So a week ago, I thought, “Wow! Think of how much I could WRITE about this! Think of all the things we will have a chance to do! We can do more home projects, decompress, not worry about rushing here and rushing there! I will read so many books!”

Oh, honey. Bridgette from 7 days ago,  you were so, so, so naive.

I have been a teacher for almost 20 years. I have had to think on my feet in many situations. None of them involve remote teaching. None of them involve relaying all of your plans, thoughts, ideas, expectations, and lessons for students— through a device. And, in those years, I have happily stayed in the lane of English Language Arts for high school students. Aged 14-18. I have never thought myself cut out for elementary. I’ve always said, “Teaching someone to read has to be one of the most important jobs a teacher can do. That’s a lot of pressure.”

I have been a mother for 10 years. I have spent exactly 8 summers off with two kids running here, there, and everywhere. I have never in all that time spent 30 days going absolutely no where. I have always been able to tempt them with an outing or an ice cream run. A playground or a park. I’ve always had some little “maybe if you are good today we can go…” in my back pocket. We have always embraced the busy. This blog was kind of founded on that principle.

So take all of the above comments, put them in a blender, blend for 45 minutes, then walk over to the sink, and pour all of it down the drain.

That’s what all of that experience and wisdom gets you when you are remote teaching and homeschooling at the same time, every day.

All of my skills felt useless. All of my tricks were gone. It was just us. All day. Together. My husband (also a teacher, but in homeschool life I refer to him as Mr. Gallagher-your-fun-substitute) took care of the groceries, the TP (we have respectable, non-hoarding amount), the Amazon orders (a bidet), and the big picture thinking (“For God’s sake, Bridgette cancel Great Wolf Lodge, we are not going.”) And I, I took care of the schedule.

Yeah, I’m one of those. I wrote it out in big black magic marker. Got each kid their own labeled bin for their work, made a little charging station for all the devices (why are there so many devices?). I had it figured out by Sunday night. We were going to do this. Our homeschool was going to be the coolest of all the homeschools.

But Monday came. The “This could be fun!” day. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” (We were fools).

Then Tuesday. What’s that whole thing about the wheels falling off the bus? Does the bus even go to Homeschool? Cause that bus had no freaking wheels on Tuesday.

Wednesday it was sunny. That made it nicer. I went for a walk and felt like a human. Mr. Gallagher subbed for me that day and made sure they ate a lot of broccoli. At some point I went to the store and bought pints of Ben and Jerry’s– one for each kid and one for the substitute teacher. They picked their flavor from the pictures I sent from the grocery store.

Thursday was yesterday and maybe the longest day. Like a big yawn into saying,  Have we been doing this for a week already? 

And then today. I wanted the freedom to give a half day because I wanted to be the fun homeschool teacher (much like Mr. Gallagher), but then I realized that it was almost lunchtime and I was using my calculator to help Celia determine whether 42 could be divided evenly by 8. (The answer, in case you are wondering is: NO. I should not be allowed to help with math).

But I had a thought today. It was this.

We get used to the default. If the default is busy and barely two ships passing in the night, then that is how you live. That is what you do. If the default is this- unlimited time together with no big break from it in the near future, you adjust to that, too. Sometimes not in the most graceful ways. But you adjust. You change. The house feels small and loud. The kitchen table is a co-working station and a classroom. A lunch spot and a teacher-video recording space. Everything is everything all of a sudden.

And then another thought, This will change us. 

Today, I allowed an afternoon movie during a rainstorm. I finished up emails and communication with students, kids watched the new Jumanji movie. Then the glow of an after-rain sun came through the window.

“You guys want to go for a walk?”

We walked to a farm nearby and ran around their open field. A field trip. (Get it?) It’s a place where we have watched the sunset as a family in the past, a great spot for playing tag. Which is what they did.

It was brief. It was sweet. It was absolutely nothing I would have ever suggested we do on any other Friday when I was jockeying between dishes, laundry, and talking out the weekend schedule with my husband.

But it was amazing. Because, as we were there, the skies opened up and a fierce rain came down on us. Parker and Celia squealed with a happiness that made my heart tingle. We ran on the sidewalk back. Rain soaked everything.

They peeled off socks and shoes and jackets on the front porch. I sent one up to a hot shower and started making dinner.

Parker cuddled under a blanket on the couch. “Rain never felt that good, Mom. That was awesome.”

Tears stung my eyes and I wrote down his words in my Corona journal immediately. The absolute purity of the unexpected moment, the joy in the run back to our house from the field– it filled us up. With all the uncertainty, the worry, the moments of being completely overwhelmed, we were able to get caught in the rain. A week ago, I would have taken advantage of that moment. I would have missed it.

Bridgette today is wiser than Bridgette a week ago (and possibly a bit better at 3rd grade Math). And, I am, we are– all of us–forever changed.