This, too, shall pass...

Right around one month in to this quarantine, I noticed a shift. At first, it was just at our house. Mister P was especially sensitive and needy, wailing over seemingly little things and wanting to talk to someone almost every waking moment. I was getting tearful everyday, alternating between being lonely and wanting to be alone. Then, I saw it in my Facebook feed, too - lots of parents reporting that their kids' behavior was breaking down, and moms admitting their sadness, as well. I looked at our family, and looked at my friends and acquaintances online and realized that one month seemed to be some sort of milestone for a quarantine - and maybe other types of stressful times, as well. Did the novelty wear off? Were realizations sinking in?

I'm sharing what I noticed to let you know that, if you felt like things starting to fall apart around the middle of April, you, for sure, are not alone. 

I'm hesitant to share what continues to make me tearful everyday, when I know that others have far worse situations. Our family has so much to be thankful for, always, but especially now - Kevin is able to work from home, I am able to wrangle/teach the kids, our immediate family is low-risk, we have a yard for the kids to play in...I'm well-aware. 

Friends, I'm super-sad about my little boy missing his last months of preschool.

We have been a part of the amazing community at Forest Hill Nursery School for the past four years. It is a cooperative preschool, and as a stay-at-home mom, I have loved the chance to be in the classroom to see my kids socialize and learn. I love all those kiddos, the teachers, the routines, and the other parents. For the last two years, I've been on the executive board, and, maybe most of all, I have loved being able to work with grown-ups and use the grown-up part of my brain. 

Since Mister P is my baby, I know all the things he is missing now. Getting psyched for kindergarten. The field trips. The class parties. The special year-end traditions. Coming into the part of the year when the kids are mature enough and close enough to really play together and flourish. These kids have always loved to play together outside after school, no matter the weather. The last day they played together, Friday, March 13th, was a warm, sunny day. If I had known how likely it was to be the last day, I would've let him play until it was time to get Miss A off the bus. 

He doesn't really know what he's missing. But I do. And I cry for all those special memories that we won't make. I know, I know - we are making other memories. And, it's just preschool, and in the long run, he will remember very little of it, anyway. Here's the thing - I'm really sentimental; I would've cried, anyway. But this is not how this stage of our life was supposed to end. I want those end-of-year rituals to give me closure, to help me transition to the next part of this road to adulthood.

But, as I sit here, crying, I think of the high school seniors who are missing this most special part of their high school career. I know not everyone has a good high school experience, but I did, and this would have devastated me. And I think of the essential workers and the medical personnel, and people who can't weather this as well...and people who were suffering before this, like the homeless and refugees...and I get frustrated with myself for feeling so sad. We will move on and be okay, but not everyone will. I guess we (I, really) need to make the best of our situation, and do we what we can to support others.