They Weren’t Kidding

When they said COVID would make you very sick. Or that being vaccinated wasn’t a sure fire savior. To be fair, they also weren’t kidding when they said that it wouldn’t make you AS sick.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Somehow, despite being masked almost 100% of the time, Debra and I still managed to contract COVID. It’s that almost, isn’t it? I guess they weren’t kidding when they said that masks were practically the holy grail of illness management.

Ten days later and I’m feeling better. I wish the thousands of dead who didn’t have access to the vaccine had had it. For the rest of them, the ones that could have had it, that still don’t have it, despite having no real reason, I can’t imagine why they’d want to go through this. Stabbing back pain, congestion, fever, can’t breathe. No, I mean really, can’t breathe. Even with the vaccination, oxygen is elusive.

Like I said, I’m feeling better now. All except the back pain and breathing. I’m not going to be walking up the hill outside my house without pausing for awhile, I suspect. All because of almost.

They weren’t kidding.

I’m THAT Middle Aged Woman

When I was a child, my mother went through every diet she could find. She was an average-sized woman, on the thin side, always has been, but she was in Weight Watchers. She drank green-colored shakes that left a film in the sink and grunge on the blender no one could get off. She counted calories and took vitamins and pills designed to keep you from feeling hungry. She ate salads while we ate lasagna. She also ate heaps of ice cream when no one was looking. It always starts with your mother, doesn’t it?

I’d have said I’m not that person. I take up more space than your average-sized woman and I’m never on the thin side. I don’t count calories and I don’t eat salads. I’m bigger than I wish I was, looking more like my round father and rounder grandfather and nothing like the sylph-like beanpoles on my mother’s side. It’s getting harder to do the things I know I “should”. Exercise, eating things that are not doughnuts, you know. I think I care less. Or I thought I did.

You see, my wife is always in some sort of pain. Not in a whining, terrible way, no. She suffers silently. An aching back, a sore shoulder, a wince when no one is looking. And so, when she suggested looking into an anti-inflammation diet, I was right there with her. We embarked upon the detox phase only for her to say, halfway through, I didn’t mean for this to be a diet. But of course it is. The word diet has changed for me since my mother was weighing her low cal bread, meaning more of a habit of eating than an activity. But this, this feel-good (and it does), vegetable heavy, spice packed, way of eating is definitely a diet AND a diet.

It reminds me of the Whole 30 (check) and Paleo (also check) but not at all like Weight Watchers (check), all of which we tried for a year and abandoned. How am I not like my mother? I certainly don’t tell RR why we’re having stuffed portobello mushrooms instead of pasta but the flaxseed is sitting on the table and we’re clearly eating more green things than we ever have before. We’re trying to model heathy eating but are we doing that when we swing so wildly around? She is a beanpole herself and I’d like to keep her that way, if only to spare her the looks in high school, the disappointing trips to buy clothing, the pinched waist and sucked in belly.

But then again, here I am, with my own mother who surely wanted those things for me as well, only to fail when I turned out like myself. Raising a child is ridiculously hard work, when you think about it, especially when you can’t do that over a croissant and coffee.

About That Pandemic

I wish I could say profound things about…well, anything lately. Do you ever feel like you’re in a crowded room with a lot of very smart people? All so clever, well-read, well-dressed. All of whom can speak so powerfully, so eloquently about the issue of the day, the month, the year. Black lives, the pandemic, women’s bodies. They have children, maybe, they know all about vaccine rates and trials. There’s that one women using words you can’t even understand to hold forth on Portland’s autonomous zone. And, everyone else is adding insights and nuance and there you are. You don’t have the words, probably, or maybe your words have already been said. You don’t have a contribution that makes a difference or that isn’t without flaws and holes. I’m that person and I’ve been choked for words for a year.

Now is probably the time to say that the pandemic has done a number on us, on me. It’s obvious, right? A year of silence both in written word and, to be honest, spoken words. But, it hasn’t been bleak inside our walls. That makes it even harder to talk about in Polite Company. There are problems. I’ve lost 25 pounds and gained it back (and then some). My daughter homeschooled and then wore a mask through an entire school year and, let’s face it, will do so for another year. She had one playdate. It was terrifying. My wife hasn’t played shows, just started practicing recently, only to see the probable end of practices coming down the Delta path. There has been isolation, mentally and physically. But, and here’s the Polite Company part which, Dear Reader, you are not, there have been some good things that outweigh the rest.

I hadn’t had a migraine until this week, a throwing up, horrendous, kill me now, migraine. This week, the week before I go back to work in the office. I know you know this isn’t a coincidence. I’ve been at peace, more calm, less stressed, slept better, woke up happier, you know, all the things you aspire to when you’re re-evaluating life, since I’ve been working at home. Now? I’m crying in the shower, throwing up in the toilet, and picking up habits I thought I’d left behind. I return to the office on Monday and even typing that makes my heart beat faster.

I’d love to keep this feeling. Having my wife and daughter close, with the same salary, in the same town, without having to work in an office. It seems like a tall order though, especially given the freedom my job typically holds (new boss, some questions). I’ll be working two days a week from home (for now) and I’m holding on to that like the proverbial drowning person. I feel like I can’t get any air and I’m sinking.

So if I’m without anything to say, you know why. I’m an indifferent texter or I’d tell you to text me. Even you, who still thinks you are Polite Company. I’m usually great with anonymous penpals, not so great with anything else, lately. I hope you can forgive me.

Please Vote

If you’re in the U.S. and haven’t voted early, please vote today.

School at Home

I don’t make the mistake that we’re homeschooling. And by “we’re” I mean my wife is and by “homeschooling” I mean coming up with lesson plans, teaching, and ensuring work is done in a meaningful and lasting way. On the other hand, she is taking the comprehensive work plan the school sets out and making sure it’s done properly which is no small feat. I think if we were homeschooling in the true sense, it might be a little bit easier since we would have more flexibility on due dates and might know the material better. But on the other hand, we would have to come up with all this stuff, learn it, AND teach it so let me tell you, I think we’re getting the better end of the deal.

Well, I am anyway. As I said, my wife is doing all of the teaching while I’m doing a lot of the working. She’s balancing work and RR’s school. And she’s planning on going back to school herself so we’ll end up shifting yet again. This entire year feels like it’s shifting constantly. I hate to throw it all on 2020 but, man, it sure feels like a shitshow.

Anyway, school at home is hard. Mothering is hard. Wifing is easier these days (I hope that’s a shared opinion at least). The basement flooded. A bird died in the heater. We had to replace all the cold water pipes. Suffice to say, home-owning is hard. 2020 is hard. What else is new?

When that Disaster Pays Off

We are so lucky I have a titanium bar in my leg. As we speak, my daughter is in her morning school meeting, my wife is meeting with her boss, and I about to be in a group discussion about my Library’s COVID services. Our internet is plugging away just as hard as it can.

Fifteen years ago, while at work, I was on a deck that collapsed. The wooden platform crashed toward the house, trapping my ankle underneath. It shattered in such a way that it took almost a year to suss out a solution and get surgery to fix it. I’m now up two silicone plugs, six screws, and a bar. That deck was on a commercial property and 15 other people were seriously injured. Necks, backs, legs. There was a lawsuit and the result was a down payment on this small house.

This house has held us up for 11 years. It has weathered an infant and a stable of animals. It’s now hosting remote therapy sessions, two jobs that have moved online, and fifth grade. It just took a disaster to get us here.

The State of Things

I’m finding it harder than usual to write anything I’d want to read, let alone you’d want to read. I suppose I’m also finding it hard to say anything either. All my energy goes to work and trying to reopen a large university library system. When it’s done for the moment, and it’s only ever a moment, not an hour or a day, there’s always something, I find that I don’t have brain space to string together a meaningful sentence. For instance, I have incorrectly typed every other word in the paragraph. It’s slow going friends.

We are still waiting on final confirmation from RR’s school that she will be going back at all. We’re hopeful for the modified one week on/one week off schedule they surveyed us about but as the city schools close around us, I’m increasingly worried about that precious week at school. Her entire social life this spring was through facetime and texts. She celebrated her birthday with a socially distanced visit from a friend. This summer we put her in small fully masked 5 person camps off and on. This week we are braving a swim camp that is half masked, half cordoned off swim time. The campers get their own square to swim in. It is still terrifying. Misspelled word count: 15.

Once we visited friends in the northern part of the state, which has a higher virus percentage than we do and we’re about to omg go to the beach in North Carolina for a few days. I’m concerned but I am also burnt out and so, mask bearing and flip flop wearing, we’re going. Maybe it’s the librarian in me, but I feel the need to document all of this. I hope you are doing the same, though oral stories to friends and family, through your own journaling, through photographs and memorabilia. I certainly have a variety of masks that mark each stage of the pandemic. From the early stitched and ill-fitting to the bendy nose area and high tech fabric ones. Even the Disney ones from the trip we couldn’t take that are the thickness and breathability of those large white old-school baby diapers. They are a chronicle in themselves. Misspelled words (including this one): 10.

And so, in this 22nd week of working from home, we are slowly opening up our lives. I hope it’s for the better or the same, but not worse. And, at last, not a single misspelled word.

More Alone

Not too long ago, I complained I was never alone. Now I’m going to be alone in a way I didn’t want to be. On Friday, we will put our beloved dog to sleep. His body can’t hold him up any longer.

It’s heart-breaking to see a dog continue whose body has failed but whose mind is fairly intact. I find myself dissolving at the most unexpected moments and I can’t picture life without him. Why does this seem worse than when my father died?

There’s so much else going on in the world and in my personal life right now. Murders, calls to defund the police, marches, protests, job security, death, uncertainty over absolutely everything. I don’t want to say goodbye to my best friend.

Updates

Explaining anti-racist, anti-fascist movements to my daughter is critical and necessary. I need more words to do this well but I’m doing it anyway.

Moses’ back legs don’t work at all after 10 in the morning. It’s remarkably hard to euthanize a dog in a pandemic. One vet said they’d come out to the car (that we can’t get him into comfortably), another is coming to the house on June 12th. There has been less crying since we made the decision but it’s a little dead man walking (dragging) which is weird.

I don’t know how to do 4th grade math and I’m not optimistic about 5th grade math. With RR’s learning disability, math is going to be a constant feature this summer (as it was last summer and the summer before). She just needs a bit more work than other kids to stay on grade level.

I’ve been enjoying writing to you all. I don’t often comment on others’ writing and I’m going to start doing than more often. The whole process is cathartic so thanks for reading.

Next week is going to be science week. We’re going to make a volcano, experiment with invisible ink, get the slime kit back out, and watch yeast bubble. Other easy projects with household items?

Watching kids write each other letters is adorable. RR has received a letter and some postcards from her friends and her face lights up when she reads them. How can we be bankrupting our postal system?!

Teaching my daughter how to apply deodorant (and explaining why we use it and why she doesn’t have to when she older and can make her own decision) is weird. She has a more pronounced pit hole than I do and getting her to get it in the right place is key to not having a malodorous house.

Summer Camp

Hoo boy friends, it’s a return to the 1970s. There is no summer camp. We’re staring down three full months of free time while still working full-time. My kid is a delight but she isn’t a go outside and come back when the street lights come on kind of a kid. She’s not a curl up with a book kind of kid. She’s an almost 10 and I want to DO something WITH you kind of kid.

This house isn’t really big enough for an in-home day care teenager to spend time with her and, right now, I can’t picture them going out to do anything other than go for a walk. The pools are closed and won’t reopen. The libraries are closed. The parks are closed. Life is closed and it’s hard to conceive of what it will look like when it reopens.

So I’m making schedules in my head. We’ll get them down on paper. There will be reading and math. There will be walks and exploration time. There will be screen time and cooking class. There will be boredom. There will be stressed out parents and a frustrated kid. There will be happiness and laughter. There will be plenty of free time that she’ll figure out how to fill. We’ll work it out.