Waiting For Superman: CV Stories, 18 March 2020
The kids always know.
Throughout what is going to be an extended period of isolation for Americans, this newsletter will be a daily look at what it is like to actually live through this moment, until this moment is over. It will feature brief opening remarks from me every day, but will mostly be stories from you about how this is affecting you, your family, your friends … your daily life. (The regular weekly newsletter will continue uninterrupted.) It doesn’t work without you: Email me at williamfleitch@yahoo.com. We are all in this together.
Every other day, after we’ve finished the lessons for the day and I’ve reached a stopping point for my work—and it has been a bit of a surprise for this sportswriter to find himself as busy as he has found himself so far to this particular point—I take one of the boys with me to go see my parents. It’s the first time, other than my run, that either of us has been out all day, and we need it. My parents have been rightly cooped up all day themselves, and they miss their grandchildren; those kids are the reason they’re out in Georgia in the first place, after all.
We are extremely careful, of course, not only staying far from each other but also not touching anything. My mother wipes down the pinball machine they have in their den that my boys are obsessed with—it is a Guns ‘N Roses “Use Your Illusion” era pinball machine and it is amazing—and one of the boys plays it while we talk from opposite sides of the room. Yesterday, my dad even poured me a beer and had it waiting for me when I arrived. Mom even made a point to note that she sterilized the glass, the can and Dad’s hand, right as I walked in.
So we talk, usually for about an hour, about all of this. Mom has a terminally ill friend back home who she had to cancel plans to go see at the last minute; her friend is going to pass any day now, and she’s going to do it alone. We talk about how the boys are handling being home all day and without their friends, how few tests there are out there, how surely awful the next two weeks are going to be, how we won’t know if we’re on our way out of this until we get through that part. We try to keep the conversations light and as jovial as we can: After all, we are all happy to get to see each other. But it’s difficult. It’s obviously difficult. I don’t need to tell you.
But something funny has been happening every time the conversation starts getting too grave. My youngest son, Wynn, who is five, will look up from the pinball machine when Daddy and Baba and G-Ma start making faces that are too serious. He can just sense it. He will then run up to me—the one person in the room he knows he can touch—punch me in the leg and start … dancing.
There is no rhythm to this dancing: He is five, after all. But he makes a ton of goofy noises, and he pretends to rap, and he tries to stand on his head, and he pulls his shirt up and bangs on his belly, and he makes fart noises, and he takes his socks off and puts them to his nose and takes a big whiff and goes ooooooh groooooooosssssss. And then does a failed handstand and leaps around until we stop making the faces were making and start smiling.
Then he’ll go, “There!” And then he’ll go back to the pinball machine.
How are your kids hanging in through this? is the most common question I’m getting right now. But they’re doing incredible. They don’t need me to save them. It is them, who are saving us.
Here are today’s stories. Send me yours at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
The first story today comes from David:
I live in Teaneck, New Jersey, about two blocks from the hospital that has been called the epicenter of the state’s outbreak. Our Mayor has called for voluntary self-quarantine for 30 days. (We all are fine but are doing our part by staying home.) My first grader’s school has been closed since Monday, March 9, and the two little ones haven’t been to day care since Wednesday, March 11. Except for a quick walk or two around the block (crossing the street when someone else approaches) we haven’t left the house or the backyard since Thursday.
I’m by no means a medical expert, but it looks like my town is about three days ahead of the rest of the state, and maybe a week ahead of the rest of the country.
My recommendation to social-distancing parents with young kids is to keep a schedule. Every morning, we take a piece of paper and schedule specific activities. At 9:00 am we have movement (we play baseball in the backyard or, we have learned, there are surprisingly good kid-yoga videos on YouTube). At 10:00 am we have snack. At 11:00 am, the first grader does his remote assignment from school and the four-year-old does an art project. Twice a day we go to the basement to try to figure out what has been beeping once every 15 minutes for going on three weeks now. Before bedtime, we read stories with the grandparents via FaceTime. And if the first grader doesn’t yell at his sister too much he gets to stay up to watch Jeopardy! In between, my wife and I try to get some work done, which we are both doing remotely for the near future.
We are certainly among the lucky ones—able to work remotely, no one we know personally has been diagnosed at this point—but every day feels like a week.
From John F., a “proud septagenarian,” who sent this two days ago:
I'm practicing a self-imposed semi-self-isolation (SISSI), partly from disability circumstances and partly from my dependence on a gadabout partner unwilling to change her ways before it's absolutely necessary.
The crux of the matter is that our little out-of-the-way community as yet remains free of known tie-ins to the outbreak. It won't remain so, of course, but for now Sikestonians blithely shop, eat out, attend church services and Little Theater performances, funerals, etc.
We soak up all the televised warnings, doubt not a whit the enormity of our country's emergency, and await the local alert for this town of @16,000 at the crossroads of I-55 and I-57. Given that GPS locale and the 'community spread' phenomenon, we're not going to avoid this coronavirus, like some tiny off-the-beaten-track village out there in the vast western boondocks.
Staying in touch. — two age- and existing med. condition-compromised.
From Brian Moritz:
Remember the second semester of your senior year in college?
What I remember is the intoxicating blend of potential, promise, possibility and apprehension. It felt like the world was at my feet and there was great adventure just ahead. But what I remember most is the fun. There's no better time in your college life than the second half of your second semester of your senior year. Your responsibilities are few and far between. You're 21, all your friends are. You feel like a grown-up, but you're unencumbered by debts and obligations beyond a few classes. I can remember writing a check for my first apartment, and first month's rent and security deposit was a combined $550 and I felt like SUCH A GROWN UP for writing a check that enormous.
College is different now, of course. Students are way more socially conscious than we ever were. They're already entering a world that is way more insecure than the one we did, facing far more student-loan debt and fewer concrete economic opportunities. But second semester senior year always had this magic. I still saw the confidence in so many faces, the joy when a student had struggled for four years finally saw the work pay off, the elation from families who saw their first member graduate college.
Now, that may be gone.
My school (SUNY Oswego) is online through at least April 13, and maybe through the rest of the spring semester. And I can't stop thinking of my seniors.
I'm thinking of all the seniors and all that they're potentially losing. Graduating in front of their families. Those last weekends together. Last Friday, I had a media law class that ended at 2:45 p.m. Last class before spring break. Last in person class for the time being. I had three students stick around after. One was in tears. They all had sad, lost looks in their eyes.
"This was my last class," two of them said sadly.
Our final story today comes from Steven:
Two months ago, my 25-year old brother announced to our family that he's ready to propose to his girlfriend. This was big news for us, because we're a smaller, tight-knit group (there's four of us kids and my mom - that's about it) and he's the first to reach this important family milestone. He moved away from our home in Phoenix a few years ago and carved out a life for himself in Dallas, so this is a coronation of sorts for him. As the older brother, I'm beyond proud.
As soon as he let us know his plans, we started making arrangements to visit him and new his fiance's family for a long weekend. They have a lakehouse near Austin, and schedules seemed to align for us to get together what would have been next weekend. This was a final formality before he could feel comfortable popping the question.
We would have left on Wednesday. My mom called in tears this morning, wondering if it was worth it to risk traveling with all the recent news. She's devastated that we won't have this moment together, especially because there's no foreseeable point in the near future to reschedule. To her, this preview of a combining-of-the-families was more important than our typical seasonal holiday - watching our Jayhawks in March.
I realize it's small potatoes compared to what others are going through - we're healthy and able to stay in while we wait this out. But I'll never forget how heartbreaking it was to hear the defeat in my Mom's perpetually optimistic voice when she made the right call to cancel this trip.
Send me your stories of this moment in history at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
Please be safe, everyone.
Best,
Will