I’m proud of myself. I usually only tell that to my mom, my dad, my husband, and a best friend or two. But this year I’ve been so impressed — even when I pop out on the other side of a situation wrecked and lacking a certain degree of grace, I look back over my shoulder, with my hair more tangled than ever, and think, nice, you did it.
My kid got coronavirus for Christmas. Almost. She’s five and luckily healthy and pretty healed up now, and she never really looked the worse for wear — except for a few days of circles under her eyes and a look of desperation one afternoon when she realized, if she didn’t learn to blow her nose she may be stuck like that forever. (My two-year-old guy figured out how to blow his nose six months ago. Hmm.)
As much as having Covid-19 enter our household (and weirdly not infect the rest of us) wasn’t my fault, it’s still technically my fault. After her kindergarten pod meets in the mornings, she goes to her brother’s daycare in the afternoon so I can continue to work full-time — trying to give my workplace my all, my family, my own brain. OK, it’s also because childcare is all I need to stay sane. My husband Cary and I toast to it.
So their father and I waited for the shoe to drop. We had weighed our risks and benefits. We live in an urban area. We’re young and healthy. We live in the surging California. How long would this life-altering adjustment last?
When the call came late that Saturday evening that the daycare was closing for two weeks due to several staff and students testing positive, the closure was almost a relief; during the scariest surge yet, as I waffled over pulling them out of care again, at least the option to risk something was taken away from me. But then we realized she’d had sniffles for a day and they were worse now. I had been having an odd sore throat and some sniffles as well, slightly achy. It made sense to get tested. So we got the swab.
On Sunday, as we waited at the surprisingly empty naval hospital drive-through testing site, I asked Cary — who’d had a test earlier this year where they stick a long stick up a nostril — what’s it like?
“It just goes too far.”
I laughed. I glanced at my daughter Jules in the backseat with her brother Cole, both strapped in and content with windows down. I psyched myself up to remain calm and not move or try to be funny or extra-explanatory. When we said Jules was next, as the nurse walked around the car, Jules started rolling up her window.
“Noooo. Jules,” Cary said scolding but amused as I crawled back giggling, banging my thighs on their sharp car seat cupholders, and helped hold her still for the nurse who did a great job. The kid is quickly pacified by the thought of a chocolate chip cookie at home.
Instead of three painful days later, it’s one day later I get a text the results are in.
I’m negative!
Jules is positive.
When I got the news, I was letting the kiddos stretch their legs a bit socially-distanced, so I quickly, gingerly shuffled my 30-pound trojan horse home.
We confirmed the outcome with her ever-understanding pod, let the daycare know, her doctor, and commenced the long stretch of two weeks of waiting and wondering, slowly going insane as Jules grows bored and Cole fights naps and we cook and clean and work and play oddly and repeat.
Jules quickly realized she has some good friends who care about her enough to drop off amazing care packages I feel I don’t deserve in my house.
We’ll come out of quarantine after Christmas and it’ll still be a similar life. For now. We are one day closer to putting this all behind us — I can taste it — and looking back it’s been an ultra-marathon.
We moved from metropolitan Japan to rural Nevada five years ago. As much as I loved those locations, when we knew we were returning to Coronado next, I was chomping at the bit — speakers and writers of my native language and a large job market, as well as blow dry bars and ramen bars in every borough.
I was offered a journalism position in La Jolla but lost it two days before it was to start due to the pandemic kicking off. I was stuck between jobs and states so couldn’t qualify for unemployment. I reopened my year-old folder of 35 previous applications and sighed, digging back in regardless, proud of myself.
Cary left for whatever naval pilot training he needed at that time in another state.
The rest of us busied ourselves with job applications and screens, different kinds of braids and too many temporary tattoos. The garbage truck became a weekly hit. We discovered fairy houses. And yard picnics.
We struggled with new routines of taking shoes off and washing hands more, and not touching our faces 59 times a minute.
A used golf cart became our savior of fun.
The kids looked at other kids, any other human really, longingly, and soaked up any kind of interaction or fresh excitement.
We lost people.
We lost our dog.
We tried Instacart.
We flew a kite.
Jules put Cole in a dress which was adorable.
The kids eventually got haircuts from a sidewalk barbershop.
We tried to potty-train Cole. No cigar.
I spent hours prepping and getting ready for Zoom interviews, the front of my hair and shirt looking great, wishing I had a teleprompter while I’m at it.
I freelanced.
And we continued the struggle of taking shoes off and washing hands more and not touching our faces 59 times a minute.
I got Jules ready for kindergarten on a computer. All registered. All supplies checked out. Her little blonde head with a ponytail and big grin, excited to try anything, was perched over the bar top as she tried to figure out how to use a mouse. Our plan was to skip kindergarten. Well the plan was for me to do distance learning and then after a week of that, skip kindergarten.
We tried to potty-train Cole. Again. ($&^#.)
We prepared to start up with a pod.
Our vocabulary continued to grow.
But when I look back, my hair frizzier than ever and pants softer than ever, I only see success. A roof, food, health (phew), using ourselves the best way we can for our communities and country, and the square of our family of four intact. It hits me at night.
When the kids are asleep it’s nice because it’s quiet and you can relax, and watch things with cursing and blood. But you also know where they are, and that they’re safe and content. And you and your partner are safe and content between episodes and sips. There are no errands and the show ‘n tell is (usually) ready so Jules can say “hi, friends” in the morning and explain about her item, practicing her speech-giving skills.
In the evening, or on the other side of a situation, is when I know I’m good at what I do and peace washes over me, when the calm of the eye of each 24-hour storm hits.
I love my college alumni magazine and in the latest issue, there was a quote:
“For me, when everything goes wrong — that’s when adventure starts,”
said Yvon Chouinard, Patagonia’s founder.
Dagnabbit he’s right.
While the Great Depression, Great Recession, Great War or Great Pause is never a good thing, it certainly does make you proud of yourself.
