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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Nine

April 26

The weather was beautiful today: warm sun shining but refreshing breeze blowing. A great day for flying a kite, which Amelia wanted to do all day long. In the evening, while potatoes were roasting in the oven for dinner, I sat on the front porch, propped myself up on the brick facade, and read a book while Chris and Amelia fought with the kite across the street in the open field.

I had gone to the store that day, and for the first time, it didn’t look like the world was ending. Most things were decently stocked. Still, as the weather starts to turn, I’m anxious to secure vegetable plants for our summer garden. I have a feeling that everyone will have the same idea I do, and I don’t want to miss out. But this is Michigan and planting before Memorial Day is an ensured death wish for gardens, so I’m trying to be patient.

April 28

Even though the governor extended the stay-at-home until May 18, there was still a lot of talk on our weekly work Zoom meeting about what we’ll have to do to stay safe when we inevitably have to return to work: gloves and masks and the buddy system for curbside pickup and disabling every other computer so people stay the proper distance from each other and sneeze guards on the info desk and wiping every surface we touch before and after we touch it. So much disinfecting and hand washing. Storing returned books for 72 hours before we even think of touching them.

I know we provide a service and that service is severely missed. I know–I miss it probably more than anybody. But the procedures for going back sound insane. And it sounds like they might drive us all insane in the process.

April 29

I was on Teams call today with a bunch of other librarians; it was training for readers’ advisory, which is a fancy way to say we help you find a book to read that you’ll like. I didn’t have to talk. I didn’t have my microphone or my video on. But Chris was taking a phone call in the office and Amelia was watching a show in the living room, and I couldn’t really hear my own computer. So I plugged my earbuds into my head so I could focus.

Ten minutes in, Amelia shouts to me, and I have to take out my earbuds and get out of my seat and go into the living room, where she tells me she wants more pretzels. I rush to fill her snack cup and then get back to my seat in front of my laptop at the dining room table.

Five minutes later, I hear Amelia’s little voice shouting to me again through my headphones. She’s decided she doesn’t like the episode that’s playing and wants me to change it. But she doesn’t know WHICH episode she wants, so I have to list them all for her. She chooses one, and I go to start it, and then she says, “don’t want that one.” MAKE UP YOUR MIND, CHILD. I’VE GOT THINGS TO DO.

I’m impatient. I’m annoyed. I’m flustered. I may be missing out on important information because Amelia needs something unimportant.

It reminds me when I was trying to teach online when Amelia was a baby, how frustrating it was to try to work when Amelia constantly needed things from me. If I hadn’t been in a training, I wouldn’t have been the least bit bothered by refilling her snack or helping her choose a new show. But because I was trying to work when she demanded attention and care, I was suddenly so inconvenienced.

And then I feel like a bad mom AND a bad employee all at once.

April 30

I’m almost done reading The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See, and it’s a fabulous book, but it was hard to read at times because it was so violent and sad. It documents the hardships on and occupations of a Korean island called Jeju. The people there see many tragedies and lose many loved ones, and it’s actually helped me feel a tiny bit better about the coronavirus. At least our killing is coming from something we can’t control, something that is just doing what it exists to do instead of people turning on people, instead of people killing each other. At least a virus can’t torture or rape or mutilate.

But then a group of armed civilians rushed the state capital today, and maybe the virus isn’t the only thing we have to fear right now.

May 1

Wow, I can’t believe we’ve spent the entirety of a month sheltering in place. I can’t believe the whole month of April was confined to our home. It’s looking like May might be the same.

But today the weather is beautiful and warm and I feel calm and hopeful that we will make it through this just fine.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Eight

April 18

We were able to acquire a couple Covid antibody tests. I took one this morning. I had to use the supplied needle to poke my finger, slurp up some blood into a pipette, and then mix it with enclosed chemical. I couldn’t do all that by myself; Chris had to come slurp up my blood while I pushed on my severed finger. Then we took the solution and poured it into something that looked like a pregnancy test. Results would show in eight minutes, and waiting in that time felt like waiting for a pregnancy test. Whether you want a baby or not, it’s anxiety inducing to even be taking it.

We set a timer, and when it beep-beeped, we went back to look. There was a line at the “C,” which meant the test worked, but there was no line at the “T,” which meant that my body hadn’t yet made the antibodies for covid-19. In other words, now I know I haven’t had it, and I’m still at risk for catching it and bringing it home to my family.

If the test read positive for antibodies, I would have still stayed home just as much as I am now, and I would have still worn a mask when I absolutely had to go somewhere. The general public wouldn’t know I was immune, and I would want to encourage others to keep following the rules. But I would have felt a protective barrier around me, my family, our house. I would have known that we had had it and we survived.

April 19

We eat a lot more at the table during the weekends. When Chris is in his office doing work, I’ll often let Amelia eat breakfast and lunch in the living room, either wandering around or watching a video. A lot of times, she eats better than way.

But during the weekend, when we are all trying to spend valuable time together, every meal gets eaten at the table.

Since being locked up together for the past months, though, our table meals have gotten a lot quieter. I usually stare out the sliding glass door. Chris usually scrolls on his phone. Amelia, even, often looks up at the ceiling while she drops her food into her open mouth, trying to make the meal even the least bit interesting. Even she seems to realize that we all have nothing to say to each other anymore. It’s pretty profound for a three-and-a-half year old to run out of things to say.

April 20

I started making plans for a garden today.

Only, the catch is, I am terrible with plants. And usually I hate gardening, because there’s weeds and bugs and worms, and it all ends up being a lot more work than you realize.

So why am I excited to plant a garden? Why am I even considering planting a garden?

I guess to have another task on the to-do list, something I can do with Amelia that I know she’ll love, something to steal a tiny bit more time out of my day to keep it from lasting forever.

And for something to look forward to. I love the idea of a garden anyhow, the warm summer sun, temperatures above 50, playing in the dirt, picking tomatoes and cucumbers and green beans. It all sounds so nice.

April 21

The Stay-at-Home order may expire at the end of the month. And so the library is trying to organize if that happens. They want to know what my schedule could be if they open on May 4th. Amelia’s preschool is also planning on opening May 4th. We didn’t want to have Amelia’s grandma come up here to watch Amelia while I work if Amelia was going back to preschool, too. Too much exposure to people, and Grandma is of at-risk age. So it would have to be one or the other–Grandma or preschool. How to make the choice? Why do I even have to choose when we don’t yet know if the order will be extended?

Now it’s more stressful to think about life getting back to “normal” than it is to stay how we’ve become.

April 22

A quarantine mother’s haiku:

So many stuffed friends
Need check ups from doctor mom
Shoot me in the face

April 23

I was sitting on the living room floor after playing what felt like the twelfth game of Candyland that day. I picked up my phone to give myself a little parenting break, but before I knew it, my 3-year-old was climbing up my back. She found a comfortable spot sitting on my shoulders. She then proceeded to wiggle back and forth while humming a song, knocking out my ponytail of unwashed hair with her movements. You have got to be kidding me, I thought to myself.

But instead of pulling her off me, instead of scolding her for treating me like a jungle gym, instead of ruining her fun, I opened the camera app on my phone and videoed her ridiculousness. Then I posted it to Instagram.

That evening, after my daughter was in bed and my husband and I were sharing a beer, my brother texted me to say he couldn’t stop watching that video of my toddler scatting on my shoulders, conceding that at least she gave a “dope soundtrack” to her shenanigans, and reiterating that it makes him laugh every time. As his texts rolled in, I went back and watched the video once, twice, three times, too, laughing more and more with every viewing. And soon I was laughing uncontrollably, too. My brother and I, laughing like morons at the same time at the same thing, 300 miles apart.               

My husband patted my leg and told me to make sure I get out of the house tomorrow.

April 24

The Governor just extended the stay-at-home order two more weeks. Kind of relieved, to be honest.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Seven

April 13

I honestly don’t know how families who have two full-time working adults AND children are doing this right now.

Granted, my 3-year-old is especially clingy, so she rarely “plays on her own,” which means that unless she’s watching TV, she’s probably making me play with her. And when she is watching TV, I am trying to check my work email, my personal email, my writer email, or trying to relax and take a break myself, but am likely just cutting up apples the whole time because she snacks on them like a madwoman.

Chris, on the other hand, is at his desk from 7-3:30, taking phone calls, web meetings, writing emails, only budging, really, to refill his tea or grab a bite of food (which he eats in front of his computer). That’s what full-time work looks like for a lot of people during this Covid-of-our-discontent: 8 hours in front of their computer uninterrupted.

How would this possibly work if I, too, had a full-time job to tend, with no one to watch Amelia?

I do have a job–jobs–to attend to, though: online library work and my own personal writing. Now in this full-time-mom mode, it’s impossible to accomplish all of my tasks in one day.

I keep thinking I can find time in the day to make it all work. That if I just found the right routine, I could exercise for an hour every day, work for two hours every day, write for at least hour every day, and still be able to give Amelia the attention she craves while Chris is working. There has to be a way to fit it all in.

And yet, I am trying to give myself some grace, to allow myself a semblance of failure and acceptance, to know that I can’t do it all, that I don’t have the energy or the stamina to do it all right now; I rarely have the stamina to do it when I’m at my best, let alone in these outstanding circumstances.

April 14

A truly rotten day. Amelia didn’t want to listen. Everything was a battle today. The minute Chris emerged from the office and said he was done with work, I said, “THANK GOD” and took his place in the office, closing the door behind me. But with my newfound freedom, all I really wanted to do was sleep. I nearly put my head down on my closed laptop and took a nap, but I couldn’t reconcile giving up the small amount of me time. Eventually I got some writing down, and the fatigue and bad attitude started to dissipate.

A lot of people I talk to seem to have found what they’re calling “a new normal.” I’m not sure we’ve found that yet. Then again, what is “normal” anyhow with a toddler in the house? The routine is predictable, and maybe that’s all people mean when they call it the new normal. Every day is predictable because every day is the same.

But we haven’t found a harmonious rhythm. It’s a jazz riff. And I hate jazz. Too much cacophony, too much chaos. The songs never seem to end. They just keep going and going and going and going…

And it’s snowing. In April. Give me a break.

April 15

It’s really snowing today. Inches accumulating. Last week it was 60 and we were playing in the grass. Today it is 30 and we’re playing in the snow.

Amelia is happy to welcome it back. Bundled in her snow pants and parka, her little hands wrapped in water-resistant pink fabric, she scoops up handfuls of snow and launches them into the air.

“Do you want to build a snowman?” she quotes Frozen. I try to explain to her that this is fluffy snow, not packing snow, a distinction she will learn soon enough as a Michigander, but not yet at her early age of 3. Instead she answers, “Help me build one.”

There is such a great difference in everyone’s attitude when it’s possible to go outside, even if outside means snow pants and parkas. Earlier this week, unyielding winds kept us inside, and the days dragged on. All this is much easier to handle when there’s a change of scenery, a change of play, a breath of fresh air.

April 16

I had a work call this morning via Zoom. We decided to use that platform instead of Teams because you can see everyone at once. I found there to be a strange new intimacy that comes from being able to see people in their “natural habitats.”

With my coworkers, I know so much about who they are at work, but have only visited one coworker’s house. Two of my coworkers have been to my house. So I know most of my coworkers from what I see at work only.

I enjoyed seeing these small snippets of their abodes, these hints of their interior design, the tastes of their styles, the sense of their leisure. While on the call this morning, I got up and made a piece of toast with apricot jam; the whole process, I realized after, they could see. They saw my fridge door open, all the kid artwork hanging from magnets. They saw that I put butter on the toast first and then the jam–a rather indulgent method. They saw what tea kettle I used when I filled up my mug. But I didn’t really mind, because they’re friends, good friends, and I’m okay with them seeing me in my normal environment. I enjoyed seeing them in theirs.

April 17

It’s still snowing. Come on, already.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Easter Edition

April 10

I’ve struggled with how much I want to invest in Easter this year. Easter is not one of my favorite holidays, not for any particular reason. I think I don’t like that it’s constantly changing days from year to year, sometimes ending up in a totally different season. You never know if egg hunts will be done in shorts and sandals or boots and coats. Oh, and it’s a Christian holiday, and while my family are all still Christians, I am not, so there’s that.

Last year, though, I made my peace with the holiday, decided that it could be merely be a day that celebrates the end of winter, the beginning of spring, which is where its origins seem to lie anyhow, with our celebration of baby chicks and bunnies and eggs. Plus, now I have a daughter, and I didn’t want to deprive her of the non-Jesus holiday traditions like coloring and hunting for eggs: activities that are fun for children.

So even though we don’t celebrate the resurrection of Christ in this house, I did grab a couple bags of candy, some egg dye, and a stuffed bunny on my last grocery trip.

Amelia, lately, has gotten rather obsessed with getting mail. Every time we check the mailbox, she asks if there’s anything for her. Since this week leads up to a holiday that all our family still celebrates, and since no one is allowed to see each other physically (#coronavirus), when Amelia asks if that package is for her, the answer has been pretty steadily “yes.”

Today a big box from her grandparents arrived. We FaceTimed them as she opened it. The box was filled with puzzles, bubbles, stuffies, and little plastic eggs that rattled when they were shaken. Amelia went to open an egg, and her dad stopped her. “No, we’ll do an Easter egg hunt this weekend so you can find them.”

I thought back to last year, when Amelia had an egg hunt partner in her cousin Bijou, who is a year younger than her. And then I made the grandparents hunt for eggs as well. There was a delicious spread of food to which everyone contributed and me and my sister-in-law sporting bunny ears most of the day and the general cacophony of family celebrating their love for each other together, celebrating each other’s company together.

My last semester of my Master’s program, Chris and I opted out of Easter. I was working diligently on my thesis and the semester was quickly coming to a close. When the day came, and I scrolled through social media, I saw pictures of not only my family gathering without me but everyone else’s families gathering together, and I felt a tinge of regret that we hadn’t participated.

Now it feels strange and a little sad to know that no one can be with their families on this major holiday. That the coronavirus has cancelled Easter, or Easter gatherings anyhow, because it’s not safe to be around family. It seems to be a contradiction, when, for some people, family is where they feel the most safe.

April 11

Amelia and my colds turned into infections, so we’ve both been on antibiotics for the past ten days, finishing up last night. I woke up this morning at 5am with the irrepressible urge to cough. I worry that the antibiotics maybe hadn’t done their job.

The last time Amelia had double ear infections (only two months ago), the first dose of antibiotics didn’t knock it out, and she was prescribed medicine that wasn’t nearly as delicious as amoxicillin, which she fought us on every night. I really didn’t want that to happen again.

Someone in our family has been sick since Thanksgiving. That’s five months of sickness in this house. When I told my cousin that, she suggested that I rid our house of negative energy.

As I’ve stated, I’m not religious. I’m also not superstitious. And I would probably say I’m not even all that spiritual.

What I am is desperate.

So this morning, I got out some sage and told Amelia we were going to cleanse the house. We opened all the windows. I struck a match. The dried yellow sage turned black and red and glowed and smoked. I waved it in front of the wall.

“Amelia do it?” she asked.

“Sure, Bubs,” I answered, and handed the sage over to her. The smoke swirled around her little body, weaved itself through her curly hair. She swatted playfully at it with her hand.

I led her around the house to each of the rooms, instructing her to cover as much area as her tiny attention span allowed before moving onto the next room.

When we got to the front door, I asked her for the sage, and I waved it around her body. Then I handed it back to her and asked her to cleanse me. I twirled around in a circle as she held the sage out toward me. Then we opened the door and let the negative energy exit.

I snubbed out the embers on the end of the sage.

“Do it again?” Amelia asked immediately.

“No, Bubs, I think we’re cleansed enough for now.”

“Cleanse again? Cleanse again, please?” she begged.

I shrugged my shoulders and chuckled. Can’t hurt, right? “Okay, Bubs.”

“I’m so excited we’re going to do it again!” she said, jumping.

I don’t know if the sage cleared out the negative energy or if I just enjoyed Amelia’s enthusiasm for this new ritual. Maybe a little of both? But a contentedness fell over the house immediately.

Feels a little strange to perform a pagan ritual during a Christian holiday weekend, especially when I’m neither pagan nor Christian. I definitely had no intention to appropriate anyone’s religious practices. I was just looking for a little extra help on what seemed to be “a lot of bad juju,” as my cousin said.

Without religion, there is not much use for ritual in one’s daily life. I will admit that what I miss the most about the church are the rituals, the traditions, the sacredness. Plastic eggs and stuffed bunnies, though tradition, don’t really feel all that sacred. But burning sage and cleansing my home with my daughter brought sacredness back into the weekend.

April 12

We did Amelia’s Easter egg hunt yesterday because it was supposed to rain today. Then this morning, the clouds cleared and the temps rose above 50, so when Amelia asked (incessantly) for another egg hunt, I put on some cartoons for her while I filled a few more eggs and hid them in the landscaping.

As she skirted around the house, crouching for eggs and putting them in her basket, the rest of the neighborhood was silent. I expected other families to be out doing what we were doing. Usually Easter morning would be filled with children’s giggles wafting through the air. I at least expected to see families on porches in their Easter attire, taking family portraits. But doors were closed. Yards were empty. I guess no one had anything to dress up for today.

I’m sure people are still celebrating. Hams are cooking in the ovens. Eggs are being dyed all sorts of bright colors. Chocolates are being unwrapped and consumed in unhealthy amounts. Maybe egg hunts are going on and I’m just not seeing them.

The day seems strangely quiet, though. Holidays tend to be boisterous. But with the windows open in the house, all I hear are a few distant cars and the wind blowing through the trees.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Six

April 5

The sun is out, and the temperature is mild. Amelia playing in the yard drew our attention to its shagginess.

“We should probably mow,” Chris mumbles.

“I was just thinking that,” I answer.

Neither of us have ever been a fan of mowing, not until Amelia came along and mowing came to mean an hour of solitude, listening to music, outside of the house. Now it’s one of my favorite chores.

I march back and forth across the front yard, the sun warming my face, the breeze cooling my neck. Chris and Amelia play with slingshot arrow copters on the sidewalk and wave to me sporadically. The copter shoots high up into the air, disappearing for a second, and, twirling rapidly, floats across the street. They cross the yard to fetch it, hand-in-hand. I get a whiff of hot dogs blistering on a nearby grill.

This is the perfect spring scene. Things simply couldn’t be better.

Well, yes, they could.

It’s a contradiction to feel so content in an active pandemic.

This morning, I read that Michigan has become the state with the third-highest number of cases and deaths of Covid-19, only behind New York and New Jersey. According to NPR, America has the third-highest number of deaths, closely trailing Italy and Spain. Tens of thousands of people have died in this country from this virus. No place has yet reached their peak of cases, which means there are more deaths coming. I’ve read accounts from nurses and doctors about how scary, how sad their workplaces have become, how they’ve chosen to distance themselves from their own families in order to protect them.

Their lives are anything but content.

Same for those who have lost loved ones. Those who have lost jobs. Those who have lost their sense of stability.

I am so grateful to have so far been spared any of the realities associated with this virus. I don’t know how or why we’ve been so lucky.

I also feel guilty that we are allowed to have perfect spring days like this. It doesn’t seem fair.

April 6

To-do: (1) 3 hours of library at-home work, (2) blog drafting, (3) generate content for new memoir project.

7:15 am: Husband and I overslept. Amelia is already awake.

8am: Coffee, news, and catching up on social media while Amelia watches cartoons.

9am: Coloring at the kitchen table, only Amelia’s recently become allergic to coloring, so she insists I color for her while she tells me what colors go where.

9:30am: Outside time, where Amelia demands I blow bubbles, color for her some more on the sidewalk with chalk, guide and support her as she plays with her trike, her bike, and her scooter (spoiled girl).

10:30am: I let Amelia watch more cartoons while I log into my work email, catch up on Yammer and Teams, peruse the tasks list, read some recommended articles.

11:30am: Prepare and eat lunch. Amelia insists we eat on the deck, but we haven’t got out the table yet, so one hand on my plate, one hand on my fork. No free hand for me.

12:30pm: More cartoons for Amelia. I could use this time for more work or writing or exercising, but the grocery list on the dry erase board is getting too long. I better run to the store.

1:30pm: I’m back and groceries are put away. Okay, Amelia, that’s enough television. Back outside.

2:00pm: Amelia wants to play in the sandbox. I sit next to her on the deck and open a book, but she demands I come over and make molds of doughnuts in the sand. She ignores me, caught up in her own world, but if I venture to my chair, she beckons me back immediately for more doughnut molds.

3:00pm: A round of Candy Land, a round of Go Fish, a round of Sorry (which is not fun to play with a 3-year-old). She gets out Phase 10, and we separate the cards into piles by color. She grabs the stack of yellow cards and carries it around the house.

3:30pm: Husband is done with work. He leads Amelia outside to play again. I sit on the couch and catch up on work emails again. I watch a webinar about how libraries are handling the coronavirus.

5:00pm: Assemble and eat dinner.

6:00pm: I haven’t had any exercise today, so I go for a walk. I listen to Bruno Mars and Ed Sheeran. On the trail is chalked encouraging phrases like “We can do hard things” and “Perseverance creates character.” I spot wild daffodils and two mallards–a female and a male–walking together in the grass. I relish this alone time.

7:00pm: Bedtime routine for Amelia.

7:30pm: Chris and I grab drinks and popcorn and sit down to watch a movie.

9:30pm: Chris and I read in bed until we turn out the lights.

Tomorrow will have the same to-do list, with only one of those items completed for the day.

How to be a writer during a pandemic? I haven’t figured it out yet.

April 8

Yesterday morning, I had my first work video conference since this started. I saw my coworker’s faces and a small swatch of their homes–some kitchens, some basements, some bedrooms. We mostly talked about how we were holding up sequestered in our homes with our loved ones and hypothesized about how long it would be before it was safe to open the library again to the public (the answer: really long). It was nice to see and talk to people outside of my extended family.

I’ve been telling myself I haven’t really missed socializing. I like to keep to myself for the most part. I don’t have a lot of friends. My one best friend lives with me (i.e. husband) and my other best friend lives in New Mexico, so I’m used to talking to her virtually anyhow. I like my coworkers as my friends. I still have a couple of college friends in the area. I have a small circle of writer friends.

Before social distancing became a necessity, if I scheduled “friend time” with one of those groups, I was almost always dreading the commitment. I’d rather be using that time to be by myself. The only company I usually ever crave is my own.

This evening, I had my first Zoom call with my writer pals. As the call time approached, I did feel a little bit of dread, a tiny inclination to flake. But when I saw their faces and heard their voices and we talked writing and family and hardships, it felt good. I had missed my friends, even if i hadn’t realized it. I had missed socializing, even if I hadn’t realized it.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Five

March 31

We’ve fallen into a routine of sorts. It wasn’t the routine I was hoping for, but it is a routine all the same, and whether or not it’s perfect is of no matter. It’s just nice to have some predictability.

Every morning when I get Amelia out of bed, she asks what day it is. She always used to do that, but she was trying to verify if it was a school day or not.

“It’s Tuesday,” I tell her.

“No school today,” she answers back.

“No, no school today. School’s closed. No school for a while now.” And I silently wonder how much she understands. She knows everything is closed because everyone is sick. She thinks it’s because she’s sick (we both have colds now). I wonder what will happen when we’re both feeling better, if she’ll think we can go out and do things then. “Mama and Mimi day,” I say.

“Family day,” she insists.

“Well, Daddy’s here, but he’s working.”

“He’s in the home office.”

“Yes.”

“Gonna go tell him good morning.” She disappears down the hall.

It’s quite nice. She wakes up every day smiling, energetic. No struggling, no tears, no refusal to get dressed. I let her watch cartoons while I drink my coffee. Then we play Candyland and Go Fish and color and draw.

And I’m strangely content, which is not something I usually am after watching Amelia nonstop for nine hours a day, for being submerged in toddler talk and games and not having a minute to myself, to do anything for myself. The general consensus around the virus, though, is that Michigan won’t “peak” with cases until mid May. Which means social distancing for six more weeks at the least. Maybe I subconsciously realize that this is going to last a lot longer than I hoped it would, and maybe that has flipped a patience switch somewhere, allowing me to accept and maybe even appreciate this time I have with Amelia.

April 2

The weather has turned. The sun is out, and the temperature is rising. It’s the perfect spring day to be outside.

Unfortunately, every other Michigander feels this way.

Amelia rode in the stroller as I walked the trail to the playground. But the trail was overrun with people desperate for Vitamin D. The trail width itself is a mere 3 feet, half the size of the recommended between people. My walk changed to a jog, zig-zagging around various virus bombs as fast as possible, holding my breath, as if that would make a difference. My sanctuary of nature felt more like a minefield with all these people around.

I let out a breath of relief when we reached the playground, empty except for one family: a mom and three kids. There are two playground sets, so we went to the one they weren’t on. But out of nowhere, I turned around, and there was a 6-year-old boy standing right behind me. I put my hand on the back of Amelia’s head to guide her to step further away while I looked at the boy in disgust, as is he were the virus himself. But every step away we took, he took a step closer.

“You better get over to your family,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Because we’re not supposed to be around strangers right now. There’s a virus.”

“Yeah, we have to stay three feet away.”

“Six,” I corrected.

He just stared at me.

I glanced over my shoulder at his family on the other play set, completely oblivious to the fact that one kid was missing. I continued to guide Amelia away from him, serving as a blockade between him and her.

I wasn’t sure what else to do. I didn’t want to hurt this poor kid’s feelings. He was just trying to make a friend. He had been away from his friends for weeks now. He hadn’t met anyone new. He knew what he was supposed to do–stay away–but likely didn’t understand the severity, so didn’t want to follow the rules.

I couldn’t see him as a confused little boy, though. I could only see him as a potential threat to my life and my daughter’s life.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Four

March 21

So many states have now been ordered to shelter-in-place, and though Michigan is still low on confirmed cases compared to other states, our governor is proactive about containing this virus. We’re certain she’ll order us to stay home soon. We have provisions to last a week, but we haven’t really planned ahead long-term. We figured a trip to Costco was necessary; besides, we are low on paper towels, and with a shortage of toilet paper, those are certainly next on the to-hoard list.

Everything looked the same on the drive over, but when we parked in the half-empty lot, there was a line out the door. A staff person said the store was at capacity, so we had to wait to be let in. There have been plenty of weekends where we’ve struggled to find a parking spot, and yet the store hadn’t been at capacity then. There was a pile of pallets separating us into two lines, lines that were at least 6 feet apart. Those carts are almost 6 feet long themselves, so we stayed a safe distance between those in front of and behind us. For once, people weren’t crowding, weren’t shoving, weren’t trying to get ahead. We all just waited patiently out in the cold.

Once inside, we saw they were out of paper towels. Go figure.

March 22

It’s still chilly outside, but the sun was out, and I wanted to enjoy it and escape my family for a little while. I walked to the playground that Amelia and I usually walk to in the summertime, because for some odd reason, I wanted to see what it looked like. Would it be wrapped in caution tape? Would there be kids playing on it? Would it even still be there? I felt like it had possibly disappeared. There’s that old riddle: if a tree falls in a woods, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If a playground sits in a field and no kids can play on it, does it even exist? I honestly didn’t know. I had to see for myself.

Naturally, everything was still there and still the same, only some punk kids had graffitied the sidewalk. I wasn’t surprised. These times feel a bit like the wild west: desolate, dangerous. Every step out of the house is risky. Those punk kids were just trying to show their grit, I’m sure, like one accepting a dare. When the stakes are so high, even the smallest acts seem reckless. And people love to be reckless.

March 23

Today, any large events for the foreseeable future were postponed or cancelled. Restaurants, bars, gyms, anywhere that usually held more than ten people at a time, were ordered to close their doors. It seemed like the world was shutting down.

Not the whole world, though.

My daughter’s private preschool/daycare is still open, too. She attends four days a week for half days in the morning. They assure parents that they are taking new precautions to keep everyone as safe from Covid-19 as possible: vigilant cleaning, regular hand washing, etc.

I could keep my 3-year-old home. I am off work. I am available to watch her all day. My niece’s preschool is still open, too, but as soon as a coronavirus case tested positive in the state, my brother pulled her out.

My daughter has never really been all that excited to go to school. She puts up a fight at every drop-off. Usually tears and snot flow from her face as she grips tightly to my arms; her teacher pries her off me. But the minute I’m gone, they tell me, she’s fine. She smiles. She plays. She’s a happy girl. They send picture after picture of her dancing, coloring, finding hidden items on scavenger hunts. When I pick her up after lunch, she walks with me calmly to the door, not in a frantic rush to leave, and waves to her friends and teachers. I ask her if she had a good day, and she says with a smile, “yeah.” I ask what she did, and she tells me with enthusiasm. She likes school, I know she does, even if she doesn’t like leaving me every morning.

Motherhood has come easy for me in the way that I instantly loved my daughter, instantly knew I would do anything to protect her, comfort her, make her happy. She makes me laugh and she makes me smile and I am so grateful and so lucky to have her in my life.

Motherhood has not come easy for me in any other way. I have always been more of an introvert. I like my space. I like having time for me. I like being able to do what I want to do with my days.

When she’s at preschool in the morning, I get that space, that time, that freedom to do what I want to do. I can write. I can read. I can be who I am outside of the title of “mother.” It’s a hard thing to give up voluntarily.

I have plenty of excuses or explanations. Covid-19 isn’t very high yet in my state. Children are the demographic that handle Covid-19 the best. If she gets sick, she will likely be fine. If we take her out of school, it will be so much harder to get her to go back. She needs the socialization. She needs time away from her mommy. She needs to remember that other adults can care for her besides her parents.

Her school is good for her. Her school is good for me, too.

Any yet school in general is being targeted as harmful. School is where viruses spread unknowingly. School is where people get sick. School is where silent killers lay on all surfaces, just waiting to infect.

It feels dangerous to let her keep going in these pandemic times. But it feels just as dangerous to keep her home.

March 24

Our governor called for a shelter-in-place of all of us, so Amelia is officially off school for at least three weeks. And Chris has moved into his home office. So it’s all of us all of the time now for at least the next three weeks.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Three

March 16

Now I’ve got a cold. Christ Almighty. 

I’m 95% sure none of us has had coronavirus. Chris did have a fever on Thursday, albeit, a slight one (101), so I think that’s what sent up the red flag. But he didn’t have a cough or trouble breathing. Still, it’s awfully suspect that we’ve been super sick during this pandemic. But not with the symptoms of the pandemic, so…whatever. 

This was our first weekend “social distancing,” and it was boring. It’s hard staying at home with a toddler. If it were just Chris and me, we’d have no problem. We’d binge watch things and read and work on projects. But Amelia demands all our attention all the time. I wonder what our lives would have looked like if this happened five years ago. Would we have used the time wisely?

Oh, just got an email from the library. They’re making us work half our time but paying us for our full. I’m happy for that, but I’m not happy that the stakes of life keep changing every hour. 

March 17

Day four of “social distancing,” and nothing really feels too different. Amelia’s always been a bit of a homebody, and she has plenty of toys. It’s me who misses the excuses to get out of the house. Though taking Amelia to the museum, to the gardens, to the mall can be just as exhausting as sitting on the floor and playing with her for hours on end, the change of scenery is always welcomed. It would be convenient if the weather would warm up sometime soon, so at least we could play outside, but spring in Michigan can be so elusive.

Our vision is limited to our own house and yard. It’s strange not to be able to physically see how this is affecting the world. Our only windows to the outside are the television and our phones, where we read and watch and listen to a myriad of fabricated things; how are we supposed to differentiate between reality and fiction? Even though I know the deaths are real, it feels more like I’m watching a dystopian or apocalyptic movie, because when I look out my front window, the world still looks the same as it always has.

March 19

The library decided that people aren’t allowed in the buildings anymore, at least until April 6, but who knows how long really? I brought home 12 books at the end of my shift yesterday, not knowing when I might get back. I still have to work from home, which, as someone whose job is solely based on physical materials, doesn’t seem especially sensible. I think it will be a lot of watching training videos, essentially.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week Two

March 8

Amelia woke up two minutes after Chris and I had turned out our own bedroom light Saturday night and puked all over her bed and the floor. And then we brought her in our bed, and she puked there, too.

But after she’d puke, she’d tell a joke and laugh at herself or ask for something to eat and be totally back to normal. So it must have been food poisoning or eating too much. At least it’s likely not coronavirus, since they say that doesn’t include gastrointestinal problems.

Today Chris and I were like zombies. Chris spent most of his afternoon washing all the puked-on laundry.

March 11

Yesterday I woke up feeling nauseous and weak. I went to work but they sent me back home immediately. I slept and then I threw up and then I slept and then I threw up again. And then I slept more. Eventually, I thought I was feeling better so I came out to the couch but Amelia made me read her a whole bunch of books and I should have stayed in bed, but I missed her. It’s so lonely being sick. 

Apparently what Amelia had on Saturday night wasn’t just overeating or eating something that disagreed with her. It was some stomach bug that got passed onto me. And I just hope now that I won’t pass it back to her or onto Chris. Because we’ve run out of laundry soap and there isn’t any more available anywhere. Fucking coronavirus. 

March 13

Chris came home from work before lunch yesterday saying that he felt “icky” and couldn’t concentrate. He called his doctor who said that if he starts feeling worse, he should GET TESTED FOR CORONAVIRUS. Why would he suggest that? Gastrointestinal issues aren’t a symptom of coronavirus. Chris asked where he could get tested, but his doctor’s office said they don’t have any tests. Chris tried calling the Health Department, but–surprise–he can’t get through. At any rate, he has self-quarantined himself in the basement. I feel like this is all an overreaction. He hasn’t even thrown up! But then he’s worried that he has something different from what Amelia and I had BECAUSE he hasn’t thrown up, that he MIGHT have the coronavirus and he doesn’t want to give it to us. So I guess better safe than sorry.

Our governor, late last night, announced all Michigan schools would close and stay closed until after Spring Break. It was quite the shock to wake up to.

I went to Meijer. THERE WAS NO MILK. THERE WAS NO BREAD. Not being able to navigate the aisles without bumping into other’s carts, seeing the shelves bare, starting to feel panic that I might not find a gallon of milk left in the whole county, it really started to feel like the world was ending.

Amelia’s preschool is still open, and we wrestled with whether to send her this morning. We decided to because she let me drop her off yesterday with no tears (a first!), and I would hate to break that good streak. No tears again today! What a brave girl! Now, please, my brave girl, don’t catch anything while you’re there!

Oh, and the library is closing until “the foreseeable future.” But we might still have to go to work? To…clean the books? Who the hell knows.

And my mother keeps asking us to let her come visit. Hey, lady, if you want to GET SICK AND DIE, sure, come on over.

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Coronavirus Diaries: Week One

Feb 27

Whew. What a morning. Amelia seemed to be being difficult on purpose, refusing to wash her hands for, like, ten minutes after she peed in the potty. And I’m like, if you want breakfast, you HAVE to wash your hands, or your pee hands are going to go right in your mouth, and that’s gross.

Meanwhile, coronavirus has made it to the U.S., and if anyone is gonna contract it, it’ll be Amelia for sure, if she keeps refusing to wash her hands. 

March 3

A lot of the writers I follow on social media are debating whether or not they’ll attend the annual AWP Conference. It’s in San Antonio, Texas, and the mayor there just declared a “state of emergency” regarding the coronavirus. Apparently, they were considering canceling the whole conference, but lats I heard, it’s still happening. They’re letting people back out and refunding their money, though. My friend Maryann was going to go but has a sinus infection now; it’s not a good time to go to a city that is teeming with a highly-contagious virus when your immune system is already compromised.

Hundreds of people are backing out.

All this worry might be for nothing. They might be missing a great opportunity out of fear.

Or they might be saving lives, including their own, by not taking the risk.

I guess we’ll never know.