A couple Thursdays ago, March 12, was the tail-end of my state’s Spring Break. After a relaxing week of mostly hanging out with family because my husband, a teacher, was also off work, I couldn’t wait to get back to our normal routine.
Saturday, we had church. On Sunday, my mamas’ book club would be meeting like we did every week. I loved talking books and motherhood with my good friends while sipping tea and watching the kids noisily play.
Monday, my son’s friend would be coming over. We’d had our turn at his house two weeks prior, and we’d host him and his mom for lunch and play. (And talk. So much talk for the mamas!)
And Tuesday — finally! — was back-to-school day for my little guy. I was anxious for him to return to his teachers and peers.
He was thriving in school, learning how to pick up toys with everyone else. How to express his needs and desires and advocate for himself. How to cope when other kids cried or screamed.
Best of all, he was making meaningful connections with his friends, his teachers, and his therapists.
And he loved it. Every day after school, we had a conversation about his day. Since he’s autistic and speech delayed, these talks were short and oh-so-sweet. My son had a life apart from mine, and we both recognized how special that was.
I’d always ask, “Did school make you happy or sad today, Abel?”
And he’d say, “HAPPY!”
He loved school so much that I was nervous about summertime. How would I keep him engaged with peers during those two months?
I had signed him up for soccer and swimming lessons and was looking into part-time school options with local special-ed programs.
And then, on Thursday night, as we were driving home from therapy, the first major blow to our state happened.
Anchorage schools extended their spring break for at least two weeks.
My son’s school district followed the next day
It had no choice. Alaska’s governor had mandated a statewide shutdown of schools.
My local church held a service that Saturday but quickly canceled in-person services for three weeks.
On Monday, the governor closed the libraries, museums, and public swimming pools.
With Tuesday came the closure of dine-in restaurants, gyms, trampoline parks, theaters, and more.
Here I am a week later, and my heart just hurts. For the safety of others and my own family, we’ve been in self-quarantine like so many others.
I have cried every single day
At least twice.
Everywhere I turn, there’s chaos. There’s my son, who’s starting to forget the social skills he learned at school. He can’t see any other kids, so all progress in that area is going poof.
My friends are getting laid off or having hours drastically reduced for two to three weeks, maybe more. Probably more.
And then, there are the people who are sick. And the people who are dead.
So many people. The number jumps unthinkably every day. Today, I FaceTimed with my sister, and she said, “55,” and I thought, “A new death toll? Where?”
But she was answering her husband’s question about the temperature outside.
My mind answered in death tolls.
Because I can’t stay away from the news. Who am I to look away from the pain of 475 new deaths in Italy in one day?
Or the pain of a Chinese doctor who worked to save so many but died of the virus, leaving her 2-year-old behind?
The virus has taken over 8,000 people in a span of three months, and it will take more.
This fills me with a deep and abiding grief
There’s no bright homeschooling schedule or “enjoy that extra time with your family” lecture that can erase this grief.
Instead of choosing a shirt and pants for school every morning like he should be doing, my 3-year-old son watches me curl up on the bed and weep before I get my crap together and face another day in this strange and terrible reality.
He says, “I sowwy, Mom,” and I try and try but I can’t make him understand that my tears aren’t his fault.
All I can do is tell him that the world is hurting. That mommy is sad. That things will be better someday soon. (How I hope that isn’t a lie.)
He curls into me and kisses my cheek, and I pray that he won’t remember any of this.
I know it’s affecting him
Even the tiniest things make him extra frustrated. His sleep is broken up into restless fragments.
So, I’m patient with him, and gentle as can be. His wise 3-year-old soul is patient and gentle with me, as well.
We watch too much TV, eat too many Oreos, and gather up our courage to play games and read books when we can. We talk about our friends and how we miss them.
Sometimes we even laugh, and those moments are lifeboats. They’re the only thing keeping us from slipping into an ocean of fear, pain, and worry.
Because this isn’t an extended spring break with family. This isn’t a time we should be extra grateful for. We aren’t feeling chipper and we won’t pretend like we are.
This is a mourning time
This is a scared time. This is a time to be gentle, a time to expect less, a time to cuddle more on the couch with junk food and Kids Toys Play or Little Baby Bum or Frozen or whatever lifts us into a world that isn’t this one right now.
For me, it’s a time to softly recite Emily Dickinson’s famous poem into my son’s ear as tears roll down my face.
“Hope is the thing with feathers …”
