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We’re in this together, even if we have to stand apart.
I had this column finished and ready to submit to my editor last week, the second week of March. The magazine business requires projecting life two months in advance—we are thinking about spring while winter still has a firm grasp, and so on. It’s easy to do when life follows predictable rhythms, but that is not our reality right now. When I re-read my column just a week later, I knew I had to scrap it and start over. My life—your life—had changed drastically in that week. The old concerns of parenting no longer applied.
I went from driving everyone in the minivan to their various activities to a screeching halt on life as we knew it. One by one, the emails came in, canceling everything. School, done. Soccer, swimming lessons, art class—all done. Then came the directives on online learning and homeschooling resources, and with four kids in different grades, it was dizzying. But I was determined to give it my best, and went out of the gate hard.
Day one, we killed it. Everyone at the table at 9 a.m., starting school work. We went to the track for social distance fitness, and did art projects. I fell asleep on the couch in my clothes that Monday night at 8:30, thoroughly exhausted, knowing I’d have to recalibrate and drop the bar much, much lower. Like buried in the ground lower.
Tuesday through Friday was a mash-up of small victories and utter defeats. The low point was when my 5th grader started body surfing the dining room table (my new homeschool command center) and papers went flying. I’ve learned that when bodies begin melting to the floor or surfing the furniture, it’s time to switch gears.
We piled into the minivan that day, and drove the Blue Ridge Parkway. We stopped at a scenic overlook and the three younger kids played on some rocks for over an hour. I watched them make up a game, something about Indians and butterflies. My daughter ran to me, arms out like an airplane. “Mom, look at me, I’m a butterfly flapping in the wind,” she said, giddy as she turned her eight-year-old face to the sun, eyes closed, completely in the moment.
I tried desperately to drop into that moment with her, my adult mind on overdrive. I managed it for a few blissful seconds. Then I sat on a blanket and stared at the mountains, their unchanged peaks a welcome sight, while change swirled around me. It was the most peaceful moment I’ve had since COVID-19 invaded our lives.
I’m still getting used to our new normal, which is one of those phrases we’re all using now. Social distancing, flattening the curve, homeschooling, coronavirus. These will be the buzzy terms that define the first half of 2020.
At the Rippel house, we’re figuring out how to navigate life together as a six-some, in what sometimes feels like a crowded space. “Why are you so CLOSE to me?” my teenager asked his brother this morning, sneering before scooting a few precious inches away on the couch. It’s a lot of togetherness.
I imagine we’ll have more days of wandering the Blue Ridge Parkway, snaking slowly down winding country roads, as the ingrained impulse to accomplish falls away a bit, and blurs the days into a watery, slow moving time. We’ll all be learning to entertain ourselves and sit with discomfort, anxiety and change—forced to accept that life is not a thing to be scheduled or controlled.
If you’ve never turned to poetry, you might consider it now. As a Virginia Tech graduate and former English major, I love the work of professor Nikki Giovanni. Download Love Poems & A Good Cry and pop in some headphones when you need to hear a soothing voice. One of Nikki’s often cited quotes is: “Everything will change. The only question is growing up or decaying.”
I hope we grow up and meet the challenges of these hard days. I hope it changes us in some good ways while we collectively mourn what’s been lost. I hope you are wandering the roads aimlessly with your small charges and noticing the gifts of spring, marveling at the flowers that push out of the dirt, year after year. I hope you’ve lowered the bar and given yourself grace.
And I hope, in two months’ time when this column reaches you, that we’ve all been able to stand near our friends again.
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