The kids and my husband have been home since NY went into quarantine. It’s been great knowing they’re all safe and healthy. Especially with a wonderful
slave someone who can answer every single question that comes to mind (most answers being “I don’t know” but that seems to be good enough), and get them all the snacks, meals, and drinks they all need at any given moment. Someone to keep life normal as much as possible for them.
It’s me. I’m that wonderful someone.
I mean. It’s been truly great knowing they’re well taken care of. Need to play a random game? Sure, you have someone who’ll do it. Need to go run around in the backyard? Sure, I’ll take you. Need someone to stay up four nights straight, all night, trying to find an open slot for grocery deliveries? Sure. Had a nightmare and need mommy? Sure. Need to keep the house quiet while you’re on work calls? Sure. All while (as was normal for me previously) working from home myself? Sure.
One month in, I can sincerely say I’m starting to feel resentful.
I have my own work and my own books that I was in the middle of writing. But none of that seems to matter. I get by with my actual work, but that’s it. At this point it seems like all the teachers have gotten a hang of online work, and even the gym teachers are adding assignments daily. My kids are still young and need help each time there’s a new program added to sign into and to learn how to use. This is happening every 2–3 days. All assignments need to be turned into by 4:00 pm or they’re incomplete. Oh, you mean during the same time as our regular working hours? Yep.
In between, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner is expected. Cleaning the house is expected. Quality time is expected. And all is given freely and lovingly. But I don’t get to my own needs and wants. Do I have it easier than a lot of people right now? Yes. Do I appreciate every single essential worker, doctors, nurses, grocery store employees, delivery guys, cops, etc? Absolutely 100% yes—they’re all heroes through and through.
But does that mean I shouldn’t be allowed to feel frustrated? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I only know that it’s getting to me.
You would think this is the perfect time to start a new project or to finally finish writing my books. And it is. But it isn’t. All days of the week are blurred and meshed together and I’m exhausted. Not from the work, but from the worry. From the lack of sleep. From checking in with all friends and family constantly . . . especially with those who can tell me about people I know who are in the hospital or sick and quarantining at home.
I want to write, but I can’t concentrate. I want to read, but I can’t concentrate. I want to sleep, but instead I run through a list of my to-dos WHILE bidding for grocery delivery slots, which by the way is a sad game in which I don’t feel like I win, even when I do (twice), I feel guilty because that means someone else who’s also in need didn’t get that opening. I’m in one of the hot spots, and I have a son with a low immune system, so I have to minimize exposure as much as I possibly can. Anyway . . .
I don’t know who else is going through a “normal” life lockdown and is feeling frustrated. And I don’t know who else feels guilty about the emotional up and down. Or who else feels like they have no right to feel this way. But I can tell you, that I’m here feeling the same, and you’re not alone.
And I’m sorry for those who are tired of reading about being quarantined and Covid-19, but I just couldn’t concentrate enough to write anything else. Plus, maybe I need someone to tell me they understand how I’m feeling as well.
Big hugs to you, my friends. Big hugs . . . but only the virtual kind.