“What’s one word you would use to describe your 2020?”
I heard someone ask this last week, and was a bit stumped. How do you shoehorn this year into a word?
“What’s one word you would use to describe your 2020?”
I heard someone ask this last week, and was a bit stumped. How do you shoehorn this year into a word?
That day, in the whirlwind of working with kids at home, I received the kind of email I felt in my chest. Bad news.
I heard my respiration accelerate as my fingers curled the counter’s edge. My daughter watched my face, then looked at the screen.
Here in Colorado, our shelter-in-place ends in a matter of days, yielding to reduced prevention measures. As we celebrate a homebound birthday of my most extroverted child today, I’m reminded how tough these weeks have been for him–resulting in some signs of stress. He opened his quarantine gifts sent by Grandma and Grandpa, and we’ve got a cookout, and all-family games of hide-and-seek and kickball on the docket.
I think, too, of my friend waiting to finally grieve her husband’s passing in community. I long for worship services in person. For fear to subside.
First week of COVID-19 closures: a week of strange dreams.
Once, I dreamt I was driving in the dark, but my headlights kept flipping off. I kept protesting that I could hit something.
Another night, I was unprepared for a trip to a writer’s conference I wasn’t sure why I’d signed up for–but my editor was there, anticipating I would have great things to say. I’d forgotten shoes, blouses, my computer charger.
So maybe like me, you got the automated notice from the school yesterday that your kids–surprise!–have an extra week of spring break next week, because #coronavirus.
And maybe like me, a member of your family braved Costco this week. Or maybe you now possess a weird amount of toilet paper–which according to a meme I saw yesterday, is now the bottom rung of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
So yeah. That happened.
I won’t tell you which one. It doesn’t matter. And I have this phobia my kids will need to be in therapy because their mother is a writer.
For most of my life, I’ve been one of those people who could fall asleep anywhere. This is both a rich blessing and potentially a mortifying curse, of course.
Airplanes? Hotels? Weird bedrooms? Check.
I could tell you my son has energy. But that would be kind of like me telling you Bill Gates is kind of good at computers.
We’re on a sports rotation at my house. It is not because we love to be busy (we try not to be?), or love getting up on Saturdays for games (nope), or think he’ll be a star someday (odds are pretty slim).
Maybe you know all too well that awkward, disappointing moment. When a spouse doesn’t step up.
When the person you’re married isn’t the spiritual hero. And then? Your kids ask about it.
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