What We Did Yesterday Diary

Monday gave us the remnants of school, and Tuesday truly slowed. I find that the days start to run together, so with four kids and don't count anymore numbers of chickens, I'm doing my best to make each day meaningful and remember what we (I) did to keep sane.

Yesterday, I met my friend off campus to pick up seven splash marans eggs to start for our annual kindergarten hatch which will be held in my own dining room this year. I fetched MB's kindergarten packet along with a neighbor's daughter's at the preschool, and then went home. Because the kids can't come in, I created the day 1 video for them to see.

Right now marks the first time in four years that I've been a SAHM again--and for all of you moms who have been doing it a million other ways, I salute you. It's hard to mom no matter how you do it, but I have really been missing the home time that I probably misused over the years. Now, I see it as an opportunity to catch up, do different things, and get back to what my hero, Martha Stewart, calls homekeeping.

In the gardening department, I managed to rake out the front garden beds of winter leaves, divide out my lambs ears, spread pine straw, and also dig out enough stones on the property to make a winding border up around the roses I planted last spring. 

Took a break from the yard to do math with the Dawg, my independent fourth grader, who suddenly wants a presence sitting by him to do schoolwork. Then, Marsh and I logged onto Seesaw to watch his teacher read some of James and The Giant Peach, the "chapter book" that they've been reading in class. 

Later, I marinated chicken thighs for dinner, and broke up Peep, and some misguided eighth grade girlfriends, who apparently thought I would allow them to meet up at the movies, which is most probably already closed. This kicked off a phone call to the middle school principal, and a reminder for all on the parent org page that THIS IS NOT A SNOW DAY. 

There are things that I could do all day, but some of the time feels lost to thought or worry. I'm saying this because if anyone I know is reading this and maybe feeling the same way, you're not alone. Something that I think about a lot is how no matter what older birthday you have, you're still basically doing life for the "first time." None of us really know what we're doing, but we're improvising. 

As a Gen-X kid, I did read a thread that gave me a laugh. The gist of it was that we are the original latch-key kids--we've trained to be alone at home all of our lives. For me, that's definitely true. I've spent afternoons with two younger kids who got tired of their big sister bossing them around, done homework unsupervised, and fixed countless family dinners. (If you're reading this, MOM, this is not a dig on how we grew up. Parents did, and continue to do, what they had to do to keep the family afloat. Hardworking, middle class families continue to struggle.) 

I remember developing a big imaginary life while home alone. I watched cooking shows obsessively, and talked myself through the meals that I invented in the kitchen as if I were conducting my own show. There was the summer that I picked all the produce in the garden, packaged it up, and pulled it along in my red wagon to sell to our neighbors. By the time the internet came along, it was high excitement to realize that via compuserve, I could talk to other people my age in different places. Can you even remember a time that having a pen pal, and trusting who they were on the internet was ever a thing? Today, I'd rip the device out of my child's hand, delete the app or change the password and move on. How do I tell them that was how I met my best friend over 25 years ago?

Digressing, I grilled the chicken, served over a dressed slaw with sliced tomatoes, and poured a healthy slug of vodka on the rocks. Let's just call it "preparing for a life without mixers."

back?

Yesterday was the first official day that I would consider us quarantined. Maybe that's because the kids are home. But, it's also the beginning of something--I'm not sure what. There's the part of me that's been scurrying around for three weeks anticipating the mass shut down of life as we know it in the united states. I've watched as-- friends? known associates? have begun spinning their careers into variants of plague savvy influencers, but I'm not sure what any of us really are besides trying. 

I've been met with faces over the past little bit as I've built a home stock of things we might need, and I'm sure much has been forgotten. So...food. I'm at a point where I realize I can eat almost anything in a pinch, but my worries are mostly confined to the children who are not intellectually ready to internalize the meaning of staying put or that food selection isn't geared to their whims. We've lived in such a way that not having some semblance of what you think you want within decent proximity sounds insane--and that's the privilege talking. 

After the family, you make sure that the animals are fed. Here that means about two hundred pounds of chicken feed is put by along with the various dog rations. The road to considering six people and over fifty animals for up to three weeks has been long and twisting. The adrenaline of wondering if I've purchased all the stuff, or most of it, or the right stuff is its own high. 

This is the weirdness of coping with covid-19--the slow build, the quiet in between, the wondering what to do for work, the stupid words, the absurdity of the markets. The emails that won't stop from every conceivable outlet that you've ever given your email address to. They all know what to do or are developing policy or different store hours or tasteless discounts. You and I will cultivate our own policies and views. 

This is the place I've come to remember what I do day by day because right now I'm already forgetting the before. Letting go of the three months of uncertainty and ache of betrayal I've felt at the hands of people I never thought would ghost or slap me until I winced. It doesn't matter. Stopping thoughts of how when the year turns it means something about the next period coming. Spoiler: it does not. But, the wisdom is learning that any time you feel yourself swinging impossibly high, the wind will start to blow you back. Sure--you'll swing back and forth really high a few times. Then you'll hear the creak of chain against the hooks of the bar as you slow. You remember that you were not flying. You were held by a quite visible thing. Your feet hit the ground. Dust kicks, and your knees shake with the vibration. The apparatus did not break, but your trust in the person who pushed you might have.