It was March 2020.

These journal entries will probably serve as a historical document one day.  You are welcome, in advance.  All the thoughts and feelings of this wild jungle called March 2020 need a home outside my head, otherwise they swirl and morph and do tricky things.

Once upon a time, I stayed home with my kids and we home schooled, because that was our choice.  That time was last Wednesday.  Now I'm a little angry, because I strongly hate being told what to do.  It's fine. I'm fine. There are actual problems in the world.

I feel a heightened sense of poetry in all this chaos, it's both tragic and beautiful, because for all the difficult and confusing fragments constantly unfolding, we also see honest, radiant goodness shining everywhere we look.  It's ridiculous that it took the entire world to collectively pause for me to actually write, but let's not linger there.  Let's talk about day 4.  

Nothing was different about our Monday morning, coffee, waking children, school at the table.  Except it felt endless and exhausting.  The night before I received news that my work had all been postponed for eight weeks.  In the course of four days, I went from a three week break to two months and it felt incredibly uncomfortable.  I wasn't afraid of basic survival needs, I have seen the enduring faithfulness of God in uncertain times.  I was annoyed at the sudden impact on our lives.  Annoyed. That's selfish and it's my true answer.

That evening, my husband was working late and I left the kids to complete their chores, while taking the dog for a quick walk, ten minutes down the street.   I breathed in the cool air that hinted of lingering winter and approaching spring, I gazed at the melancholy sky, and noticed how the first rains of March has already painted the world in shades of green and rich, red clusters on the maple.  It was good.

I returned home to children shrieking, "Mom, what's that sound, what is that alarm, make it stop!"  The youngest was in tears.  The oldest was calmly explaining the situation and the middle was fiercely explaining the same thing.  It was the carbon monoxide detector issuing a malfunction warning, which they didn't know.  I opened a bunch of windows and searched, "three beeps every thirty seconds, what does that mean." Hello, I didn't exactly know either.  Our dog Charlie,  a wild defender against the mailman, squirrels and any car driving down our street is a scared, little baby when a high-pitched alarm sounds.  It's only funny to you, because you're not in the scene. Oh and the chores were not done, by the way.

"We wanted to call you from the tablet, but you told us to ask permission before using it and you were walking Charlie, did you have your phone? Hudson said emergencies are no time for asking permission, but I wasn't so sure," said the rule follower, girl of fire eyes.

I double checked the alarm codes and sat the children under a blanket.  It was time for an emergency protocol meeting.  Let me tell you, this kind of conversation, when Daddy isn't home, just hours after hearing that the library, swimming pool, and church are all closed was precisely too much. Now somewhere in their lurking fears, this new villain, a silent and deadly gas monster was born into the world of a creeping virus and nowhere to go.

Bedtime followed, which is, of course, bedtime.  The events of the day called for some extra prayers and songs and "do not be afraid" verses.  I collapsed into bed. Full disclosure, I cracked a few windows.  I called my friend for a necessary laugh and soon, two scared little girls appear at my bedroom door.  I explained once again, that the alarm had never gone off and it was just alerting us to replace it.  This was not an adequate comfort. After all my wasted reason and more songs and earnest prayers, I saw no other way through this night and thus, three children carried their dearest earthly possessions and fifteen pillows into my bed for Paddington 2.

Let me now controversially proclaim, that I believed in co-sleeping ONLY until the age of 6 months, because I got tired of those little creatures kicking me all the live long day.  As I am not one of those strange people who can function on unhealthy amounts of sleep, this was an existence issue, so for the sake of everyone, for the actual continued existence of mankind, goodbye kiddos, you sleep over there.    That's my manifesto.

Scientifically speaking, which is rare for me, that tiny window of co-sleeping opportunities expired for all these children precisely 11, 8.5, and 5.5 years ago. Which means, that those  tiny, kicking legs that once belonged to cute, chubby babes have been growing and strengthening this entire time, all these years. Guess what else, they are still kicking.  I feel like my kidney and hips are broken, yes I'm pretty sure they are.

This morning, I hobbled out of bed, much earlier than usual to stretch out on the sofa with a generous vat of coffee and enjoy the personal space that I adore.

We're all going to be okay, but now I know that pandemics + home alarms + safety conversations will quickly meet the emotional thresholds of children and if you allow them to sleep in your bed, your will have broken kidneys.

If school, is cancelled today, c'est la vie, so are all the others.  

We are intrepid, we carry on, friends.