The pitter-patter of little feet coming down the stairs. Nathan’s face peeking around the banister. The excitement showing through his bleary eyes.
“I had the most incredible dream!” He stepped off the last step and tip-toed over to the couch. Yanking pillows off the couch, he clambered up. “And I’m going to sit right here on this couch next to you and tell you all about it.” He patted the cushion to his side. “Elsa was sleeping next to me, and then when we woke up we went outside and played in our backyard. We slid down our hill and then played on the swingset.” He sighed, leaning into me, mulling something over. “I really wish dreams were true.” As I finished my slice last night, I thought about today, or rather, I mulled over what I could possibly slice about. Each day seems so similar to the one that passed. Was I running out of ideas? And then Nathan’s day started with the most incredible dream ever that he couldn’t wait to share. When I started writing at the beginning of the month, a lot of my stories were about my kids (both my own and my students). As I close out the month and reflect, I find the same is true. There is so much uncertainty in what the future holds. But as I start the morning, I’m certain that there will still be small moments that bring joy and laughter, a smile and some calm. Even if it’s just for a moment. I’m certain that if we continued blogging for the month of April, there would be just as many questions hanging in the air with just a few answers to be shared. But I’m also sure we’d continue to grow closer the longer we have to withdraw. And that is beautiful, just like this pause on our couch this morning. The good parts carry on and bring us spots of calm, even as the storm rages on. Blessings to you and yours. Until next year...
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We’ve started collecting a jar of papers. Things we’d like to do once the virus is “gone.”
The majority of this list comes from my kids. -Go on a train ride. -See Grandma in person. -Go to the zoo. -Have face to face playdates. -Take a trip. -Get ice cream. -Play at the park. -Play dominos with Grandma. -Go back to preschool. -Celebrate being 5 years old with friends. Today the question I’ve been waiting for came. It’s the one to which I don’t have an answer. “Mommy, how much longer will the virus be here?” It’s the questions we’re all asking. The one to which an answer eludes us. “I”m not quite sure, honey. No one really is. I hope it’s not too much longer, but I think it might be a while. Until at least May. But it could be longer.” “May? That’s so long.” He stopped and paused. “But it’s okay, right? Because we’re all here together. And that’s really the most important thing.” Unprompted. Unexpected. Unforgettable. The wisdom in these little minds can both break a heart and build it up, all in the same breath. Boys eyes.
My mom used to use this phrase to describe the manner in which we were searching for things. “Are you looking with boys eyes?” she’d ask whenever we couldn’t find something. She’d give us more specific directions about where something was, usually to no avail. Inevitably, she’d end up walking to whatever room we were in and spend less than 5 seconds looking around before encountering said lost item. It exasperated her to no end. Boys' eyes seemed to have a shield that blocked an individual from seeing objects that were right in front of them. This morning my 4 year old climbed in bed with me and announced, “My belly’s hungry.” I put my fingers to my lips and we both slipped out of the bed. I stepped into my moccasins. “Where are my slippers?” Nathan asked. I started rifling through my recollections of yesterday. I remembered he and Adam putting them on in the morning and wearing them downstairs. At some point they both proclaimed they were hot, and four slippers were dropped off somewhere. We were upstairs in the afternoon, but I couldn’t remember if the slippers had accompanied us or not. “Go check in your room. I’ll close Adam’s door.” Nathan returned, empty handed. “They must be downstairs,” I whispered. Down we went. I immediately saw the missing slippers on the table in our living room, just on the other side of the entryway. I pointed, “There they are!” “Hold on, hold on. I need to go potty,” Nathan said, zipping toward the bathroom. I knew he wouldn’t find them on his way out, so I stayed put, adding shoes into the closet and tidying up a bit. Toilet flushed, hands washed, Nathan emerged. I pointed again. “They’re right here, bud. RIght on the table.” I pointed a third time and headed to the kitchen to start pancakes. 30 seconds passed. “Mommy, I can’t find them. They’re not on the table!” Nathan said from the dining room. “Honey, they’re not on that table. They’re on the the table by the coach. The one by the door.” The one I pointed to, I thought to myself.” “Oh!” he laughed and took off. 10 more seconds. “No. They’re not here.” I sighed. Boys eyes. I headed to the living room. There was Nathan, standing right next to the table in question. “Honey, they’re right here. Right on this table,” I said, pointing as I approached. “Where?” he asked again. This time, I chuckled to myself (which is not always the case, I’ll admit). I picked up the slippers. “Right here, buddy.” “Ha!” he laughed at himself. “I didn’t even see those!” Of course not. Because he was looking with boys eyes. To be fair, my mom used this term for us girls too. But the phrase most definitely originated with my brothers. It probably should be dubbed mom’s eyes versus any other kind of eyes. But for me, the question, “Are you looking with boys’ eyes?” will forever drift through my mind every time my kids are 2 feet from an object, adamant they can’t find it because the item isn’t there. Yesterday this “shelter in place” homeschool crew took a field trip. Shhh, it’s okay, don’t worry, we self-contained within our vehicle nearly the entire time.
The second I said the word car, there was a flurry of action, shoes being tossed out of the entryway closet. “Do we need coats?” Nathan hollered. “Big coat? Lil-tle coat?” came Adam’s two cents. They clambered into the car and quickly settled into car seats. These very car seats that used to be a battle have turned into a treat. Down our driveway; out our subdivision, past the Walgreens, beyond our typical school route turns, to the onramp of the highway. FREEDOM. 30 minutes later we arrived at my grandma’s retirement community. Besides staff, no one in, no one out for two weeks now. Our job was to deliver two jugs of distilled water that can’t be purchased online - water that was pulled off the shelf by a friend’s son who stocks a grocery store, brought to her house, picked up by my husband, stored in our garage the required time to be considered “safe,” placed in bags we’ve had since December, and then delivered to the sidewalk outside her building door by a gloved hand. The one with the green roof. I hopped back in the car. My grandma slipped out the door. Through closed windows we waved. My boys waved furiously, still strapped in, and called, “Hi, Oma!” “I love you!” she mouthed. And then she and the bags were gone. Just as quickly, we were off, searching for horses, tractors, and trucks as we found our way back to the highway. Anything outside the four walls of our house or beyond our neighborhood walk radius seems like an adventure these days. This 30 second human non-interaction, bookended by a 30 minute drive, was just the field trip we needed to close out week two! Nathan and I are adding the final touches of color to our watercolor sunsets when our online art class video is interrupted by a Facetime call from Europe. I glance at the clock, quickly calculating the time change, finding this to be an odd hour.
I can see it in his eyes the moment his face fills the screen. He’s not okay. I quickly send Nathan off to play and hunker down in the living room. As my youngest brother shares what’s on his mind, my eyes begin to sting with tears. I can feel the tension build in my jaw, stretching down my neck, slowly reaching my shoulders. He’s my scientist brother who is analytic and deeply skeptical, until he has scholarly journal review-type-proof. He is also, to his core, the definition of empathy and compassion. Right now, I can see this combination battling - his drive to understand the world from a scientific standpoint compounding his firsthand experiences with the challenge confronting the world. Data colliding not just with his friends, coworkers, neighbors, but with people he will never meet. I pinpoint what I first saw in his eyes: it’s the soul crushing weight of knowing what a virus run rampant can do. It’s oddly cathartic, crying with my brother part way around the world, because there’s nothing left to do but what we’re already doing. Stay at home. Work via distance. Cancel trips. Consider the health of the people you do and don’t know. Encourage others to do the same. Pray that our collective efforts will slow the trajectory. It’s also a sense of therapy - writing and just letting the tension flow. Have you found them? The bright spots, nestled somewhere in the folds of the day? Amidst the news, the worry, the different work, the juggling, the lack of understanding, the uncertainty? They’re there if you look close enough, if you pause to actually soak them for simple good they are.
Extra time with kids. Connecting more deeply (albeit across social media and videos). Projects coming to life. New recipes. Longer walks. Simply sitting in one place without the rush. TIME. It’s the thing we never seem to have enough of, and now the thing we have endless amounts of access to. So what do we do with that time? Bemoan the change in routine? Or start embracing the bright spots? It took a week and a half, but yesterday I found some mid-quarantine bliss.
My 4-year-old was coloring and Factiming with a friend - a virtual playdate of sorts. My 2-year-old was camped at my side on the couch, eating raisins and animal crackers while reading books with me - a homebound Mommy and me date.. Emails, housework, dinner, and all the rest of it were on hold - a form of self-care that I desperately needed in the midst of our new “normal.” It’s not always pretty, but yesterday there was a pocket of bliss. When I was 25 I decided I wanted to teach abroad. I started investigating the choices I had and discovered an entire world I knew existed, but had zero knowledge of.
International schools start hiring in the fall and aim to be done by the end of January. Most hire from the international school educator pool, as teachers stay anywhere from 2-7 years at one school before moving to their next location. What positions they don’t fill through networking, they fill at international school job fairs. Given that I began my research in January, and I’m not one to make a fast decision, I decided to explore the Latin American teaching world for the next 6 months, start my international teaching profile over the summer, and sign up for two job fairs for the fall and winter. All of this to say how I found myself in Georgia, Atlanta in December sitting in the opening session for the AASSA international school job fair. Mark, the coordinator of the job fair, ended his opening remarks that first evening with a statement that has carried me through the last near-decade of my life. “Just remember, when all this is said and done, that you did this to yourself. Some of you will leave here having signed a contract. Some of you will leave here with an offer, or multiple offers. Some of you will leave here without either. Regardless of what happens, you chose this. And if you find yourself abroad next fall, remember that this was all by choice.” This statement came back to me as my heart beat insanely fast while walking up to my first table to drop off a resume. It came back to me as I interviewed with 7 different schools. It came back to me as I nervously called my mom to tell her I had 5 offers and was deciding to move to Ecuador. It came back to me as tears streamed down my face in the airport, as I sobbed myself to sleep the first night in the hotel school paid for, as I searched for an apartment to live in, as I battled the first two months of overwhelming loneliness, and everytime I had to say goodbye to my family for the next four years. It came back to me when those goodbyes started to include my then boyfriend at the beginning of each summer break when I’d fly back to the States, when he proposed to me, when we’ve struggled with the stressors (and joys) of having a bicultural marriage, when both our kids were born, when we’ve had to learn (and relearn) how to balance marriage, kids, and work. It is often easy to dwell on the specific circumstances we find ourselves in, forgetting that we are the ones who chose those circumstances. Any time I find myself overwhelmed, remembering Mark’s words helps me frame my situation in a clearer light. In that reflection, I often realize that I’m the one with the control to make the next choice too. I find the foothold needed to just keep moving forward. Today is my husband’s birthday.
I haven’t been grocery shopping in two weeks, and I forgot to plan ahead and buy things for a cake. Or to plan out a stellar dinner in advance. My husband has been filling in our milk and egg needs on the fly, and I didn’t want to ask him to shop for his own birthday cake supplies. Honestly, I knew I needed to go shopping, but I’ve been putting it off as long as possible, until we really need supplies. Which is now. But with two kids in tow, running out during the day isn’t an option. So I admit, this morning I Coronavirus-quarantine-planned a birthday celebration with what was in our fridge, freezer and cabinets (and still went together). My thoughts: Forgot to thaw the roast yesterday. No worries! I’ve got smoked sausage and plenty of rice for a favorite dish. Except we used the last pepper yesterday and have run out of broccoli, fresh and frozen. Onto plan C! Ground turkey defrosts quickly. We just ate pasta. It’s fine! We can have tacos. Except that we don’t have any tortillas. Make do - we can have taco salad with tortilla chips instead. Yes ,there’s beans, cheese, tomatoes, spinach, and sour cream. Done. A cake. I can whip up a cake, but I know I don’t have frosting. No pasa nada. You can probably make frosting from scratch. That’s funny. Perhaps in a different lifetime, but this one? When do you think you’ll find time to bake a cake and make frosting between meals, momming, and working? Brownies. Brownies are easy - but they require the birthday recipient to actually like chocolate. Brownies are a dish for me. Place C again! Banana nut muffins. He’ll love them even if they’re not “traditional.” A muffin is a cousin to the cupcake anyways, right? Opening the last cabinet door, I thanked the birthday gods. Two birthday candles - a 3 and a 2. Exactly what I needed to top the night off. Things these days are less than perfect. They aren’t always well-planned. They definitely don’t go without a hitch. Today I’m embracing the flexibility that comes with Coronavirus-quarantine-planning anything. I’m also making a note to get birthday cake supplies in the house, because my soon-to-be 5-year-old will be far less understanding than my husband! Bundled up to go play in the snow, they sit, smiling for a “last snow of the season” (one can hope) photo.
“Hey, are you comfy?” Nathan asks his brother. “No. I’m A-yum." I’m starting a book of things this one says. |
AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
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