Pandemic Home Plan (Part 2)

Back in March, as the world was swirling in unimaginable unknowns, and a global pandemic was about to hit the US, I scribbled a pandemic home plan on a note card. That purple card, scribbled in my terrible penmanship, has been on our fridge since March 13th. I knew in my heart that the shit was about to hit the fan, that my kids would be schooling from home, and that pretty much everything was on the line. Businesses were about to crumble, people would get sick and die, hospitals were about to be overcrowded and understaffed, parents were gonna lose jobs, and families were going to implode under what felt like the weight of the entire world. I needed to feel better about it, so got to work planning. 

My little note simply said:

Pandemic Home Plan

Whatever it takes—no plan, no pressure. (With little check boxes for video, TV, Xbox, snacks, iPad, Switch, books).

I know, not much of a plan. But I desperately needed to give myself permission to release all of the impossible expectations. I figured we’d need to let more than a few things go if we were to survive (more than just the virus). We needed to let the kids do whatever they wanted after “school,” so we could work and try to keep a death grip on our day jobs. 

I was acutely aware I was not a teacher, and would be about as qualified to assist my 2nd grader with his school work as he would be to help me with my work work. I knew my 6th grader would be OK, what with his growing maturity and calm demeanor. Ok, now I am actually shaking with laughter. That is not why I knew he’d be able to handle it. The reason he would be OK is he already had a school issued chrome book, had 6 months of learning in a new model with different classes on different days, had some basic experience managing his schedule, and had the tremendous support of teachers whose job is to help awkward middle schoolers navigate the transition from elementary school to middle school. Those teachers certainly didn’t have it any easier, they simply had a set of skills tailored to an age group of maturing tweens, and that gave me some confidence. 

Looking back, school was indeed the disaster we expected. But my lowered expectations, and those video games, saved us. The only part of my initial plan this was not utilized as much as I’d hoped, was the box for books. There, I admit it, my kids barely read. I suppose they did, but I never saw it. 

Oh, wait, I am suddenly remembering, my youngest did, and does, read books. Daily. With Mema & Bebop via messenger kids. My husband bought multiple sets of books at Costco, and my second grader reads to his grandparents from his bed, while they are safely in their apartment three miles down the street. Away from hugs—and exposure—but supporting my child in a way I didn’t have time for. So, with that, I guess I kept to my list. And it would seem, my parents saved my ass, for about the 1,654,444th time in my life. For the previous 12 years I had read to my kids every night of their lives, but my parents took reading off my to-do list. Out of nowhere our bedtime started inching later, and I knew they were in good hands. So I let it go. Ok, it wasn’t out of nowhere, the pandemic meant us parents were working crazy hours, forgoing 9-5 for 9-whenever, with breaks and total chaos in between. Somehow all this togetherness and time at home actually created more work. Weird, huh?

Since March we finished up distance learning; had the most awkward summer collective childhood can endure; saw grandparents and friends only in the yard, instead of in our homes or theirs; started school again in a hybrid model; and recently found out school is going full distance, yet again. Kids went to school last Tuesday, before a school board meeting, and parents found out that night their high schoolers just had their last day in school. Middle schools in the second cohort got two more days, and elementary were to get two more, plus a bonus the following week. But that didn’t happen. Because as we all know, nothing goes as planned in 2020. So my youngest went on Friday, and it was his last day. No wrap up, no goodbyes, no air hugs. And that’s ok. It had to be done. Because it’s the right thing to do. But I firmly believe it’s ok to grieve for our children, and ourselves. Because it all feels like too much. And it is. 

The other night a frustrated mother posted on a moms group that she was sad for her children. She felt shame about not being able to help them, that somehow she let her kids down. My response seemed to resonate with other mothers, so I will share it:

“I have a different approach, likely unpopular. A very low bar. With everything. Getting to the next day is the only goal. I do not expect much from my kids academically, and celebrate the small wins. We get what we can done, then move on. I do not expect excellence from my kids teachers, my kids, or myself. My oldest was actually hoping for distance, as he kinda likes working in pjs, and my youngest is content either way. Neither have expressed stress, or said much about others schools—as they do not attend other schools and are oblivious. But they do miss their friends. And I can tell they are internalizing the abnormality of it all. We all are. My rosacea is on fire. And I’m constantly tired. Stress is part of Covid, period. But our expectations can change. 

Since Covid started my husband got laid off and thankfully got a new job, but we had to cobra insurance for a month; my aunt spent 75 days in the hospital and died anyway, without holding her grand babies or seeing her children; my friend’s husband’s cancer returned, his company had to call an emergency meeting to figure out next steps as he’s the CEO, their child got Covid, and he’s still really sick; and I started looking for a new job because I work for a nonprofit hotel. I’d say maybe try to get comfortable with knowing nothing is going as planned—for anyone. Try to be easy on yourself. Consider a therapist, or more self-care. There is absolutely no shame in the way you are handling this. It sucks. Ask for help if you need it. We are all a mess ...

My house is a mess, I do not hover over my children, we eat late, stay up when we feel like it, and we look forward to looking back on all of this. Long story short, my goal is to make my children feel safe in their home. Let them know we are living in unique times. And promising them a beach vacation whenever the fresh hell this ends.  

Maybe look for something positive, or take solace in knowing we are all drowning.”

When I typed that on Facebook, late at night, I thought of my purple card and the scribbles that helped me. Lowering the bar doesn’t mean giving up, it simply means giving yourself permission to be something other than perfect. Pre-pandemic we got unusually comfortable with tight schedules, over booking our lives, insisting our children get perfect grades handed out by perfect teachers, signing up for every class or participating in events even when we were too busy, and basically waking up with the sun and working ourselves to the bone long past dusk. We expected ourselves, and others, to live our best lives through Instagramable moments and false narratives of perfection. All while secretly admonishing ourselves for feeling overwhelmed and not getting it “right.” 

Eight months later it is now abundantly clear—we are still exhausted, but for reasons we never dreamed possible. Whoever needs to hear this, I give you permission to lower the bar. Cry in the shower, or whenever it hits. Talk to your friends. Hug you kids. Bitch like it’s therapy. Miss an assignment. Complain like it’s your job. Mourn the lost, and the lost opportunities. No one will judge you for feeling sorry for yourself. If they do—they are not true friends, let it go. 

Then, look for the beauty, it’s still there. People are showing up. People are feeding the poor. People are fighting for justice. People are hatching plans for new businesses. People are laughing in-between tears. People are connecting in new ways. People are finding strength in new communities. People are holding on to old dreams—and creating new ones. 

Be easy on yourself. 

With that, I created a new card for the fridge. Not to replace the old, but as an addendum of sorts:

Pandemic Home Plan (part 2)

We can do this. We really can. Plans change—dreams MORPH. 

Laugh. Cry. Smile. Sleep. Reach out. Support small biz, non-profits & artists. Keep dreaming.

Forever remember the lost, and hold their families in our hearts. ❤️