I could think of 1,000 metaphors (and likely have) for what teachers, administrator, counselors, support staff—anyone who walks in and walks out of a school each day for their chosen field— have been going through for quite some time.

No one who is in it wants me to use *another* metaphor to better explain it. No one outside of education looking in really needs a metaphor to understand it either.

But I’m going to do it anyway.

We are tired of talking about the dark cloud education has become. We are tired of wondering what will ever fall back into place, where our 2019 teacher selves have been shipped off to. We used to be waiting for the cloud to lift.

Now we’re just stuck inside the cloud and can’t get out. We hear the storm before it comes, we also see its aftermath. We try to dodge the raindrops. We cannot.

We have reinvented and reimagined almost everything but the students front of us (We actually did not reimagine them properly, as it turned out). We digitized everything including our very personalities and talking heads. We took a hard right on the track we were on in 2019. We came to a full stop. And stayed there.

But we’ve done all the things. Taken care of ourselves, taken care of our students, took time for SEL and brought the person back to in-person learning.

But—we still sit beneath a cloud. It rains failure and rules and referrals and board meetings and banned books. It hails grading policies, morale committees, and substitute crises. It cracks loud with thunderous possibilities of a changed system but then lightning strikes again (a new demand or rising issue)- and breaks apart the career inside the cloud a little more.

There’s no no doubt things are changed forever- we’ve accepted this. But mourning the simpler life in education without a looming cloud still stings a bit. Talking about “the way it used to be” is not just for veteran teachers anymore. Teachers with less than a decade in the field are having nostalgia for a time when everything seemed—brighter.

And the experts- whether they be educational gurus, consultants, or even just parents who have seen the educational system work at a very personal level in their home— want to find someone to blame. But there’s no one. Not state or federal lawmakers. Not parents. Not board members. There’s no one to blame for the pandemic and all it exposed about kids and learning and— how important the space inside a classroom is— so it’s us. We are the common denominator. We facilitate curriculum. We connect directly with kids. We must be the ones to blame for the cloud, right?

Nope. No one is.

Between home and school, assessing a child’s myriad of needs has changed. There has been a culture loss for students who have not physically spent the majority of past two years in a school building. Kids have chosen from a list of autopilot selections: Tik Tok, Zoom, Snapchat, Instagram and (sometimes) even your online classroom. They have been able to be passive in their socialization, inactive in their education, and unchallenged in coping with so many things. They are under a cloud, too.

But in waiting for the clouds to lift— education itself is eroding. Teachers are more likely to pick up an umbrella and just wait out the next storm rather than be involved in helping to predict the next. With new rain boots and a bright yellow poncho, they have watched storm after storm after storm after storm—- pass.

And who can lift a cloud that’s so heavy with political issues, educational philosophies, and the seemingly endless needs of our students? We are not strong enough. We have tried and we are tired. (Tried and tired are the same word almost, aren’t they? Just two letters switched?)

I’m not sure how to end this metaphor. I want to be super cliche and say that brighter days are ahead. That the few storm chasers among us will help us to predict what’s up ahead. That our newer teachers will be better for all they’ve had to juggle. But I can’t.

I can offer my umbrella. I can say thank you for sticking with our bad weather pattern for two years and counting. I can tell you that if the cloud doesn’t lift anytime soon, you will still be okay. You may get a little wet, that’s all.

And there’s likely another educator, somewhere (I know so-so-so many of them) willing to let you borrow her umbrella.

We’re here. We love kids. We want to learn everything we can about them in order to best teach them. We want to do all of the teaching we’ve done in the past with the same zest and enthusiasm. With the same optimism and investment. But- we’re struggling.

Maybe it’s the fact that our profession got shaken up and dumped out before the world in spring 2020, maybe it’s because we have had to learn *so many* new things in order to do our job well, or maybe it’s just how depersonalized education has become- a mask, a computer screen, a digital platform of link after link.

Something’s changed. And while we know part of it is the global pandemic- there’s something more than that. It’s hard to put your finger on. Teaching feels harder, almost higher in stakes and expectations. We want so much to bounce back the way we thought we might last June.

We have lost a part of us. A part of us that had stamina and endurance and good reflexes to do what’s right at every turn. We must surrender to our laptops, our never ending to do list. Our creative ideas that somehow don’t have the levity and excitement they used to.

Everything has changed. Our content redesigned, our clientele negatively impacted, our working atmosphere feels like it has picked up to a pace we cannot keep up with. Teachers have been through something I don’t think they can even describe. And- somehow- they hopped back on the treadmill in September, sneakers laced up and ready.

But what should feel like simple road race at this time in our career feels like a trail run to the summit. What should be creative and innovative and meaningful to us has lost its sparkle. What should be a year of rebirth after a year of such changes and disruption feels—- flat.

*We* are flat, too. We are tapped out. And with our teaching selves on a constant overdrive, we deplete faster than we used to. We are worried about our kids who need us and school’s structure more than ever. We bear the weight of social emotional learning, mental health breaks, personalized teaching- but still we know our content has to make it in there, too.

We are floundering and bumping into each other in the hall. Offering “I am fried today” or “It’s been a tough week” to one another. But every week we are fried and every week is tough and as we turn the calendar over to November, we think, “I thought it would feel more normal by now.”

Some of us are wise and know that the change to the entire profession is permanent. Or at least permanent until all kids affected by the pandemic graduate. The line of 2020 is how we will mark how everything changed in what learners learn and teachers teach. We will be referring to it as major impact to our instruction for years to come.

But- even as flat as we are- our approach to our students will never be. They are the best part of our day or week and it is in teaching and working with kids that we feel un-flat. But with more of them needing us in different ways more than ever— we feel spread thin— so thin. I’ve seen teachers frayed and broken. I’ve seen teachers questioning themselves. I’ve seen a profession I love put on a scary monster mask that makes us all want to run. And sometimes we run. We run to each other, we pour into ourselves, we convince each other to lighten our loads, and we listen. Man, do we listen.

We’re here. We are people who fell in love with education and young people at one point and decided they were who we wanted to spend our career with. We are human beings who (sometimes) don’t have all the right answers in an ever-evolving educational landscape. We are moms and dads and spouses and friends and daughters and sons. We are some days just trying to have one win among the losses. We want our profession to matter. We want our lessons to matter. We want to show your kids how much they matter in the gauntlet thrown before them.

And we are trying. Trying not to be flat. Trying to stay engaged in the lesson of the moment. Trying to hold our colleagues up (this sometimes requires an obscene amount of coffee, cafeteria nachos, and Halloween candy). Trying to look at glass after glass after glass as half full and not half empty.

But, we’re here.

Teachers, your brain is a commodity. Rest it and give it love.

As we head into summer, what I will call “the big exhale” is coming from a teacher near you. If they are anything like me, they can’t believe they did what they did and handled what they handled and taught how they taught.

But they are also: So. Very. Tired.

Teachers are artists. We take what we are supposed to teach and form it into magical captivating (online) lessons with little extras to attract every kind of learner. We share, evaluate, edit, and critique our art each and every day. We are sometimes hard on ourselves. We lean on our colleagues, we look to our students, we try again and again and again.

But our artist brains need a chance to rest. Recharge. Quiet all of the voices of this year. We need to take our creativity and ingenuity home and nurture it. Allow it some inertia for a bit. Exhale the year that we never could have expected to have survived.

We are happy. We feel accomplished. We know that we have become better at our craft and know ourselves (and our limits!) so much better. But you cannot pour from an empty cup. I’ll say it louder for the people in the back: You

CANNOT (continue to) pour from an empty cup.

So, if you can send love and kind words in the direction of the teachers (counselors, psychologists, support staff, admin) you know, please do. Because some of them need to know that they didn’t mess this year up. Some need to know you noticed. Some just need a fully vaccinated hug and a “Thank you.”

Teachers, we have been through something and right now our profession sits wide open for future change- some change we probably need, some change that will likely call for many artists to start over with a blank canvas.

But, your brain is a commodity. You have used it to problem solve and contact trace and online teach and Zoom Zoom Zoom all year long. Now is the time to give it the love it needs to cultivate and regrow the pre-pandemic teacher you used to be (but this one is much, much wiser).

Take all you’ve learned and survived and hold it close. And then, gently, let it all out, too.

Reflect and consider all you’ve done and all you will continue to do. Let the past refocus you, remind you, regenerate you.

It’s time. To rest. Exhale.

Because: You deserve it.

Have a wonderful and restful exhale, wherever it may be. 🙌

We brought a little boy to you six years ago, and are leaving with a little man at the end of this month.

As (high school) teachers ourselves, I thought we would find an automatic camaraderie. But somewhere between the state tests, the fun days, the projects, the parties, and the field trips— I began to wonder: How do you do this every day? How do you do all that you do for the whole class?

I want you to know this:

You made him confident. You made him excited. You saw his unique gifts and helped him play them up. You knew he talked too much and you continually moved his seat 😂. You tolerated our overzealous questions at parent conferences (I always felt nervous and talked too much). And, above all, you saw him. Like really saw him.
You saw what we see.

How did you know how to be just the teacher he needed at just the right time? How did you get him interested in a new topic each week?

The answer is easy: Because you were made for this. You saw what he needed, what they all needed—and helped him to do it himself. Day after day. Week after week. Year after year.

As a teacher, just like as a parent, there are a million ways you can be a good one. Parker got six different teachers who were good for him in six different ways. Thank you, for six years of showing Parker so many ways he can grow, so many ways he can be himself. I thought we had that part covered- being teachers and all- but he didn’t want it from us. He needed it from you.

Aside from your work with our son, you have also given us a deep(er) respect for the profession. Thank you for bringing your best self to the classroom each day and for making our dinner table conversations and our minivan chats that much more vibrant and exciting.

We are humbled by your work, appreciative of your love, and inspired by your dedication.

We also know thank you is not enough, but it’s all we have. As teachers, we also know notes of genuine appreciation are sometimes all that keeps you going.

Thank you for teaching and reaching our son and so many others,

With love,
Mike and Bridgette Gallagher

It’s been 10 months.

10 months of your little face in a square on a screen or half of your face in front of me.

It’s been 10 months where there has been more asked of you than ever- but you have done much less. 10 months where school probably was not the distraction you needed from a pandemic but instead this bizarre TV show that was hard to pay attention to all the time.

In 10 months, I wanted so much more for you. I wanted to jump through the screen, I wanted to see your bedroom and pet your dog, and ask you if you are okay.

I wanted to know you. Better.

You will be told by people as you finish your education and head off to college that this learning model has failed you in this pandemic. That you have a learning gap, or are less prepared for something than the rest of the pre-COVID teens before you.

They will assume, that because your learning was so different, so detached, and so distant that you didn’t learn at all. And, to be honest, that was true on some days. But on others you were aching to learn. You were a sponge before me, waiting to share a new poem, or book, or story.

You see, they don’t know you. They don’t see you like I see you. They don’t know that you have grown more than ever. You have said things and you have done things and you have advocated for yourself, and you have told me about your mental health and the number of hours you work- and how much you have missed your friends.

You have missed something, many things. But fallen behind? No.

Now, have you done your best this year? Some of you have. Some have thrived in an environment where they could make their own schedule, make a snack while we read Romeo and Juliet aloud, wear air pods and do a painting for Art class during a history lecture.

But some of you needed that social piece and mourned it all year long. You lost your sparkle (sometimes the same days I did) and even if I knew you well, I knew you weren’t the same student you were in previous years. You got things done. But some days, it was just checking things off a list.

But, guys, do you remember the music I played and sang to you from behind my mask, the stupid attendance questions I asked, the double waved Zoom goodbye?

That wasn’t all for you, just so you know. That was for me. Because in all the worry of a teacher’s brain this year- all the ways we could convince ourselves that we are falling flat on our face, all the ways we could stress about standards, and state testing, and learning targets, and curriculum gaps. In all of that— we still had you. And sometimes our chat about ice cream flavors, or your favorite lake, or the article of clothing you can’t live without (hoodies won, almost unanimously)—It made this weird TV show I’ve been producing all year feel the same as classrooms before.

You can probably name a million ways the world has fallen behind the past year or so. I can name a million ways that you (yes, you!) have gotten ahead.

I can name so many ways you are more creative, more intuitive, more aware of your mental health and personal limits. More ways that you have learned to be your own advocate through the chat, through email, through a masked conversation in the hall.

And yes, I have given you all too many breaks. I have given too many “okays” on late work. Too many, “Just get it to me when you have it finished.” I have seen that the hard lessons you have to learn are ones you encountered every day of this school year. My tough love wasn’t going to help you get there. Things were already tough enough.

But I have also seen that the fabric of teenage life is thicker and more tangled than ever before. You have had to work hard to maintain friendships, keep in touch, make social activities for yourself. All things that school used to kind of do for you.

I’m sorry about that part. I’m sorry that at the time you needed it most, your social needs were not able to be met. I’m sorry that texting and social media were not enough. You should have had a Homecoming dance. A pep rally. A jam packed football game.

But please remember- you are rising out of this as someone else. We all are.

You are stronger. You are more yourself than you have ever been. You are ready for life in ways you never could have been before.

You have not fallen behind, I would never let that happen. You have trudged on, sometimes holding me on your back as you made your way through this. You have been able to do so many things no one could have ever expected of you.

So when, someday, some older person tries to talk about how teens fared during the global pandemic—Speak up. Tell your story. Say, “I was forever changed by having school that way. In the end, I think it made me better.”

You are not behind. You didn’t fall there, you weren’t placed there, you’ll never stay there. You are right where you needed to be in this crucial and unique time of your life.

It’s been 10 months. 10 months that felt like 10 years. But I would never choose to spend those 10 months with another group of kids. Thanks for keeping me going on the hardest of days. Thanks for the day you said, “How are you doing?”

And, most of all, thanks for not letting me fall behind either. There were days I almost did.

With love and a cheesy two handed wave,

Mrs. Gallagher ❤️

Dear Class,

We’ve been been through virtually everything in two months.

Pun intended.

I’ve shared my screen when maybe I shouldn’t have. You’ve laughed at my jokes when maybe you shouldn’t have. I’ve given you a break when maybe I shouldn’t have.

Can you hear me? Is my mic on?

Do you see me?

These eyes that are trying to communicate everything my covered mouth cannot?

Do you see me?

Do you see me?

I see you.

I think I know your face- but I’m never sure. Former students pass me in the hallway. I’m not sure who is who is who is who. We are all masked. All a little bit anonymous. The building is half full of half faces. Whole-faced students I once knew.

I try to pick out your voice but it’s hard even to match voices with mouths you cannot see.

We’re all muted. I keep looking for the button to turn up our volume.

Type into the chat.

Say it into the chat.

Tell me all your stories in the chat.

I need to know all of them.

In the classroom you seem so close to me— less than 6 feet sometimes— and still so far if I think of the snacks I used to hand out or the high fives I used to give or the taps on the shoulder to get back on task.

You are all little squares on my screen that I try to pull closer to me.

But the chat fills up with things you want me to know too quick-

I’m at my grandparent’s house.

I’m taking care of my baby brother.

I’m at the doctor’s with my aunt.

I got my wisdom teeth out today.

My class invades your personal spaces and still we feel so impersonal. I am just a half-face on a screen- a pair of eyes that say-

Listen to me.

Learn from me.

Talk to me.

Talk to me.

Talk to me.

Please.

I’ve never felt so on the spot and in the background at once.

I’ve never felt like I’m balancing a ball on the tips of my fingers and at the same time watching it roll down the hallway, fast, far away from me.

Work is sometimes submitted at 2am.

“I used my college fund. I bought a new computer, Mrs. G.”

Emails come in.

“I’m sorry, I fell behind. I’m not doing well with this kind of school.”

I treasure each word and I try to commit it to some kind of pandemic teaching diary in my head.

But I’m tired of the documenting.

I’m tired of accounting for new ways of doing things.

I’m tired of giving up things that define the very person I am.

It feels like a hamster wheel and quicksand- if those metaphors don’t clash too much.

A marathon and a wall sit.

A trek up a beautiful mountain that ends with two hours in the DMV line.

It feels like everything and nothing. Something you will never forget but not anything you want to remember.

Teachers look at each other- they know.

We are pushing. Believe me, we are pushing through and sometimes the only push we have are the little eyes that peer at us over the colorful mask and ask, “What are we doing today?”

I just hope you know: I want to teach you again, in my real life classroom in a non-pandemic time.

I want you all to come into class and be too loud, too rowdy, all over the room-not sitting in your seats or being phased when the bell rings. I want you throwing paper airplanes (so cliche) or trying to get me off track by talking about movies you know I like.

I want to ask you to stop talking. (I’d give anything to ask you to stop talking).

Please know this is different and it’s uncomfortable and it’s nothing either of us wants.

But, in some pair of miraculous rose colored glasses of the future, this classroom is just fine. It’s something you might miss. And it’s a special something that we share. Forever.

Hey, make sure you log in on time tomorrow, okay?

And even if you don’t turn your camera on,

I see you.

Love,

All of Your Teachers

Be gentle with teachers. They are mourning something.

We have all mourned the “old” way of life continuously since March. But starting a new school year used to have a shine to it. A blank canvas in front of every child as they meet their new teachers.

Teachers are not themselves. They are working through something. It’s a profound something. It’s the feeling they have had every year as they prepare to go back: a fresh set of eyes, a summer where they were able to reflect, and new ideas that they would usher back to the classroom they love.

Their classrooms, which are usually extensions of their love for the work the do. The posters on the walls, the silly sayings written on the board- the room, its furniture and decor was made to put children at ease. That space now has a dictated layout with removed excess furniture. That space now requires a tape measure to space student from student from student from student from teacher.

They are mourning active and loud group work, high fives as student after student enter the room. They mourn not having to count or record keep the number of kids in the room, the cohort, the cleaning day. They mourn recess and field trips and crowded club meetings. They mourn the stream of kids coming through the door for extra help.

They are mourning the organization and planning that usually absorbs a teacher at the start of the year. The planning that gives them great comfort. The planning that is so difficult now— many teachers are frozen, the unknowns are too many.

They are mourning something new with every logistical piece that is released. Bathrooms, lunches, busses, mask breaks, contact tracing, livestreaming. They are mourning the “a ha!” moments that might not be as discoverable in online instruction.

They are mourning the days they won’t see your children. The moments in class when they could connect that didn’t require a laptop or a Zoom link.

They are mourning lessons they knew by heart that didn’t need a single word written down- lessons they taught every year off the cuff. Lessons they know excite a room full of [fill in the blank] aged kids.

Environment. They are mourning that, too. Windows and doors open, disinfectant sprays and sanitizing gels. Gloves to hand out papers. Shared resources like markers and highlighters and poster paper, all sit on the shelves. Their most creative lessons now exist on pretty online programs, but don’t feel the same.

They are mourning the simplicity of their work. Work they have perfected over many weeks, or years, or decades. They are mourning the confidence that used to absorb them in learning something new. Now, everything is new.

They are mourning their own children’s active school and sports lives. Children who were excited about their teacher and their field trip and their Halloween fun fair. They are mourning the routine of going back to school as a family. Kids off to the bus stop with backpacks on. Parents off to their classrooms to take on another year.

They are mourning smiles. Smiles they used to rely on to check on kids, to see that they are with them. Smiles teachers wore to tell their students, “I see you.” They can’t imagine teaching without kids seeing their smile, each and every day.

They are mourning the burst energy they always get that first day- the blend of excitement, nervousness, and pure love for their job. They will still have it, be sure, but it will be tempered somehow. Not the same sparkle.

They are mourning the hallway student who would open his arms for a hug. “I’ve missed you Mr. ______!”

They are mourning the new face on the work they absolutely love. They are trying to fit what’s required together with what’s always been done before and it just doesn’t fit. They are mourning their own experience and what it has always afforded them. Now, they look at their colleagues and share their most overwhelming and anxious feelings. “It’s like starting all over again.” And it is.

They are also mourning a time when going to work posed almost no risks. Thinking about all of the possible scenarios that can play out in regards to their families’ and their students’ health has caused them many sleepless nights. They want to return to the same classroom they left. But they won’t.

They are mourning a profession they truly love and are devoted to. With no indication as to when (if ever) it will be returned back to them as they knew it.

But- they will take this mourning. They will push it down to their toes. They will do for kids what they’ve always done. And they will don a smile under their mask each day.

So, please. Be gentle with teachers. They are mourning something. A profound something.

I Didn’t Know It Was Our Last Class

I didn’t know our last day was our last day.
I didn’t know that I should have called on each of you one last time,
told you how smart you were,
and let you share that story you wrote about the girl who knew all the constellations.

I wish I had better prepared the last lesson and used less technology-
I wish I let each of you tell me your biggest fear,
and gave you a little extra silent reading time.

I wish I sent you to your homeschool with at least one of my favorite books to read,
I wish I told you to take your journals from the bin in the corner of the room.
“You’ll be needing this,” I wish I said.

I wish we took one more group picture, laid out my brick wallpaper and read bad poetry,
I wish I let the one who talks so much (you know the one) say even more on that last day.

But I didn’t know that it was the last,
I thought it odd to stand with my hand up for high fives as a goodbye, or a hug as you left the room.

I didn’t know that I should have played more music, made more jokes, gotten more smiles out of you before this.

I’m so sorry I didn’t know.

I can’t feel the loss you feel.
In my adult shoes, this lands differently.
A big chunk of your high school time has been taken from you.
And I’m just a small part of that chunk.

I just wish you knew that in our last class, you did everything right.
You had all the right answers and made the most astute connections,
and every single sentence of your essay-
was perfect.

Because our class, this class I see through a screen, or the last class we had in my room,
was not about grades or books or essays or discussions or quizzes or tests.

It’s about you.
Your well being, your growth, your ability to challenge yourself.

It was *always* about you.

About a week or two into quarantine, a friend dropped off a pizza, a goodie bag filled with self care items and a plant for me. Her card made me cry so hard in my kitchen that my children looked at me in panic.

I texted her later. I thanked her for everything she sent and said that I was experiencing a “flat spot” that day and her words and gifts helped get me through it. Now, in our texts, “flat spot” is code for a bad day, an emotional overload, a listless wave of: everything and nothing all at once.

Five years ago, my family embarked on a cross country trip that was one of the most amazing journeys of my life. In it, I saw so much of this country— mountains, deserts, lakes, oceans, geysers, wildlife. But you know what part of the trip I don’t have very fond memories about? Indiana-Illinois-Kansas-Missouri. The plains. The flat spot of America. No offense to anyone who lives/has lived in these places, I am using them for metaphor here. On these roads, all there was to see was the road behind us, the road in front of us, and plains on either side. I understood why Kansas was the state used for Wizard of Oz’s tornado, it was perfect.

The flat part of this experience is an emotional one. I’m not talking about the Groundhog Day feel of each morning when you sit and watch another press conference and set up your laptop at the kitchen table— again. I’m not talking about the calendar for the next month having Xs over all your trips, gatherings, concerts, tournaments, and parties. I’m talking about the way you have embraced this experience emotionally. The self talk you have used to help you turn one day into another. However you to release the barrage of anxieties that run a loop as you toss and turn to sleep each night.

We have perfected the physical act of hunkering down. We have armed ourselves with new recipes and too many YouTube tutorials. Some of us have decided to adopt pets or sew masks. Idle hands are a devil’s plaything, so we have tried not to be idle. We take long bike rides with our families, start home projects, arrange weekly Zoom Trivia to satisfy our desperate need for real time interaction.

But the emotional hunkering down is something else completely. It’s like the emotional version of a lobotomy. The constant waking up to another day to manage our disappointment for plans we had to cancel or relationships that are strained, work obligations that seem more dense and complicated than before. We don’t have a hamster wheel to jump on, a commute to complain about, or a conversation at the dinner table that starts with, “The most interesting thing happened to me today…”

The topography of our emotional life has flattened out. The ebb and flow of both looking forward to something and working toward something is taken away. We are trying to pull ourselves up from the flat spot each day— maintain a routine, reach out to friends, do something that makes us feel good for someone else. W

Keeping out of the flat spot is not easy. Sometimes it lasts one or two days. Days that blend together and are barely recognizable as separate spans of time. Sometimes you are in a flat spot when your spouse is clearly not. They are able to joke and laugh and you are floundering, not feeling tethered to anything but this untethered-ness. The flat spot gives you no ramp up to a fun getaway or night out with friends. It maintains its horizontal line with authority, sometimes morphing into some weird kind of balance beam.

The answer to fighting the flat? There isn’t one. Be there for your fellow flat spotters, plan Zooms to help pull you out of it, listen to those who live with you a little more closely to determine if they are maybe in a flat spot, too.

And promise yourself, each day, to appreciate that life that was so rich in its topography— so mountainous, so full of beautiful valleys and craters, and scenic views— that when you resume it that you never, ever, take advantage of it again.

Please note: If you, after reading this, are having a flat spot day, please reach out to someone (maybe me if you have my number). Your code can be “flat spot” and we can work through this crazy long plain in front of us, together.

I’ve been playing this game with myself called, “What would I be doing in the Alternate Universe?” Today in the Alternate Universe, I am ordering cute new maternity clothes online to wear to work. Before I got pregnant, I envisioned my future bump snug in the floral print maternity sundresses that I didn’t get to wear last time.  In Reality, I’m wearing old sweatpants and my husband’s t-shirt, which is completely unflattering and depressing, but I have nowhere to go.

In the Alternate Universe, my baby shower was a few days ago.  My friends and family got together in my house to have a tea party, planned by my mom, to celebrate the babies on their way. I got to wear a dress that made me feel pretty instead of just huge. The nursery is painted and decorated, ready to hold baby items from the shower, and awaiting its mini inhabitants.

In Reality, nobody came over this weekend. Floral paper plates sit in a box on the floor of the guest room. The nursery is not painted because my dad is isolated in his own house, and never got to come here to paint it. In fact, I haven’t set the nursery up at all, just folded some old baby laundry here and there. I keep saying, “We should pick a day to paint.” But now there’s no hurry– June is still two months away.

In the Alternate Universe, we are packing to leave for our spring break trip. I will get to spend the weekend with one of my best friends and her family on our way to the beach. I have a red maternity bathing suit that my husband bought me that says “Baby Watch.” The beach is our happy place. We’ve been planning this trip since last April.

In Reality, our trip is canceled because most of the country is “staying at home.” I had a Zoom coffee date with my friend, which was wonderful, but also sharpened the disappointment of not seeing her, probably for at least another year now. The bathing suit sits in a drawer and will never be used. 

In Reality, I’ve been holding these virtual coffee dates with several of my friends to replace seeing them. One morning last week I had two dates in a row. I spent hours on the phone. My son watched TV all morning so I could chat, and I felt guilty about both his screen-time and the work I was procrastinating, but it was worth it just to laugh in the same time (but different space) as my friends.. 

In Reality, I spend about 12 hours a day with my son. In a row. In the Alternate Universe, I only spend a few hours a day with him, and those hours are shared with activities like Cooking Dinner and Folding Laundry and Bedtime Routine. But lately, because life is slow, I can absorb him. He loves to laugh and has a great sense of humor. Like me, he’s overly sensitive and leaves cups of water all around the house. Like Patrick, he’s detail-oriented and stubbornly independent. He talks about his babies all the time, and worries about his mommy, and wants to watch dada “bix” things around the house. 

In the Alternate Universe, Patrick and I have separate activities, our own friends, and lots to do. We also don’t have a regular babysitter. Full conversations rarely happen all at once. In Reality, we have been in this house together now for a month without any activities.  There was a 20-minute stretch after he switched our sides of the bathroom entirely (drawers, medicine cabinets, EVERYTHING) that I wondered if we were going to make it. But actually, I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more. Considering the circumstances, it’s been really nice to just spend time with him, without the rush of our normal lives, without all the extra people. I remember during my honeymoon thinking that this was the most in love I would ever be, but I was wrong. Love is wearing a face mask to go out during a pandemic to buy your pregnant wife a new iron supplement because Amazon now takes a week to deliver. It’s watching The Sopranos again together during naptime. I keep thinking about how lucky I am to be stuck in the house with him.

It mostly hurts to think about the Alternate Universe and everything I am missing out on, especially my friends and family, and what should be a really exciting time to share with them. There are those who have been affected more directly by this pandemic, who are on the front lines or actually sick. But I think the rest of us still need to mourn our “old” lives, our people and our hobbies. Humans are social creatures and we are seeing how physically painful it is to isolate ourselves. 

On the other hand, I think for many of us there has been a silver lining to our lives being on pause. I appreciate my old life in ways that I never knew I had to appreciate it. The little things like running to Target just to browse, and not wiping off all of my groceries with a Clorox wipe. I keep asking my husband, “How will this change us?” I hope that when this is finally over that our appreciation will linger, that we won’t quickly forget this reality that we are living. That we’ll continue to have regular Zoom coffee dates and happy hours with our friends who are far away. That we remember the little ways we tried to make holidays and birthdays special without any of the normal fuss. We got this chance to reset and simplify our lives, and for that I can be grateful.