Pandemic Shadows

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If a mom snaps in the forest, does she make a sound? She certainly does if she snaps and then kicks something. Like I did the other day.

My husband chuckled into my hair and hugged me while I sniffled into his hoodie. He was attempting to console me after I snapped like a twig. It was bigger than a snap. It was more of a deep, echoing crack—the sound I’d imagine sea ice would make in the spring.

I don’t lose my cool very often. I rarely get angry or raise my voice. Good thing too because when I do, it’s over the top. That’s the problem with keeping things in instead of letting them slowly seep out to ease the pressure like a human Instant Pot.

Friday night started happy and hopeful with the promise of potato chips and a mindless movie. But before I could explore the “Newly Released On Netflix” menu, I got an email from Avery’s virtual teacher. She was writing to inform parents that she was moving to a new position and would no longer be with Avery’s cohort. *swear word, swear word, worse swear word* (I’m deciding how to handle cursing on this new website—since it’s a mother-daughter co-author situation here. Mind you, Avery’s no stranger to expletives. I mean, I’m her mom and let’s just say long haul trucking or joining the Navy would suit me. But, sometimes her peers visit us here and on social so…?)

Avery adores her teacher.

She worships her. This teacher is the reason online school has been such a positive experience. Avery jumps out of bed every morning excited to log in. Which she can do all on her own. She can manage most lessons independently now with very little help from me.

It took a lot of work to get to here. It wasn’t until November that I was able to leave her to attend class on her own. Hallelujah. I finally had some time to myself. Not spa level self-care stuff, but I could answer emails, get some work done, sort the laundry. Not glamorous, but necessary.

The unexpected email announcement left me in a panic. I anticipated having to reclaim my chair beside Avery’s desk, just outside the boundaries of her webcam (because have you seen my hair in the morning?).

I broke the news to Avery on the weekend to give her time to process. It didn’t go well. She cried and asked why. She wanted me to email her teacher to ask her not to go.

All this to say, I was on edge, mourning the impending loss of what little independence I have. Avery was sad and clingy all day after the news. She followed me from the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the laundry room, and back to the kitchen. I snack when I’m stressed.

She was hot on my heels as I climbed the stairs from the basement (where I’d been to collect more snacks from the storage room). She was so close that she stepped on the back of my slipper causing me to fall on my face. I wasn’t hurt, but it was the last straw. At the top of the stairs I blurted out something about never having even one second to myself. And then I kicked the basement door with my one slippered foot. It was rather dramatic. I’m actually laughing about it now as I’m picturing it.

It wasn’t having a shadow all day that set me off. I adore my sweet shadow. It was more the sudden and smothering awareness that I haven’t been alone in this house, not once, for even five minutes since the pandemic began. There is always somebody here. And usually only metres away from me at any given moment.

There are far worse inconveniences, I know. This isn’t even an actual problem.

There are many who are alone right now. There are people desperately missing the company of others. They’d probably love a shadow. I acknowledge that. And I love my family. I actually hate it when any of them aren’t close by.

It’s just… a lot. This year has been a lot. You get it. I know you do.

I apologized for my self-indulgent and momentary loss of composure. The other three members of my solitary confinement crew said it was fine. They understood and asked what they could do to help. That actually made me feel worse.

As for the remaining three months of school?

I told Avery while she cried on my lap, that what felt like sad news, was actually an exciting opportunity. (In addition to truck driver and sailor, I’d also make a great used car salesperson or fiction writer.)

I explained that now we could skip class and head outside on beautiful spring days and go on field trips and nature hikes with our cameras. We could work on science projects, record our podcast, and practise cooking. When I told her she could make our lunches every day, and could use a knife (a very dull knife) she perked up and my faux excitement became her true excitement.

So I might fall behind a little on chores (Who am I? Ma Ingels?). And I might have to work during peak Netflix hours. But after letting it sink in a little (and cutting myself some slack because peri-menopausal hormones are the devil) I’m feeling grateful and excited and much less door kicky.

“A thing I will miss about my teacher is that she does fun things with us. She loves us. I don’t want her to leave. I love her so much. I’m going to miss her so so much. I’m excited about doing math with you mum and science experiments. I was…surprised…when you kicked the door. It was okay though. Sometimes people are frustrated. You are a person. I’m happy that you’re happy again though. I’m excited to make lunch. We can make stuff from my cookbook. Like cookies and wraps.”