Fear and Normalcy

Today, we reopened Primrose after about six weeks of closure. It’s been a strange time, without Primrose. I’ve had Primrose almost as long as I’ve had kids, and in many ways, it feels like a part of my family. Certainly one that causes stress sometimes (like all family members), but I’ve grown used to rhythm of the the relationships, the laughter, and the struggles. I had no idea how much I would miss the children. I love my own babies, but I miss getting to plan for and care for the children at the school so much. 

I had my first panic attack during Coronavirus, after I thought our au pair had been out socializing. I was terrified of the risk of bringing it into my home, and you know - dying. The panic attack itself was terrifying.

There is so much fear about getting the virus, spreading the  virus, and it’s hard to believe in and wrap your head around something you can’t even see. When you go places, people are wearing masks, but so much of the world seems normal. So in order to take precautions, I have to convince myself that there is an invisible enemy, that I fear, and am willing to massively disrupt my life for. Sometimes it’s hard. I miss normal so much. I miss my friends, and family, live shows, parties. I can’t even see this virus or touch it; it’s a phantom menace in the news. 

When we reopened the school today, it was like this big breath of normal. Except that it wasn’t. I was wearing a mask, gloves, washing my hands after touching each child on their way into school so I don’t cross-contaminate them. No parents can come in the building. The precautions go on and on, outlined down long pandemic plans. While I know that the risk of getting the virus is certainly much higher holding a crying child than going to the grocery store, I cannot bring myself to have fear in that moment with that child, while I haven’t set foot in a grocery store since early March. When I hold a crying child, my emotions flow to a normal place, one of compassion for a little person who is separating from mom, feeling scared. It’s a familiar place for me, where my heart knows the roads to helping. The helping someone else helps me more than I can help myself most days. 

We have to take some risks to work, to care for our families, to get food, to get other necessary supplies. It is not clear how to choose what makes sense right now, but this I know. Comforting a crying child is a risk worth taking. I am grateful to have meaningful work to serve families in a time where meaning is hard to find.