A day like any other day... except, YOU were there.

When I was little, this was my dad's favorite response to the trite question, "How was your day?" I always took it at face value: my dad was acknowledging that each day was like the last (and the next) and little changed that fact.

These days, though, very few are like anything any of us have experienced before. Each day is exhausting in its own both completely predictable and completely unprecedented way. I've come to joke about the 15,000 steps I consistently have before noon, thanks to a pre-dawn run followed by hours of weaving serpentine patterns between my high school students, reminding them to keep their distance and keep us all safe. Lily's now used to wearing her mask at all times except lunch (when she's on a cushion outside six feet or more away from each classmate), and she's become an expert at washing her masks in the sink with me twice a week to make sure we have fresh ones for each day. Jeff rolls out of bed at his 6am alarm and manages to not only make Lily's breakfast but also have a fresh mug of coffee in my hand before I walk out the door.

So, no, these days are not like any other day.

I never went to the first day of in-person school with my daughter and I both masked.

But I also never had the freedom to paddle board with my family when I got home at 4pm.

Never had the joy of so many (two- and four-legged) family night dinners around the table during the week.

And never knew how much fun playing hopscotch with a first grader practicing her numbers and balance could be.

Dad, it's not a day like any other day--not like any other day any of us has ever experienced. But it is a better day because of those who are by my side (even if "by my side" is the phone call to my Mum and Dad as we drive home from school or the "picture phone" call between Lily and her best friend in Germany or the distance play date with her neighborhood buddies). The WHO makes the WHAT bearable.

I'm grateful to all the "YOU"s, who, by being there, make it actually feel like it might just be a day like any other day.

Grateful?

Today, I don't feel very grateful--I feel more... annoyed. Annoyed Jeff has to work the entirety of another weekend (this is the third one in a row). Annoyed by the uncertainty of preparing our faculty for the fall. Annoyed by the insane heat. Annoyed by being limited in where we can go and what we can do.

Deep breath. (Or, as Lily calls them, "balloon breaths"--the ones where my palms go facedown on top of hers faceup, and we let our arms expand up and down as we pause and breathe.)

It's not that I'm not allowed to feel annoyed--or robbed of the summer or angry at COVID or frustrated by figuring out another weekend night on my own with Lily. But it is important for me to put these things in perspective.

As a mom, I constantly worry--constantly--about whether I'm doing enough for my daughter. Any moment that isn't social media worthy (not that I'm on social media in the first place) feels like a failure, and it's magnified 1000 times by my own anxiety. But if I can step back for a moment and take a few balloon breaths, maybe I can see that she's doing just fine.

Maybe, by posting it here, you can help reassure me she's doing just fine?

As I type, she's in the "play office" (that room I partially took over once distance learning became a reality), happily orchestrating some complex situation where Noah's Ark rescues animals, then takes them to the PlayMobil aquarium to rehabilitate.

Her hair is wet from the pool Jeff MacGyvered out of a Trader Joe's watermelon cardboard box and a $20 tarp from Home Depot--the spot where she's spending several hours each afternoon in these days laden with heat indexes and advisories.

When we've come up short with ideas of things to do these days, we turn to the Summer Bingo card I made for Lily; with each 5 squares complete (which don't have to be in a row), she earns a prize. At 5 squares, she had a nail painting party with mom, and the grand prize of 25 squares is a "Lily's choice" day: she determines everything, from what Jeff and I wear, to what we eat for each meal, to all activities.

So far, she's knocked out items like making her own lunch, baking from-scratch blueberry muffins, and creating a nature scavenger hunt for me and Jeff. In fact, she just finished her tenth square this morning, so Jeff and I will spend tomorrow morning being soaked in a "Water Balloon Fight with Mom and Dad," which is the prize for that milestone.

Miraculously, in spite of all that is happening, she still has been able to make summer memories with her closest friend in the neighborhood, whether they're dipping into a backyard pool (an actual inflatable one this time) or out catching fireflies past their bedtimes.

(For those of you keeping track, that's just these two little girls, growing up too fast. :)

And yet--in spite of all of this--even in the most mundane moments, when Lily listens to an audiobook for hours on end and colors while I spend time on a long Zoom call, it's easy for me to feel like I'm not doing enough, planning enough, or being enough for her. The voices that tell me she hasn't yet done her sight word flashcards today or hasn't read me a book or hasn't practiced her lowercase letters can scream so much more loudly than the ones that say, "you're doing the best you can."

But I AM. I'm doing the best I can every minute of every day. I'm helping raise a child who is silly and creative and thoughtful. I'm taking care of myself by reading a book or watching an old season of Project Runway. I'm knocking out the laundry and the grocery shopping while Jeff is at work to maximize our at-home time together.

Thanks for helping me see that, friends. I have no idea at this point who--if anyone at all--may still be reading these posts. But writing them is like chatting with those who I know used to check in on them, and that's a comfort.

I'm grateful for what I have and for you.

Windows

Since I've set up my "distance learning" office in half of Lily's (tiny!) playroom, I spend a lot of time in front of a window that looks out onto the trees and path behind our townhouse. This afternoon, one of our cats ("Little") is stretched out in the windowsill, enjoying the breeze and the fluttering leaves falling. People are strolling by with dogs and children, interspersed with the occasional runner or bicyclist. By all accounts, it could be any lovely spring afternoon--not one in this crazy new reality in which we live.

Sometimes, I miss my old window very much, even though it didn't look into the outside world. That window looked from my office at school into the students' main gathering space. From there, I'd lift my head from a troublesome parent email to smile at students laughing at someone's joke, or I'd find myself weighed down by academic matters only to glance a football sailing by (which always warranted a knock on the window to remind the students to take projectiles outside). I miss my students deeply.

These days, it's easy to halt my gaze before I even get to my actual window to the outside. Instead, the three windows directly in front of me become a metaphor for the juggling schedules we're managing daily: my email on one, the spreadsheet I'm balancing with course sectioning on the second, and Lily's reading video on the third. It's not unusual to find myself observing a math class while helping Lily fill in her hundreds chart or responding to a senior's essay while helping Lily understand how she can use "why" and "because" to make her opinion writing stronger.

But our virtual windows also give us a wider point of view. We have family Zoom calls with friends in Wales and Germany--at times when none of us ever would have all been home before. We have happy hours with friends after little ones are in bed and virtual playdates that result in raucous laughter rolling out of Lily's room as she pretend plays through a phone screen. More than anything, these windows give us connections, reminding us of the importance of a world outside our walls.

As they have for so much of my life, books become our windows, too. As Lily's ability to read grows, we often find her tucked under her bed, quietly sounding out words and using pictures to help her figure out the trickiest ones. And she finally loves chapter books, too--which is such a joy for me as my memories of my mom and dad reading chapter books to me are some of my favorites. After finishing the first book of Harry Potter, we've moved on to Dragon in the Library, a book which allows the protagonist, Kit, to travel into different magical lands through the vehicles of books. (Serious meta!)

On the best days, we leap out of our windows, beyond their confines, into the world that still exists beyond them. We take class lessons outside (thanks to Lily's brilliant and creative kindergarten teachers) and learn skip counting by literally skipping as we count or practice addition by stomping through puddles in the rain.

We race to find the unknown--whether that's a winding path to a river or a splashy kayak trip through a bay. With the understanding that windows will keep us in if we don't force them open, we push with all our might against them and breathe deeply when the fresh air enters our lungs.

Our windows lead us into worlds as small a puzzle and as big as an alley full of murals, as simple as learning lowercase letters and as complicated as maintaining social distance while erratically flying a kite. Most importantly, our windows do not confine us; they become our vehicles to new worlds and experiences.

Who knows what tomorrow's window will bring?

Being an Introvert in a Self-Isolated World

Finding great joy in the very smallest things.

Over the course of the past week, our lives have drastically changed. Last Friday, I curiously asked a good friend "so... you've implemented extreme social distancing?" She replied that their family had; they were limiting to nuclear family walks but otherwise avoiding others as much as possible. I couldn't believe it when she suggested our daughters--best friends since they were two--have a Google Meet "play date" from our houses that are less than 200 feet apart.

And then this week happened. The week when waking up every day and turning to the news revealed some new state shut down or quarantine enforced; the week when working from home became not a privilege but a practicality; the week when Lily began to cry at least once daily with her frustration with how the coronavirus was separating her from her friends and keeping her from our annual visit to see my parents in Florida. 

In some ways, the days became the easiest part for me; I went for a run in the morning, then set up some activity stations for Lily while Jeff made breakfast. Once Lily was settled into activities and Jeff had begun to telework, I could take a shower and head to the basement for my own work. We tossed in some family activities whenever possible: a hike in Bluemont or a long walk to the post office and grocery store to stretch our legs.

The evenings were tougher, though. Once I'd done all the work I could do and headed up from the basement, it became so easy to slip into my comfort with being an introvert. Self-isolation is, in some ways, an introvert's dream: it eliminates guilt as no one is allowed socialize and it feeds into a desire to just remain quiet and alone.

Yesterday afternoon, as I finished my work, I arrived upstairs to an empty house; Jeff had taken Lily kayaking on the Potomac, so I was left to my own devices. I straightened up, ran a few small errands to get needed supplies for meals, and then arrived back home, happy to have the opportunity to settle into folding laundry with a favorite movie in the background.

And then I got a text inviting me to have a cocktail.

See, in our neighborhood, it's possible to socially distance and be with our best friends. We live next door to some of the people we love most in the world, which means that we can kick our feet up, still be six feet apart, and share laughter and human connection. 

Our green gin and tonics, in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

So, as much as I would have been drawn to staying inside on my own yesterday afternoon, enjoying a quiet house before Jeff and Lily's return, I found myself making my way onto our deck, pulling up a chair to the railing, and realizing that I can be an introvert and still recharge through time spent with others.

I don't know what the weeks and months ahead will hold, but I do know this: introverts like me cannot succumb to complacency. Pick up your phone and call a friend; set up your kid with a Google Meet where all they may do is make funny faces for a half hour; know when you need to initiate the contact with the rest of the world instead of waiting for them to reach out to you.

I can't wait for cocktail hour tonight--after all, there's still a weekend to kick off!

Worry's Kryptonite

I'll explain this at the end. :)

If you've read much of this blog over the years, it will come as no surprise to hear that I worry. I worry a lot, about just about everything. When one concern expires, another always rears up behind it, reminding me that worry is inescapable, that--no matter how exhausting it feels--it always seems to have power over me.

As the New Year turns, I've been thinking about resolutions. An educational consultant I follow shared this thought in a recent newsletter: "A few years ago, I switched from yearly resolutions to choosing a word for the year and that has helped shift me to a healthier place of manifestation." What a novel thought--not focusing on something to change but, instead, on something to center oneself around.

For the past few days, I've been vacillating between worry and... I'm not quite sure what. Mostly just worry, I suppose. Worry about a sick and aging cat, about keeping up with friends as I enter my busiest season at work, about being a good enough parent and wife, about preparing to finish one semester course and begin a new one, about whether the car is making a funny sound that needs to be checked out, about if I'll be able to complete the 10-miler I signed up for in April, about why the front burner on the stove isn't working right... you get the idea.

Often, the only thing to put the brakes on the speeding train in my head is getting out of the house and moving, which usually means a morning run but which, over this break, has more often meant a hike with my family or walk with a friend. When I did just that today, it was with a well-known Corrie Ten Boom quote at the forefront of my mind: "Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength." I've been ruminating on this idea for a couple of days now--on the idea that worrying today about what the cat's labs will reveal tomorrow cannot change what they will reveal; it can only make me miss out on today. And today has been pretty great: Lily's neighborhood hot cocoa stand on this last day before break ends, the joy of a walk with my best friend, the comfort of the cat sleeping on my lap with all four of his paws in the air.

For some people--perhaps even for many--the opposite of worry is "hope," and perhaps that's the word they'd choose to focus on for the year. Merriam-Webster offers me a wealth of other options for antonyms: "calm, content, ease, peace, quiet, sereneness" and even (the awfully unhelpful) "unconcern." But I don't think any of those words oppose the kind of worry I experience. My worry is not about trying to feel differently; it's about changing the reality in my head. And, so, here are my words for 2020:

"Reality check."

When I'm worried, my new task for myself is to fact check the reality of that worry. Sometimes worry is real, and that's not a bad thing; I can acknowledge that when it's the case and make a plan to move forward. But when the plan is already in place, when the vet appointment is already made, when Jeff is already planning to call about the stove, when we've just played a family round of Go Fish, when I have a syllabus ready to go for the new course this spring, then all my worry is doing is stealing today's strength.

And guess what, Worry? You don't get to steal my strength. Because, if I let you do that, I miss out on all of this.

Lily's first time skiing

(Rocking Horse Ranch, December 2019)

Lily's first trail ride

(Rocking Horse Ranch, December 2019)

Watching Lily fill her nature journal with new discoveries

(Riverbend Park, January 2020)

A New Year's Day family hike on the Potomac

(Riverbend Park, January 2020)

As for that picture at the beginning, worry can't steal today's small moments either. My favorite dressing just came back in stock at our local Giant after being out for months, and I'm elated! If I'd worried about it every day, would it have come back faster? Sure wouldn't. But you know what forgetting to worry about it gave me? Incredible joy the day it returned!

Worry, you've got a new kryptonite.

2020, we got this.