on theirs.

I didn't sign up to stalk Amazon Prime Now slots, always with a full cart waiting to be ordered (pro-tip, they open up new order slots at around 5pm and midnight regularly).

I didn't sign up to set my alarm to wake up to try to get that midnight next day slot, or at 7am, an hour before my Instacart Costco shopping window opens, to get up in case they have replacement questions (they did).

I didn't sign up to miss my Mom's 70th birthday, and to explain without believing it myself about why we can't quarantine there.

I didn't sign up to learn how my Instapot works for a VERY DELICIOUS HONEY SOY CHICKEN THIGHS. after months of ignoring its existence.

I didn't sign up to navigate childhood grief without anyone but the two of us keeping an eye on his feelings.

I didn't sign up for the gut punch of hearing DC schools are closed for the rest of the year... while on a work call... while juggling feelings of dread and terror and resignation.

I didn't sign up to homeschool, to close out all your beautiful Pintristy suggestions, when the four year old love of my life just needs to unglue himself from my lap for 15 minutes... because, dude, this work call is a video one.

I didn't sign up to be tech support when my hard drive fails, to knowing what angle looks less awful on Zoom calls.

I didn't sign up to be Internet enforcer for a kid who has never had access to the Internet who is doing everything wrong.

I signed up to watch the White House briefings for a couple days.  Pro-tip:  don't sign up for those.

I didn't sign up to schedule virtual slumber parties or Battleship games using the periodic table.

I didn't have enough lounge wear, even after three maternity leaves, to sign up for this.

I didn't sign up for waiting to go anywhere for an hour after a meal because my stomach is a stressed out mess and I can't keep any food down.

I didn't sign up for the uncertainty if I should request $7,000 in summer camp payments as a refund... and prepare Annie that her first sleep away camp likely won't happen.

I didn't sign up for knowing I'm not enough for our Girl Scout troop... that I should organize a virtual meeting but I have nothing left to give.

The chaos and mess and disaster around the house that you would think goes away when you are there all day?  Didn't sign up for that either.

I didn't sign up for this rapid beginning having an ending that isn't in sight.

I didn't sign up for these VERY FIRST WORLD problems.

I don't want to be a part of history.

I didn't sign up to have my breath taken away by a ventilator that might save my life.  I didn't sign up to parent heartbreak and pandemic grief.

I didn't sign up for this.

We didn't sign up for this.

I don't want to be a part of history.

We don't want to be a part of history.

But here we are.  Living history.  How will we be a part of it?

On Truth

We are now rounding the corner on day 25 of what I hope (because it isn't going to get more unsettled than this for them please don't let it) history moment that our small children are a part of...

We've spoken pretty honestly around the Edwards family compound about the coronavirus.  AH is keeping a journal, because of course she is going to sell it one day when she is famous (she said that).  She showed me (ONLY ONE) entry... and it is on coronavirus.  She had the concept of a wet market.  Of a bat.  And I'm not sure I told her any of that.

She and her buddy T have called this time the coronacation.

But I appreciate the truth.

Our kids know that this rarely affects young kids severely.  They are kamikaze scootering down the sidewalk and hoping the neighbors move six feet to the right or left.

They are having lunch (THAT THEY MADE YES I AM THE BEST PARENT) every day in the backyard on a picnic blanket.

They are reliably saying Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening to all that pass by.

They are mourning not being able to escape to the college campus nearby to run and roll and scoot and bike, and understand that right now we just have to make our tiny rowhouse yard work for us.

They are even loving all the no devices restrictions being lifted, and I think Robbie is about to graduate with a PhD from Khan Academy.

Ya'll. They are being troopers.

But I appreciate the truth.

I had to fact check if the tooth fairy was an essential worker (turns out she is and thank goodness we had a stash of dollar coins, but damn if she didn't forget to remove the tooth once again and Shawn still won't let me be a SantaToothFairyEasterBunnyTruther).

Then last week one of Robbie's friends died, along with his Mom, in a tragic accident.

We are parenting in tender times my friends.

It is making me, the Santa truther, think deeply about how we talk to our kids about life, the world, bad things, good people, and tragedy.

But ya'll, I appreciate the truth.

And it turns out he does too.

We spent about 36 hours researching how/what/why/when to say.  And I had in the back of my mind, Robbie is a processor, we'll need to deliver the news and just know that he won't react right away.

You guys, Robbie appreciates the truth.

I hope we did this right.  Because we told him the truth.  And he emoted, deeply.  For hours.

"WHAT A TRAGEDY MAMA"

He's needed more check ins and we are being tender with his soul.

He wanted to read the news articles.

He said "He must have been so scared, Mama", and I'm confirm to you, that is my deepest truth.  About how terrifying that must have been.

Then he moved into action.  "What can we do?  How can we honor him?  How can we remember him from soccer".  He came up with great ideas.

Ya'll. My non-feeler, non-emoting kid needed the truth.

I wasn't sure he did.

But the real truth?  Everything is awful about telling kids the truth about bad things.  There's no right time, way, mode or medium.  And I'll worry for days and weeks and months and years to come if this is one of those life changing kid memories.

Then a couple days ago, he asked for a Zoom with his soccer team so they could talk together.  Today they did.  Being eight, they also talked about poops and farts and hating homework and missing soccer... and about being a soccer family.

So you mix coronavirus and tragedy, throw in some massive working parent stress, and we'll  hope that once again, didn't damage our children forever.

Until that eight year old who seems so old and wise, and yet so tiny and dimpled and vulnerable whispers to you when he goes to bed "Thank you for telling me the truth."

We will battle on, and face each day and new truth as they happen.  And we will do the best we can.

And you will too.

Labyrinth

Labyrinth: a complicated irregular network of passages or paths in which it is difficult to find one's way; a maze.

This is one of "big works" happening in Edwards home school this week.

It couldn't be more accurate.

What had started as a fellow parent (hi Emily!) inspired race track on the floor has turned into a three day and counting tape experiment.,

We're going to need another roll.

But here's the thing about kids, they are ok with all their mazes not having endings.

Mostly.

They've jumped into this new era willingly. It's probably 99.9% on account of us not being a screen/laptop family, but there's digital learning going on, community meetings with each of their classroom environments, even freaking read aloud times in very precious ways.

I'd invite you to tiny 3-5 year olds singing in circle time via Google Hangouts, but your heart would explode.

But I'd also invite you to put yourself into the labryinth this has created for people everywhere.

Children are genetically resilient.

Their parents not so much.

Today, we had four simultaneous web meetings to hold at 10am: Two for the kids, two for the adults, trying to pay the bills.

We started them the best we could. I took my call in the stairwell.

This is a time we all need to offer grace as we navigate this complicated irregular network of passages.

Our village has showed up. And we are doing out best to show up for our village.

We can do this.

Stitched on the Heart

Several years ago, I wrote a blog that I can't find to dig up about a conversation I had with a Mom (hi Marta!) about the biggest gift I could give my children. 

At that time it was probably only one kid and I was thinking about worrying about sleep or potty training, or waking the baby or not waking the baby or feeding vegetables every three days before fruit every three days and about that rash...

... but I believe then what I will blog preach now-- and the gift is that of resilience.

++++++

So here we are.

That's basically the statement that we all are thinking daily.

And, frankly, pre-crisis, thought daily.

Here we are and were.  

Life right now is so very difficult to unpack because we are in a VERY CORONAVIRUS crisis, without the crisis bearing down on us in tangible ways... yet.

Friends: you and I have lived and functioned through the snipers in DC, where we didn't know if we were most vulnerable at a gas station or in a Home Depot parking lot.  

We (or me), also were in DC on September 11th, very raw, living three blocks from the Capitol, watching the sky, and listening to the quiet, and wondering what was coming at us next.

We lived through burnt mail on the Hill, and holiday cards that arrived three months later when anthrax showed up.

Hell, we had a house fire, and lived in a hotel for a few months, while we are talking about resilience.

We worked to feed and support our neighbors when the government shut longer than our safety net could handle without community support.

Those memories are the things that those of us in DC have seared in our memory and on our hearts. And those are the BIG things.  The ones that made the news. The ones that our big adult brains could at least try to rationalize through. 

The things that may not have made the news are the food insecurities when the housing market dipped, when Medicaid funding didn't make it through to the states in time, when the rules changes on indigent care... when we (hold your breath, because this word makes everyone uncomfortable... when our privilege and life circumstances covered our gaps...)

And you guys, we were adults through all this. With big adult brains.

And here we are with lives that we are in charge of molding.

No pressure, ya'll.

But THESE TODAY DAYS are the days that could be stitched on the hearts of our kids, and I am so unready for it.

I tell to others the stories of my personal resilience... that came at the intersection of having moved a lot in my childhood and having to blaze through and show up in new situations, along with having the gift of parents who gave me a good core foundation of confidence.  It could have been the "Free To Be You And Me" minivan tapes (we were so hip), but it was also being parented by resilient parents who always showed up when it was hard and when it was easy.  They gave me a good model of what it means to be in a community.

We've been honest with our kids about what the next couple weeks to months might entail.

We went to a National Park today that was completely empty, and we likely were the adults overcorrecting our kids to ensure they were six feet away... social distance.

They know what a social quarantine now means.  And the different between social quarantine and social distancing.

They have their personal favorite verses to sing for 20 seconds when they wash their hands.

But they also saw me, and heard me, asking and pleading them to back up, stay away, elbow their coughs.

Their hands are bleeding from the washing.

We are on the precipice of stitched on the heart moments as parents, and I'm not sure I'm ready to rise to the occasion.  

We've had a family meeting about what social distancing means: 

1. What we all need to do to stick together. How we need to be a team
2. How teams don't race to finish first, how real teams finish together.

But best laid plans led to lots of time outs at the national park today.

We've worked together to create a "morning work period" so our Montessori kids can feel comfortable, and hopefully, Mom and Dad can telework as required.  

We've had to shift around financial resources to find the space to buy a Chromebook for the kids, something we've previously resisted.  

These moments are going to be stitched on their hearts. 

I'm not confident I'm the seamstress for it.

See me in a few weeks, and until then, we are each other's virtual village.

My friends at Webster think stitch is also a verb: "to make, mend, or join (something) with stitches.

Let's stitch together and be models of resilience for our kids.

Real team.don't race to finish first. We finish together.

About That Decade

Hi there.  Ten years later, the decade where things got real.

Like real real.

On Facebook I see all of you posting your then and nows, your best ofs, your photos and moments and highs and lows and the how fars you have come.

And I think of ye olde 2009...  the year end post of how much money I saved on store loyalty cards and coupons (It was $1568.84 for those of us counting and looking back in our Facebook on this days).

That decade it saw things.  I think they all will.

We were on New Years Eve a decade ago less than a month ago from a house fire that kicked us out of our home for two months, but at the time was the BIGGEST THING THAT HAPPENED.

And then Snowmaggedon. The one where we lived in a freaking Residence Inn with one working stove burner and approximately four outfits each including no winter gear.

And then OMG WE ARE SO UPSIDE DOWN ON OUR HOUSE.

And let's sprinkle some, (sorry for the overshare, but OMG if we can't get pregnant during a snowmaggedon or the year preceding and following it, we are so infertile, and let's talk about that cost too).

The time we drove back from a South Carolina Thanksgiving on our first fertility round because we didn't get that you had to get stimulating sometimes and after calling all pharmacies in a three hour drive no one had the fertility meds available.

And that was just in the first year of the decade.

You guys, we have ridden the coaster-- not just Shawn and I, but all of us.

We've seen job losses and gains.

We've had unemployment and joyful employment.

We've had haunted houses and upside down and then rightside houses that we sold to others.

We've welcomed one, and then another, and (OMG THOSE FIRST TWO WERE SO MEDICALLY EXPENSIVE), a surprise another.

We've mourned a parent and the end of a marriage of another set.

We've seen first steps and first words and the first thousand diapers.

We've seen their strengths, and we've seen how they amplify our weaknesses.

We've battled.  OH MY HAVE WE BATTLED.

We've fought over forks, spoons, balls, helmets, hoodies, shower temperatures, remote control power, buckling seatbelts, cold vs. toasted toast, wearing shoes, not wearing shoes, throwing mulch, only liking melted cheese and not real cheese, why is my water not cold enough, I don't want to go, why is it my turn, why isn't it my turn, it's my ball not yours, melting down, forgiveness, packing the wrong shoes, pants, shirts, books.  And did I mention the remote control?

OMG with the fighting.

But you know what?

I don't think I'll ever stop thinking we are screwing it up every day.

Wondering if this is the interaction our kid will remember when they go to therapy in their 20s.

Wishing and hoping I had done better on my end.  I'm the adult, you know, I should do better.

I'd do it all over again and I'll continually resolve to do it better.

To control myself and how they react.

To try my best to find the magic (except that Santa lie, #santatruther)

But mostly, we need to keep plowing this beautiful messy field of lives we are planting.   What a privilege.   What a challenge.

So while we are all eating our greens and blackeyed peas and pork and tamales and cornbread and all the things, here's to the 20s.

But oif.  The teen years in the next decade.  Send help.