Do you remember way back in the beginning of the pandemic how it was difficult to find a show to watch that even came close to matching the sudden absurdity of the world that we were living in? People were standing too close. People were unmasked. People were acting like their lives and the world was humming along perfectly fine and not about to implode at any moment. It was hard to watch that. And then The Tiger King craze began and it totally made sense. It was bizarre enough to be relatable. Now it seems that there are a whole slew of shows that are reflective of the world we live in. End of days shows. Climate crisis shows. Pandemic shows. We are watching one such show right now and honestly when it first began the chaos and peril of it felt like a relief. Like the day-to-day experience of living was normalized and reflective in the tv narrative. I mean, it is much of what we want in our entertainment, is it not? To see ourselves reflected in characters in such a way that helps us understand who we are in some strange and small way. The show that I am really into right now is Station Eleven. Check it out. I like it. So much of the far-fetched shit of these contagion narratives seem so much more plausible, and dare I say regular, than it did in the pre-covid world.
Which, by the way, truly feels like an unending and ever-deteriorating reality. This winter, as far as I can tell so far, is utter shit with promises of more to come. And I am so tired. Aren’t you? I am scraping the bottom of a barrel of optimism that feels like it emptied itself months ago. I know that at this moment in particular, as we turn the calendar page and set our course for the horizon of a Whole New Year, the outlook should be brighter and the shimmer and shine of the HOPE for a brighter future should be upon us. But it is not. I just want to survive at this point. And I want my kids to survive without too heavy a burden to bear from the ragged scar tissue of the past 22 months of their young lives. A hefty percentage at this point.
I am suffering that. As I am we so many of you are. When I think about what has become of my children’s childhood most days I want to crawl back into the nest of my bedding, close my eyes, with the blinds drawn and the sound machine on and just shut it out. For as long as I am able. They are resilient, sure. But they are suffering at a level that feels so woefully unfair for children to ever suffer. And I am mostly aware of this is my children mind you. Who are held in privelege and opportunity even in dark times. When I consider children less fortunate I am quick to gag on the bile of my own macrocosmic heartache and grief. And then make a donation. It is all I can think to do, and I must do something.
There is a lot to say at this point, some of which I am still really chewing on especially in regard to the events of the very end of the semester. So I will sit with it for a while longer and in this moment simply speak to how this looks in my own home, and mostly in regard to Wilfred whose life is still interwoven enough with mine to speak about publicly. For Maple, suffice it to say that the ongoing stress of an entire highschool experience in which the pandemic is both the context and the content is exhausting and isolating and riddled with an on-going and ever-increasing anxiety. And for Eider, who you may recall opted for a hybrid version of homeschool and public school this fall has decided to stay home for the spring term. For so many reasons including some scheduling difficulty but also in big part because navigating the stress of his classmates that manifests in meanness and antagonization is too much to bear for a 12-year-old. He would rather be home with me and Wilfred and try his luck with the kids his age that are still opting for something similar. I guess I do have some hope that this shift will be positive and enriching and even provide some hard-to-come-by joy for him. But I am tentative nonetheless. My hope is well in check at this point.
For Wilfred, in many ways, the interminable pandemic life which is all he knows has been just that: all he knows. And he is happy and healthy and funny and smart and such a joy and godsend to know and love. I mean, truly I cannot begin to fathom the last 2 years of life without the daily delight that he brings to all of us. What a massive blessing to be sure. And yet, he has his own suffering embedded in the circumstance. We just wrapped up a month of having him assessed by the county to see if he qualifies for services because of his speech delay. They are lovely and supportive and we are so lucky to have the resource available to us. Because he is indeed delayed. Despite being almost 29 months his communication development is hovering somewhere around that of a 14-18-month-old, and while he is a mostly jolly person, it is clear that this difficulty occasionally frustrates him and we certainly all would love to know what funny or clever or kind or in any way informative tidbit he would like to say to us is. Maybe it is because of the masks, maybe it is because of the isolation, maybe it is due to any number of the things that have become normal practices in our day to day. Any. All.
I know that I am certainly lonely. I want to get to know the folks that live where I have been living these past two and a half years. I fear they may think I am antisocial or a hermit or simply like to keep to myself until I remember that that is simply the way of it these days. I want to have playdates and craft circles and dinner parties. I want the door of our home to be open to the wild sweep of kids and teens wandering through for a snack or tea or a chat or to hash out some grand project or plan. And sure I could do these things still, but not really. Not in good conscience. Not with omicron raging across the region and every test, kit or appointment, sold out or booked through the New Year throughout the state. I can't. And so I continue to wait it out. And grieve the day and the season and the year through which my kids’ childhoods crumpled in on themselves and became something simply good enough and not even a shadow of the magical realm of possibility and play I had been dreaming for them these past 16 years.
But a new year is coming. And I will bring hope. I am getting my shit together even in this very moment and I will bring it. I really will. We have some adventures ahead yet. And while it seems that Trip Protection is a solid plan no matter what going forward, I am cautiously optimistic that the time on the beaches and mountains and in the sunshine that awaits us in 2022 will provide some of the healing and inspiration connection we are each so starved for. I am holding out hope for that for my small family. And for you too. And for everyone. I really am.