At the end of the school year, Grace’s elementary school gave each student a questionnaire to fill out for a time capsule. A cool idea, I thought. The document sought memories such as favorite Zoom meeting and most interesting thing you learned. Then, the final question: “What will you most miss about quarantine?”
My 8-year-old scribbled her answer: “Nothing!!!”
No other answer, I noticed, elicited three exclamation points.
I laughed lightly. “Really, Grace?”
Grace set her pencil down. “Yep.”
On the back of the paper, Grace had drawn pictures, as requested, of some of her favorite things during this point in time: food (pizza) and activities (played Sorry! with Anna). “I love your pictures, honey,” I said. “Do you want to color them in?”
“Nope.” Grace left the breakfast-nook table.
I looked at the box of Crayola crayons, left untouched on the table.
There’s nothing wrong with black-and-white pictures. They’re simple, can be striking. And certainly, there are times when we look around the world and struggle to see Jazzberry Jam, Electric Lime and Mango Tango. We feel uncertain, discouraged…sad. We look around, or we close our eyes, and there’s no ROYGBIV or even shades of gray.
Still, I hold out hope for brighter days ahead.
And certainly, there are times when we look around the world and struggle to see Jazzberry Jam, Electric Lime and Mango Tango.
The girls and I were in the car, and we passed a sign, and then another, that said, “Black Lives Matter” and “George Floyd: Say His Name.”
“What does all that mean, Mom?” Grace asked. Anna was listening.
For a while now, I had been struggling with what to say to my young daughters, and how to say it. I remember thinking, before I was a mom, that I wanted to be open and honest with my children about anything—and I still do—and I remember thinking that I would…and that has been the harder part, friends. It is so, so easy to imagine what we would do in a future, hypothetical scenario, and much more difficult when that scenario arrives in real time, awaiting our reaction.
Holding the steering wheel, I explained what had happened in Minneapolis, and racism, and anti-racism. I tried to use words that would be appropriate for an 8- and 5-year-old. Every so often, I glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Do you have any questions?” I finally asked. “I’m not sure I explained any of this very well.”
Grace said she had followed along OK, and added she had already learned about some social-justice issues in school.
“And I learned about segregation in preschool,” Anna said.
In that moment, the sunlight reflecting off the windshield, I realized I needed to be more proactive with important conversations with my daughters, no matter how uncomfortable they might be.
…I remember thinking that I would…and that has been the harder part…
Summer is here, officially. With each passing day, I am more and more thankful for our backyard. I don’t take for granted how lucky we are to have a safe, green space right outside.
The girls love their inflatable pool—Stanton spends many a weekend afternoon stretched out on the chaise lounge—and I so appreciate the simple pleasuring of sitting nearby (in the shade!), writing.
I’ve been working on a new story. Possibly it will evolve into the novel I’ve always wanted to write; more likely it will settle into a piece of short fiction.
“What’s your story about?” Grace asked one sunny afternoon.
“Basically, it’s about a family,” I replied.
“Why,” Grace wondered, “do you always write stories about families?”
I paused. I hadn’t ever really thought about it, I told Grace, but I guessed it was because interpersonal relationships were interesting to me—an intimate group’s history, psychology, lifelong journey. I also guessed it was because, since growing up in a large family, “family” is one of the few subjects I consider myself something of an expert witness to—not expert, but expert witness. 😉
Several weeks ago, I got a new (used) bike. Bikes can be hard to come by these days, but Stanton found one for me through Albany Bike Rescue, a wonderful local bike shop.
Next, I needed a helmet. Stanton swung over to Walmart and scooped up one of the very last helmets they had in stock…which actually was a youth helmet, the exact same one as Grace’s, in fact. As it turns out, however, I have a small head, so it’s a perfect fit.
Grace was delighted. “We’re twins, Mom!”
Now, according to Reddit and various other websites, a female adult should not wear a child-size bike helmet. I don’t take everything I read on the Internet to heart, though ( 😉 ), and besides that, bike helmets are “temporarily out of stock,” everywhere I check. So I’ve been rolling the dice, friends, and breaking in my fluorescent-pink-and-purple, matches-my-daughter’s helmet.
The biggest silver lining of this time, for me, probably has been the family bike rides Stanton, the girls and I now go on together. The four of us bike together every weekend, and the girls and I bike together throughout the week.
Pre-pandemic, the last time I rode a bike was more than 20 years ago. Even then, back in my Pennsylvania hometown, I didn’t bike that much, and didn’t enjoy biking nearly as much as I do now, with my family…with my girls.
One Sunday morning, Grace and I embarked on a “bike date” together, while Stanton and Anna stayed cozy at home to read books. The sky was baby blue, the sun was shining, the world was still quiet, still waking up.
Grace and I began biking on the Rail Trail. We biked past all our familiar spots: the little park, the Stewart’s next to it, the picnic table across from the green and pink mural, the Little Free Library that comes right after, the bench dedicated in memory of a woman whose favorite song was “Forever Young” (the Bob Dylan version).
We kept biking and biking. Grace smiled at me; I smiled back. “I love this,” Grace said.
“Me too.” It really was awesome, all of it—being together, being outside, feeling the breeze again and again.
Soon, our surroundings were less familiar, but still beautiful: wildflowers, a bridge, an abandoned barn. “Were you ever this far?” Grace asked.
I never was. And I loved it.
We biked past all our familiar spots: the little park, the Stewart’s next to it…
Nobody has given me a time-capsule questionnaire to fill out. But if they did, and if they asked, “What will you most miss about quarantine?”…my answer to that question would differ from my daughter’s.
I understand why Grace wrote, “Nothing!!!” I understand that many others may share that same sentiment, three exclamation points and all. I get it; I really do.
All things considered, though…and speaking only for myself…I will miss the extra time I had, that I never would have had otherwise, with my two daughters, who are growing up faster than I ever dreamed possible.
The extra time, and the bike rides.
“May you build a ladder to the stars / And climb on every rung / May you stay forever young.” (Bob Dylan)
Photo credit: Pixabay
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Melissa Leddy 