Reluctantly I End

Today marks the end of the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge, the sixth one for me. When it began thirty days ago, I wasn't sure I was up to the challenge this year. I signed up at the last minute, and my first blog post was titled, "Reluctantly I Begin." In it, I wrote, 

So I begin again, not sure that I will be able to make it through the month, not sure that the right words will materialize when I need them to. Such is life, I suppose. We never know what lies ahead or if we'll have the strength to meet the challenges that inevitably arise along the way. 

But onward we go.

I didn't know at the time the magnitude of the challenges that were going to face all of us over the course of the month. Coronavirus still seemed like something "out there." The news was tragic, but it wasn't here. 

Until it was. 

Suddenly, it was everywhere and we were all dealing with the reality of people getting sick, some even dying, and all of us being called to do our part to stop the spread. This meant cancelled vacations, staying home, and closing schools. It meant for us educators that we needed to learn a whole new way to teach, and quick. 

Looking back at this tumultuous month, it seems fortuitous that the Slice of Life Story Challenge was occurring while the world exploded around us. Here, we found a community not just of fellow writers but fellow comrades grappling with the profound changes thrust upon us all. We were able to share our stories and share our fears and share our inspiration. 

As the days wore on, many of us found ourselves shrinking away from writing about anything having to do with the pandemic. There had to be something else to write about. We would try for something a little more lighthearted, a little more normal. Yet, we were drawn back to it time and time again. How could we not write about it? Every aspect of our lives has been impacted by this historic event, right down to the most mundane tasks such as grocery shopping. 

We should be writing about it. We are recording history in the making. The stories of our lives, thanks to the coronavirus, have become the story of a people battling an unseen enemy. There is no doubt that this a moment for the history books. Our children will tell their children about the days of forced isolation and toilet paper shortages the way many of our parents told us stories of life during World War II. By then, they will know how the story ends. Right now, we are still living in days of uncertainty. We have no way of knowing how this will all play out or what further challenges await us.

But we have hope. We have faith. We have each other.

So, onward we go.

I Worry

"Are you sure you can't stay home?" I asked jokingly, as my husband put on his shoes.

"I can't. I'm a hero now. I must keep our nation fed!" my husband declared with gusto.

I laughed. This "essential worker" thing just might be going to his head, I thought.

The lighthearted banter, however, masks a serious situation. Work from home is not an option when you manage a grocery store. So, off he goes each morning to make sure his customers have what they need. He works long hours writing orders, stocking shelves, managing employees, and waiting on customers, all without the benefit of even a shred of personal protective equipment. He does it because he has to. He does it because he wants to.

And I worry.

Worry that one of those customers, one of those employees will be sick without knowing and pass on Covid-19 to my husband. We don't have the luxury of youth to afford us the ability to shrug off the thought. We can't say, "I'm young. I'll be fine." I remind him each day to stay away from people as much as possible and to wash his hands every five minutes. He nods and agrees, but I know him well enough to know he's just humoring me. Sometimes, I want to remind him, it's good to be paranoid.

Each day, I sit in the comfort of my home and spend my time learning a whole new way of teaching. Through the walls I listen to the sounds of my sons' voices as they pass the time away, connecting to friends the only way they can, over internet lines. Here, I want to believe, we are safe. Then, I think about my husband still out there, still vulnerable.

And I worry.

One Thing Always Leads to Another

"Did you find the paint?" I asked.  The fact that my husband was in the backyard hauling the green waste container toward our field of weeds, AirPods in his ears, made me suspect that not only had he not found the paint but he had forgotten he was supposed to be looking for it.

"I found it," he said, "but it's behind the patio furniture."

Of course it was. A month or so ago, I had excitedly ordered new furniture for our patio, just in time for the rain to begin. January and February had been dry. I should have known that as soon as I ordered the furniture it would start to rain, rendering my lovely new furniture useless. And so it had sat, still wrapped up in its boxes in the overflowing garage, waiting for fair weather to return.

"Do you want to put it together?" my husband asked.

I did, but I looked dubiously at the sky populated with dark gray clouds.

"Why don't you check the weather report again," he suggested.

I ran inside to grab my phone.

"Cloudy. Ten percent chance of rain. Do we risk it?" I asked.

We did. The next few hours were spent slicing open cardboard, studying directions, and lining up holes to insert bolts. Fatigue began to set in, but each new completed piece renewed our determination to finish the task. Finally, the last bolt was tightened and the last cushion slipped into place. We stood back and admired out work.

"So, about that paint. . . ."

Spring Break Begins

The calendar says
Spring Break has arrived
but the sky is gray
and the world is bleak
So much on my mind
leaves little to be said

I don't want to write about
symptoms and mortality rates
About distance learning and lonely kids
About toilet paper shortages and sheltering in place

I want to write instead about
birds chirping in newly-leafed trees
About water trickling down streams and tumbling merrily over rocks
About blue skies accented by white puffy clouds that mean no harm
About rose buds waiting to burst in an explosion of color

I want to write about
children laughing and playing,
fast-moving limbs exposed to dazzling sunlight
About summer vacations
and backyard barbecues
About mountain trails and friendly greetings
as strangers pass by

I want to write about picnics
and romantic sunset strolls
About cool ocean waves rolling
onto hot, sandy beaches
About dreaming big and making plans

I want to write about
the way things should be
and the way they someday will be again

A Little Time Together

She didn't say much, but then, that wasn't unusual. Generally, she was pretty quiet in class. Over the last few two weeks of distance learning, I would see a comment from her every now and then, but not the rapid-fire back-and-forth presented by a handful of my more outgoing students. Just like in the real world, she worked silently behind the scenes as she completed her tasks.

I was happy to see her face pop up on my screen during our first Zoom meeting this morning. 

"Good morning!" I greeted her.

"Good morning," she replied shyly.

Bouncing bodies encapsulated in boxes quickly filled my view and a jumble of voices, relieved to be all together once again, boomed out into my living room. She sat still and quiet and waited patiently for her turn to speak, and then kept it short and to the point.

Others filled the void with stories of things they had done and of vacations they were missing. They were thankful for time spent with family and pets. They were less thankful for online learning. One sentiment resounded over and over: they missed each other. 

After an hour of muting and unmuting mics and offering a final assurance that there would be more Zoom meetings after we returned from Spring Break in two weeks, we said goodbye, and one by one the little boxes full of bouncy energy disappeared and quiet filled my living room once again.

I exited Zoom and clicked on the tab with my Google Classroom. A new comment had been left: "I was happy to see my friends."

Maybe she doesn't say much, but she manages to say it all.

Settling In

Tomorrow marks the end of our first two weeks of distance learning. Last week was full of awkward attempts, bumbles, and mishaps met with a flurry of questions. This week has been quieter, more subdued. There have been more comments of "done" than reports of a link not working or questions about class codes and signing in. Already, we seem to have settled in to this odd, new routine.

Not everyone is completing all the work I assign. Some students do it all while others seem to pick and choose what they want to complete. I don't hear enough from a good number of my students. I can only hope that they are so busy at home with their own kind of learning and have such great support that they are not in need of mine. There are a few that I outright worry about. I wonder what they're doing and how they will be impacted by the absence of stability that school provides.

The last two weeks have been exhausting and emotionally draining. To make matters worse, I was beginning to think that all my attempts to keep this group of kids connected was for naught. I sent out a questionnaire yesterday to see who was interested in meeting via Zoom, and I was disappointed that several chose "maybe" as their response. I had thought they would be eager to see and interact with their classmates once again. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was the only one affected by these strange circumstances and forced isolation.

But, of course, the show must go on, regardless of how the teacher feels. This morning I posted my daily read-aloud and greeting as I do every day. Because it was "Thoughtful Thursday," I asked students to fill the bucket of a classmate in the comments, something we normally do with paper "bucket fillers" in our classroom. I suggested as an alternative they could fill everyone's bucket at once by commenting on something they love or miss about our classroom. Slowly, the messages began to roll in.

"i miss you guys"

"I miss school a lot."

"I miss all of you guys. All of you guys are my friends!" 

 "Yeah, I miss our classroom and everything we used to do before this."

"i can't wate two see you all tomorrow" 

We may have settled into this strange, new world, but apparently we still miss the old one. Tomorrow morning we will fill our screens with the faces and personalities that used to fill our classroom. It won't be the same and it won't be nearly as good. But it will be good enough for now.

Writer's Block (A Nonet Poem)

I sit in front of the computer
staring at the bright emptiness
trying to compose a thought
but nothing comes to mind.
So I sit and stare
and wish for a
muse to please
inspire
me.

Making Friends (Maybe?)

It's been almost eight months now since Emma, my mom's cat, came to live with us. When my mom died, it only made sense that Emma should come live with us. We had spent quite a bit of time with her during the previous three and a half years, so she knew us well even if she had never visited our home. Besides, although he might not admit it, my husband had grown quite attached to her.

The transition to our home was not without complications, however. We already had two cats who were quite accustomed to having run of the house. They tolerated the dog, perhaps acquiescing to the fact that he was here first, but I wasn't sure they'd be too keen on welcoming a new member of the family, especially a feline one.  

Then, too, was the fact that Emma is a bit of a bully.

Emma is the quintessential spoiled only child. Thanks to my mother's indulgences, she only likes the freshest of water and will not eat food that has been left in her bowl too long. At one point, she even had my mother trained to give her drinks of water out of a cup. (I actually witnessed this with my own eyes. It was pretty amazing.) She is large and likes to be in charge.

To deal with this, we decided that she would take up residence in the master suite. I'm sure she thought that was only appropriate and I am thankful that she allowed my husband and me to share the space with her. Over time, we thought, we would gradually introduce her to the other cats, and while they might never be friends, maybe they could come to some sort of understanding and general tolerance of each other.

The first few times we arranged face-to-face meetings ended in thunderous footsteps racing down the stairs and ungodly howling. Not exactly what we were hoping for, so we kind of gave up for a while, making sure to keep our bedroom door closed to prevent further hostilities. 

Then, the nighttime games began. We would sometimes awaken in the night to the sound of an object banging against our bedroom door. A quick inspection revealed the object was a cat. Emma and Benny were playing (at least that's what we'll call it) by sticking their paws under the door and attacking each other. Again, not exactly what we were hoping for, but it seemed like progress was being made. At least they were interacting without killing each other.

Quite recently, my husband made a bold move. He opened the door with Benny just outside. Fortunately, Benny had learned enough to know that darting into our bedroom was not a wise idea. Instead, he stood still and stared. Emma, for her part, did not charge toward him with murder in her eyes. She, too, stood still and stared. And then, she said, "Mew, mew, mew-mew," or something like that. I don't have any idea what she said, but Benny must have because he answered back a single, "Mew."

Now, this has become part of our going to bed routine: open the door and let the cats stare at each other and say a few words before we go to sleep. I would love to know what it is they're saying to each other. Whatever it is, it seems to be keeping the peace. At least for now.

Benny and Emma getting to know each other while practicing social distancing.

Little Things

It's just an old, wooden calendar. Nothing fancy. You turn knobs on the side to scroll the month, day, and date, and at the top, there is a picture of "The Homestead in Winter," which, to be honest, I never really paid attention to before. I don't even know where the calendar came from, what it's story is. Sadly, I never thought to ask. All I know is that it always hung on the wall between the dining area and the living room in the house I grew up in, and every morning after opening the blinds, my mother would stop to turn the knobs to mark the passing of time.

That same calendar now hangs in my hallway. I find a surprising comfort when my fingers grasp those same knobs. Every day when I stop to move the day ahead, I think about the thousands of times my mom must have touched that same wood. She turned it without giving it much thought, I am sure. It was just part of her daily routine. Now, it is a part of my daily routine that keeps me connected to her.

It's funny the objects that take on special significance once a loved one is gone. Who would have thought that old calendar, which I never gave much thought to in all the years I was growing up, would provide me with comfort and connection? Of course, growing up, I never could have conceived of the notion that one day my mother would not be here to adjust the calendar herself.

Before the whole world went dark and insisted we put our lives on hold, my family and I had begun the process of cleaning out my mother's house, getting it ready to sell. As we sifted through her things, I was surprised by the things that meant the most to me. While others roamed the house, laying claim to valuable antiques, it was the little things that my heart cried out for.

Like the old, big-bellied pitcher. I couldn't look at that and not see my mother in the kitchen making big batches of iced tea in the summer. Which in turn brought on memories of Dad barbecuing hamburgers or chicken with his special seasoning. (Oh my, what I wouldn't give for a piece of Dad's barbecue chicken!) Then that leads to Mom's potato salad. Those memories all take me back to a simpler time when the world still seemed to make sense and happiness was being gathered around the dinner table together and believing life would always be that way.

Or like the necklace I had completely forgotten about until I spotted it in her jewelry box. A wave of memory instantly washed through me, as I recalled seeing that necklace around her neck lying against her sweater. In my memory, I see it close up, as if I am being held in my mother's arms and all I have to do is reach my hand slightly forward to grasp it. No one else wanted it, much to my delight. Now, on days when I am feeling a little lost and uncertain, I slip it around my neck and feel a small measure of comfort, as though I am a little girl being held in her mother's arms once again.

And like, of course, the calendar. The calendar that reminds me of days gone by as it continues to mark the passage of time.

On the Bright Side

On the bright side,
I can now eat and go to the bathroom whenever I want.
No more looking at the clock, counting the minutes panic-stricken, and then making the mad dash across campus at the ringing of a bell.

On the bright side,
I can do laundry and clean house and teach all at the same time.

On the bright side,
if I'm sick or just don't feel like showing up to work,
I don't have to write sub plans. School goes on without me.

On the bright side,
I don't have to wear shoes to work.
Or work clothes. I can wear pajamas if I want even when it's not Pajama Day.

On the bright side,
there's no more before-school, after-school, and recess supervision.

On the bright side,
I can turn off my microphone and camera
and my principal will never know what I'm really doing during the staff meeting.

On the bright side,
I don't have to worry about traffic making me late for work.

On the bright side,
with the magic of video and a change of clothes, I can turn today into tomorrow.

On the bright side,
I've been pushed out of my comfort zone
and forced to learn new ways of teaching.

On the bright side,
we've all had to slow down just a little and take stock of the things that really matter in life.

On the bright side,
maybe when this is all over, we will move forward with a greater appreciation for our human connections and the myriad of other things we take for granted.

Without a doubt, times are tough, and the isolation and uncertainty will continue to challenge us in the days ahead. Today I offer a different challenge, to find your own bright side to these dark and difficult times.

Meet Me Here

If I'm not there
When "Pomp and Circumstance" plays
Meet me here
Where I can proclaim, "I am so very proud"

If I'm not there
When you find the one that makes your life complete
Meet me here
Where I can affirm I couldn't be happier for you

If I'm not there
When babies come and you haven't a clue what to do
Meet me here
Where I can assure you you're going to do just fine

If I'm not there
When you are feeling lost and all alone
Meet me here
Where I can remind you just how loved you are

If I'm not there
When you are struggling just to make it through
Meet me here
Where I can swear to you this is the path to success

If I'm not there 
When at last you emerge triumphant
Meet me here
Where I can promise you I always knew you would

If I'm not there
When storm clouds rage
Meet me here
Where I can convince you that blue skies are sure to follow

If I'm not there
When you face hills too steep to climb
Meet me here
Where I can bring to mind mountains we scaled together

If I'm not there
Whenever you wish I were
Meet me here
Where I will be with you forever

Emma

As I begin to squeegee the shower door, I look out at the black and white furry mass curled up on the bath mat. She stares resolutely at the glistening wet walls surrounding me. Cautiously, I open the door. 

"Come on, Emma. Move," I urge gently.

She doesn't budge. In fact, she pretends she didn't hear me. I'm left with no other alternative but to step over her and pray that I can land my foot on the one square inch of bath mat she has left me.

Once dried and dressed, I stand in front of the mirror to put on make-up and dry my hair. Behind me, Emma remains, still gazing determinedly at the shower. Which is kind of crazy because Emma is a cat, and no self-respecting cat likes water. Clearly, Emma has nothing but disdain for stereotypes. My mom used to laugh about how Emma would follow her into the shower. Being wheelchair accessible, my mom's shower had been closed off only by a curtain, the perfect set-up for this water-loving cat.

Emma's odd, cat-defying behavior brought my mom joy. Now, it saddens me as I ponder what might be going through her mind as she lies there with her head resting on her front paws, staring dejectedly into space. Is she waiting to be let in, or is she waiting for my mom? Does she think each time she hears the shower start that she will find her and experience heart-crushing disappointment when she doesn't?

How strange it must be for her, plucked from the familiar and placed here where everything is so different. Here, glass doors shut her out from where she wants to be. Here, she is left alone for hours at a time. Here, people rush about instead of rolling slowly from one place to another. Here, no one calls out in a loving, sing-song voice, "Emma is such a pretty girl," while reaching over to pet her wide body. And while we do pet her and talk to her, I'm sure it's not the same.

It's not the same.

Because even though we were both there when my mom took her final breaths -- Emma, curled up at the foot of her bed, and I, standing at the side -- we both still wait. Wait to hear that loving voice. Wait to feel the reassurance of her hand reaching out for us. Wait for the life we used to know to return.

Moving Forward

I put off writing today because I didn't want to write about Covid-19 or distance learning or stress or . . . well, you get the idea. Yet, what else was there to write about? Those are the things consuming my attention these days.

All day long, as I sat in my new classroom, aka my dining room, I stole glances out the window. After days of clouds and rain, the sky was once again blue, a complementary backdrop to the newly green leaves and the lingering white and pink blossoms. The bright sunshine beckoned. However, being the responsible (or possibly obsessive-compulsive) teacher I am, I remained glued to my computer screen.

This afternoon, though, I finally broke free from my computer and, answering the call of this gorgeous spring day, I slipped outside. I turned my face up to the sky. The sun felt warm and comforting as a slight breeze blew strands of hair away from my face. I listened to the gurgling of water washing down over rocks in the waterfall as I breathed in deeply, slowly. 

Everything seemed so normal.

I looked around the yard and began to picture what it would look like when we finally completed all the projects we have planned. My goal was to transform the current wasteland into an oasis by summer. As I began to review my mental to-do list needed to accomplish my goal, I felt something I haven't felt in days. I wasn't entirely sure what the emotion was. Excitement? Hope?

With this rediscovered, although unnamed, feeling bubbling inside of me, it occurred to me that, even though it may feel like it right now, these strange times we're living in are not going to last forever. It's temporary, just like every time that's come before. We have a tendency to think that the way things are right now are never going to change. But of course they do. Life is always moving, always changing. Seasons come and seasons go. Change is sometimes mourned, sometimes welcomed. No matter how it is received, however, change is the one thing we can count on. There is, I believe, some comfort to be found in that.

We'll get through this. Eventually. Will things ever be exactly the same as they were before? No, of course not.

But they were never going to be exactly the same anyway.

No Real Answers

I'm wiped out. I spent another day in front of the computer fielding questions from my students regarding assignments posted online and realizing just how needy some of them are. 

"What's the class code to get in?" I was asked.

"It's the class code I included in the instructions," I responded.

I would like to say that only happened once. It didn't. Clearly, we haven't quite mastered reading directions.

Then tensions boiled over here at home as we discussed the grocery situation. (As in, we need some.) I feel like we're at a point where we need to minimize our exposure, so multiple people heading to the store on a regular basis doesn't seem like the best of ideas. And since my husband has to go to work at the grocery store, he seems the best candidate for picking up essential items, like . . . food for instance. He, of course, is of a different opinion. I get it. He's working like a madman to keep his shelves stocked when people are panic buying and he's not getting in enough product to fulfill the demand. There's a part of me, admittedly a selfish one, that feels like the needs of the family should be the first priority. A little hypocritical, I suppose, given the number of hours I devote to my own job. 

The stress of this whole situation can be a little overwhelming.

And we've only just begun. I can't even begin to imagine how this is going to go if social distancing, sheltering in place, and quarantines continue for the next several months. How do I effectively educate my students? How do I keep calm and make the best of this situation? How do I keep my family safe?

So many questions with no real answers.

Waiting

"Did you come in here to tell me something?" I ask my son for something like the tenth time this afternoon.

"No," he groans.

"Oh, come on, it's funny. In an annoying sort of way," I say.

I don't think he's convinced.

"I'll come out and tell you something at 3:00," he says before disappearing into the office to play another round of whatever video game it is he wastes so much time on.

I've been waiting on pins and needles all day. Since yesterday, actually, when he told me that one of the colleges he applied to sent out a notice that decisions would be released at 3:00 today. That's not exactly accurate either. I've been filled with nervous tension ever since he sent off his college applications. In November. That's a long time to be left hanging, not knowing what's going to happen. It's no wonder I'm chomping at the bit.

My son, on the other hand, seems casually cool about it all. Which is kind of irksome. Why isn't he more excited? Nervous? Checking his email every second like I would be if I knew what his email address was?

One could think, maybe he's nervous about going off to college; that's why he's not making a big deal about it. I'm pretty certain, though, that no one could be more nervous about his heading off to survive on his own than me. I'm his mother after all. It seems inconceivable that my baby is old enough to live on his own. Besides, I've seen the way he makes his way through life. Surviving on his own seems a bit of a stretch.

Still, I can't take my eyes off the clock. I want to know and I want to know now. Maybe the difference in our behavior is I'm just impatient and simply hate waiting, whereas he's able to kick back, knowing that all will be revealed in due time. Maybe he's content knowing the future is going to get here, and getting all anxious and wishing time would move faster and make this moment pass isn't going to do a damn bit of good. What's going to happen is going to happen, so we might as well be chill.

And given these crazy, uncertain times when we all seem to be holding our collective breath and waiting (for what exactly, we're not sure), I can't help but think maybe my son has the right idea.

Still Connected

How was your day?

I know the question will be asked, my husband and I ask it of each other every day, but I don't know how I'll answer tonight. How was my day? Tiring. Confusing. Overwhelming. Strange.

All staff was required to report to work today. No kids, just staff. Our day began with a staff meeting conducted via Google Hangout Meets, which was surprisingly simple. Thank goodness one of my teammates showed me how to mute the microphone and turn off the camera, so I didn't get caught saying or doing something embarrassing. Fortunately for us, not everyone figured that one out, so we were entertained while we waited for the meeting to begin. 

Then began the arduous task of figuring out what we wanted our third graders to do from home for the next two weeks. Once that was determined, we had to figure out how to organize it and present it to our students. It seemed so easy in theory. Actually doing it was another story entirely. The goal was to have the two weeks set up and ready to go. By 5:00, I was beat and not even halfway to my goal.

So here I am now, sitting on my couch, neck and shoulders hurting from being hunched over a computer all day. Tomorrow morning I will get up at my usual time and record a video to post to my students, welcoming them to our new and strange classroom, trying to inject some semblance of normalcy into their day. I know some of them are anxious to get started; a flurry of messages popped up throughout the day on our Google Classroom. My favorite so far: "I'm excited for tomorrow Mrs. Regan, see you then." 

More than anything, I think, my kids want to feel reassured that we are all still connected.

Getting Ready for Goodbye

Is it time to take him to the vet?
Words I've been thinking
all morning long,
yet I am startled
to see them in print.
I don't know. Maybe,
I text back,
unable to bring myself to say
Yes.

I look at my Sam,
my baby,
nails clicking on the tile of the kitchen floor,
walking in circles,
bumping into chairs, 
cabinets,
my legs.
I see the old dog
in front of me,
but my mind flashes
images of the energetic puppy
racing across the yard
when I call his name,
zooming up stairs 
he no longer can find,
dancing excitedly 
in front of his boy's bedroom door.

He needs a visit to the groomer, I think,
but we're past that now. 
I grab his brush and do the best I can,
moving it gently across
his curly gray fur
as hot, sloppy tears 
slide down my face
and splash off my chin.
That's my boy,
That's my good Sammy,
I repeat,
trying to keep the sorrow out of my voice,
trying to make it feel like old times.

Somber conversations 
with my husband and son
lead to unspoken decisions.
But still we stall.
Putting off the inevitable 
or hoping for a miracle?
It's hard to say 
and makes little difference.
No miracle arrives
and the inevitable is a force
to be reckoned with.

I watch my son, 
now a young man,
kneel in front of his dog,
but see the boy who first loved him.
When he straightens 
and turns to face me,
I hold out my arms.
For once, 
he does not resist,
but lets me hold him
and holds on to me.
It's okay to be sad,
I whisper.
That is love,
and love is always good.

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I broke down in tears this morning.

It's not the tears I'm embarrassed about, although, truth be told, I try my best to never cry in front of anyone.  No, it was the reason I was crying.

I was crying because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get food to feed my family.

Let me give a little context. It had been quite a while since we had been to the store and done any shopping other than to pick up a few things we needed right that minute.  Looking in my refrigerator and my pantry this morning, there was very little that qualified as actual food.  And I have two teenage boys. We need lots of food.

On top of that, it had been a long, stressful week, leaving me on edge. It was my husband who actually pushed me past the tipping point, though. Not intentionally, of course. He is the manager of a large grocery store, and all week he has been sending me pictures of his store to show just how frenzied it's become with everyone rushing out to buy their lifetime supply of toilet paper and whatever else it is they are buying. I really hadn't been paying a lot of attention to the hoarding up to this point. I mean, my husband works at a grocery store. He has access to food on a daily basis. There was no need for alarm, right? 

Then this morning, he sent me a picture of the almost empty chicken counter.

And that's when I lost it. I was irrationally convinced that there would be no food left for me to buy. We were all going to starve. How ironic would that be?

Drying my eyes, I rushed upstairs to throw on some clothes and a little make-up. Then, I grabbed my list and raced to our neighborhood store, certain that I would be met with nothing but empty shelves.

Much to my relief, that didn't happen. I walked in and everything looked relatively normal. There was food! My heart quivered with delight (or maybe from too much caffeine) as I rolled my cart over to the deli to pick up a container of my favorite salsa. Sure, when I got to the meat department there wasn't much there other than an abundance of corned beef, but the meat manager, who unfortunately recognized me despite my just-rolled-out-of-bed disguise, assured me more meat would be delivered tomorrow. We weren't going to starve after all!

My mood was much lighter by the time I left. As was my wallet.

Closure

Numb.

That's the only word I can think of right now to describe how I feel. All of us at work knew it was coming. If there had remained any doubt, it was dissipated at the morning staff meeting, held in the multi-purpose room so we could maintain social distancing, where we were told to prepare. Permission was even granted to show videos to give us time to put together work to send home with our students. We were told to hold off on sending the packets until official word arrived.

But we knew.

We knew today would be the day we were told that school was closing.

At 1:30 p.m., it indeed became official. We knew it was coming, and yet it seemed no less shocking than if we had been caught unawares. My kids were at recess when the email came, and in a few minutes, I would have to pick them up and bring them back to class. How on earth was I going to tell them that we would not be seeing each other for the next month?

Looking around the room at their faces, I faltered. I couldn't bring myself to say it. So many times up until now, I had longed for an extended break from these kids. I imagined that a moment like this would be one of celebration. Now, I just wanted to cry.

In the end, I did tell them. Some, as you would imagine, let out a whoop of joy. Others, though, looked stunned as they tried to process what was happening. I tried my best to explain that I would still be teaching them for the next two weeks; it was just going to look differently. One student told me she liked my style of teaching, which brought a smile to my face, and I assured her that I would try to convey that through the computer somehow. 

"What about Flora and Ulysses?" they asked. I had been reading it aloud and we were very near the end.

"I guess I'll have to video myself reading it," I answered.

"What if you're not done before Spring Break," one boy wanted to know.

"Then I guess I'll keep reading," I said.

When it was time to go, they lined up at the door like any normal Friday afternoon. But it was anything but normal. My usual "have a good weekend" and "see you Monday" no longer fit, and I was left without an appropriate thing to say in their place. The occasion seemed to call for hugs, but those had already been banned. So, I stood at the door and we gave each other "air" hugs as they filed through the door.

"I wish I could give you a real hug," I heard more than once.

"So do I," I replied.

And with that, they were gone.

Tomorrow Is Another Day

"Good news!" my son proclaimed as he tossed his backpack into the car and plopped himself down in the seat next to me. "There's a good chance our track team will be undefeated this season."

I had a feeling I knew what was coming next.

"The bad news is, that's because track is probably going to be canceled," he continued.

"Are you disappointed?" I asked.

"Yeah," he responded, just as I expected he would.

I pulled away from the curb, and we drove in silence toward home. The air in the car was heavy, but then again it had felt that way all day. I felt like I had been slammed with a sledge hammer repeatedly. My delightful class of yesterday had clearly sent their evil twins today. By the time the dismissal bell rang, I felt battered and bruised and decidedly defeated. Seeing my son's disappointment at possibly missing out on his first track season, and surmising my older son would most likely miss out on his last, did little to improve my mood.

Following the gray ribbon of asphalt winding its way through town, I squinted in the bright sunshine that streamed in through the windshield. In a few hours, that sun would sink below the horizon, putting a close on this day that went more wrong than right.

And tomorrow, it would rise on a brand new day and the chance to begin again.