When I stuck my hands in the pocket of my rain jacket this morning, I found three receipts dated March 13, 2020. I sucked in a breath when I realized I hadn’t been out in the rain in over a year.
Honestly, we haven’t been many places in the past twelve months. Sure, we play in the yard or take a walk around the block, but no one ever felt inclined to be outdoors in bad weather. I haven’t been to a single store since that March 2020 shopping run. We eliminated all in-person social activities. I started working from the kitchen table. The kids only returned to in-person learning on March 1st of this year, so really, why would we be out in the rain?
My oldest no longer had a rain jacket she’d wear in public—either because it was too small or covered in butterflies. My youngest, always quick to mirror her sister, proclaimed she needed a big kid umbrella of her own now that she was a first grader. I ushered us out the door in various states of ill-preparedness, late to drop off. Still flustered, I drove to school and parked, but forget my mask in the car. I had to run a half block back to retrieve it before entering school grounds. I’m still getting used to masks. Until recently, I haven’t been around enough people to warrant wearing them.
For the past year, the girls and I have lived in what I call a golden bubble. Let’s be clear, we were risky as hell this past year, through no fault of our own. My partner left us each day to stick his face in the unmasked faces of others (dentist). Every restaurant, gathering, and exposure those individuals felt willing to take ended up, quite literally, in his face. Yes, everything was done to mitigate those risks: PPE, ventilation, temperature checks, and enhanced cleaning protocols, but at all times, we assumed we were at a high risk of infection and acted accordingly.
We made the decision early in the pandemic to isolate and reduce the risk to both our friends and family and my husband’s patients. As the cases rose and the deaths mounted, I stopped watching the news. Our guy returned to us with deep lines on his face from the masks he wore, not allowing us close until he’d showered. But afterwards, we did our best to keep things as “normal” as possible in our golden bubble.
Golden because in many ways, it was beautiful. Make no mistake about it: This year sucked. The pandemic has been devasting for everyone. For many, it won’t end when we reach herd immunity because there will always be an empty chair(s). There are businesses shuttered. Dreams lost. Bittersweet milestones passed without the usual celebrations. I don’t write this to minimize any of the suffering of the past year, but rather with appreciation for the lessons I’ve learned about myself in what has been, without question, the most trying period of my life:
I recaptured joy in the simple things.
With fewer activities and nowhere to go, we had more family time than ever before. We set up a tent in the back yard and roasted marshmallows on the fire pit I sourced from Prime. We had family movie nights and played board games. We tried new recipes. I watched the clouds for the first time since I was a small child in rural Virginia. My husband and I spent hours snuggled in the hammock watching the robust social lives of squirrels. In short, we did nothing. And nothing felt great. When the pandemic ends, I doubt I’ll ever be as enthralled with the limited wildlife of suburban New Jersey, but I might just sit in that hammock and be still. It made me feel more connected with my family, the joy of it almost childlike in its simplicity.
My OCD no longer felt like a burden.
This was an odd surprise. One of the biggest manifestations of my obsessive-compulsive disorder is a fear of germs, specifically—the stomach bug. Prior to the pandemic, I wielded wet wipes and hand sanitizer like weapons against contagion, annoying my family often. Suddenly, I was on the exact same wave length as everyone else. Couple that with the fact my little germ monsters were no longer licking the school railings (I don’t think either ever did this, but they might as well), and for the first time in years, I actually felt more in control. I know that sounds crazy. On an intellectual level, I knew my husband was at extreme risk of catching a deadly virus and bringing it home. Call it willful denial or trust in his mitigation practices, but I worried less.
I realized how chill I’d been when my oldest returned to school and the child sitting next to her on the first day came down with a stomach bug the next morning. It didn’t help that the child one row over then tested positive for COVID the next day. Seriously, WTF. I fought the urge to douse her in Lysol and went about my life. I will not change my hygiene practices—which are now the norm—but I hope to diminish the worry I carried before because it felt nice to live without it.
I need a lot less than I think
I have bought everything from a replacement dryer handle to a kiwi online. Anything our family needed was delivered to the front door. This required a great deal of planning (ironically, made easier by my OCD) and an acceptance that not everything will be available when I think I need it. My kids learned to accept that their favorite snack might not arrive or that they had to be patient to get what they wanted. I made zero impulse purchases when grocery shopping, which meant we wasted little. Since I’d determined not to visit stores to return items, I considered every purchase I made. Some have been duds (and in any other time would have been returned), but for the most part, we’ve gotten by just fine without in-person shopping and have spent considerably less each month.
I’m capable of more than I imagined.
I’m not even talking about the practical side of this experience: Becoming an ill-equipped homeschool teacher or learning to make my own donuts. After curling in the fetal position and crying in the shower for a month or two, I found a mental fortitude I didn’t know I had. I hope I keep it.
I love my house.
Confession: When we bought our home seven years ago, I didn’t like it. There’s not much charm in a late mid-century split level. Just before the pandemic hit, I’d started browsing local properties for our “forever” home. When our practice closed for two months, I was grateful for our small mortgage. As the year stretched on, I began to appreciate the space we had. If you spend twelve months isolated with your family and never once think “Man, I wish our house had X” you come to the quick conclusion you’re living in your “forever” home. I love my house now because it remained familiar when the rest of the world shifted. It was our shelter, both literally and figuratively, and for that I am forever grateful.
I’m lucky to have my family.
As a parent, I couldn’t imagine better ages to spent 24/7 in isolation with my kids. Any younger, and I’d have felt more drained. Any older, and they’d have wanted nothing to do with me. I was in the sweet spot of childhood when I can leave my kids alone and shower but they still like playing games or doing arts and crafts with me. Despite our shrunken social circle, I was never lonely. As for my husband, I am confident we can spend our quiet retirement years together without killing one another (see squirrels above).
I hope that by staying home we did our part to help fight the spread, but I recognize that not everyone could have lived like we did for the past year. It takes money (higher food costs and more tech tools, etc.) and reliance on others. I’m grateful for each and every person who made it possible. 2021 will no doubt bring new challenges and obstacles, but as I step out of our golden bubble and into the rain, I do so with a greater appreciation for the life I have.
Kathryn Hively
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