Morning

The sound of his alarm, muffled through my ear plugs. Flip on the light that blinds for a minute before squinting through squeezed eyes to decipher the words on the Bible page. Descend from Mount Sinai to the first round of temperatures. Today they are normal. One bullet dodged. The medley of breakfasts and homework checks and dog feeding gives way to last calls of did-you-brush-your-teeth-and-change-your-underwear and did-you-remember-deodorant and did-you-comb-your-hair. All confirmed, masks are donned and we burst forth onto the world through the door that still squeaks (and why can I never remember to grease the hinges?). Drive through dark, frosty streets. The car is full of words. So, so many words. A quick kiss goodbye, wave to the masked faces that are In Person today, then back through the empty streets. Laptops powered up for remote learning; more hours logged at home than in buildings. The stream of Google docs and Zoom calls and YouTube tutorials replaces the words. All the words. Pull the crock-pot from the pantry, filling it with every vegetable and healthy morsel scrounged from cupboards that have not been restocked since the last monthly venture into The Public. This needs chicken. There must be more in the freezer. Down the basement stairs, tripping on the pile of dirty masks scattered on the laundry room floor. The crock-pot will wait. Washer to full heat, scoop of soap, in go the masks. Stumble back to the living room, ablaze like the fourth of July. This old house, with its outlets turned on by switches and all the lamps. Remind the children charging laptops that lamp switches can–should–be switched off. The orange glow, though, has a certain calming effect. Overlook the bump in the month’s electric bill, just this once. The chicken falls, frozen, into the slow cooker. Switch it on and walk away. To the dining room and the ironing board, its permanent installation by the window, next to the only outlet that does not require a switch. Turn on the iron, cut out the mask pieces. The first meltdown of the day, from the other room. Too much work. Work is too hard. Zoom won’t turn on. When will this pandemic end. I miss my friends. You don’t know what it’s like to be a kid in quarantine. A hug. Some calming words. Back to the Zoom and the sewing. Another pause. A string of texts from a friend. Fevered child. To test or not to test. How do I know. Where were we exposed. A deep sigh. The sewing beckons, but not for long. In the morning rush, the vitamins were forgotten. An artillery of bottles: the zinc, the multi, the vitamin D, C, and QRS. All dispensed. The breakfast dishes litter the counter. Put away the open cereal boxes. Stack clean dishes in the cupboards, reload the dishwasher. A quick bathroom break. Ten seconds of peace before the first knock. I’ll be a minute. Another knock. Mom, I need help with my homework. Another sigh. Flush the toilet that doesn’t work. Again. In spite of the eight month bathroom remodel, stalled twice by shelter-in-place and the Fever that Would Not End. Fix the toilet and find the child. Listen to the frustrated rant. Read the assignment. Have you watched the video that explains this? Gaze averted. The child is off to watch the lesson. Back to the sewing. Why am I so tired? It must be lunchtime by now. Glance at the clock that always runs fast. It is just now, almost, eight o’clock.