2020
The emotional writer in me circles back to this space about once every two years; SO, here we are! It’s the year 2020; and we’re deep in the trenches of a worldwide pandemic.
Life, as we once knew it, was cancelled about 6 months ago; and we’re almost used to seeing every breathing thing behind a mask. I miss the smiles. I miss everything. While some lasting effects of the pandemic (from the virus Covid-19) answered many prayers (it got me out of my second round of kindergarten!), others have made my soul roll over and die.
2020 was supposed to be our year! We still have a photographer’s voucher for our long-dreamed-about getaway to the Amalfi Coast in Italy. Will we ever get there? I’m not so sure.
In the middle of it all, I lost a baby and went through a silent, horrific miscarriage. I still feel weak and incapable; and very much unlike the “me” who is used to standing back up in the arena for another round.
We just got back from a month with family: and I kissed the floor of my home. Actually kissed it. When one has a handful of small children, a home feels like another set of safe, comforting arms: and I needed it more than i ever have.
We ran to get lunch today after the pool; and through the chaos in the back of the car and the feelings that nothing could possibly ever be the same again, I caught a glance of the girl’s school.
Now. I’ve been candid in my thoughts about sending my babies off to school. I had five beautiful, carefree years of magic…and then school entered and ruined it all. My best metaphor for this was when my dad was diagnosed with a terminally ill disease. All of the sudden, we were met with never-ending hospitals and medical personnel who had never been in the life picture before. In one moment, everything changed and It felt earth shattering and completely foreign.
The first few days of kindergarten car line also felt earth shattering and completely foreign. I’ll never forget my racing thoughts: “How do I get out of this?” not to mention the babies I’d dragged from cribs to be there on time. This was not the diagnosis of a terminal illness; but the dawning of a new day. A day I’d been fighting until now.
Enter: the pandemic.
This is probably the part where I should fill the reader in on the fact that the better years of my life have been spent earning a PhD and waiting for a pandemic to shut everything down so I could use my hard won skillz 😉 to pour all of my knowledge into my own children. Trust me and Manuel when I say: I am not throwin’ away my shot…
But life, and time, has changed me. I want my children to experience experiences outside of me. While I (so desperately) want to keep them on my chest for a lifetime (and trust me, I did for as long as I physically could); the pandemic has taught me what life can really look like if I had the power to actually slow time. I want none of it. I’m ready for the plans and the goals and the benchmarks that, while bittersweet, are also the very threads of what make life worth living. The progress, the hopes, the dreams.
And so. Coronavirus made it possible for my second child to skip kindergarten; and it also made me in to a homeschooling mom. I’m so excited; as I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. On the other hand, I’d also like to note how I’ll miss my one on one time with my baby and my little boy (who only has this year before he goes to kindergarten).
Growing up, I looked forward to the first day of the school more than anything else I can remember. It always started the Monday after the county fair ended; and I’d sit in the bathtub and scrub (and scrub) my toes to make sure they’d never been more clean.
I remember every single teacher I ever had (vividly); and my great love for school gave way to the 28 years that I JUST KEPT GOING to school. I really want that for my babies; too.
The pandemic has made me a professional in the art of navigating disappointment. I have lost so very much; but as we landed back in Austin (masks in place), I leaned over and told Kevin that I could smell the possibility.
After sitting in a hospital room this year, with plastic draped around every surface, nurses in hazmat suits and masks feeling so incredibly alone and empty…I will never forget the incredibly strong feeling that “there would be more”. I’m not sure if that means more masks, or more time without church or school or more dashed dreams and hope: but I’m using it as a springboard for MORE joy and all the possibilities.
