It’s been a year.  I know because on the evening of my 39th birthday, we went out for sushi.  Over the course of that day, we had gone from a vague understanding that a virus was spreading on the west coast, to rumors that teachers might be asked to plan for two weeks of remote instruction, “just in case”.  I had been working, and planning, and carpooling to the usual excess; on my birthday, I just didn’t want to cook.

One year ago, my family wandered cautiously into our favorite sushi lounge, wondering if they were still taking customers.  Only a few patrons haunted the usually-packed bar.  The lights were dim, as usual- but, given the news of the day, it gave the eerie feeling that all of downtown had deflated to half-power.  Nonetheless, we ordered rolls- indoors- and passed the champagne and traded versions of what news we had heard.  As smart and informed citizens, we all made sure to wash our hands.  We also caught one of my kids, bored and curious, licking the wall behind our booth.  At least his fingers were clean.

It’s been a year since that night.  Which means for me, as the United States marks one year of living in the shadow of a pandemic, I approach my own milestone: forty.

The New Yorker, the New York Times, and countless journalists are sure to release poignant retrospectives this week.  The toll the pandemic has taken on the economy, the social disparities it has brought to light, and the surprising conflicts between politics and science, give endless content for a looking-back and a putting-together.  For me, it marks one year between wondering how a virus across the ocean might put a kink in my schedule, to being thoroughly entrenched in virtual work, constant child rearing, and a hopeful mark on the calendar for when I can finally see my parents.  It’s a milestone birthday, bookended by the milestone of a global event.

We may define March of 2021 by a singular measure of days: one year since shutdown.  The last year of my thirties was more aptly characterized by a culmination of extremes, some that I hope never to repeat- and others that I hope to never leave behind:

The longest I have ever gone without seeing my family. 

Mothers of the world, you now have a new worst-case scenario to throw at your twentysomething when she considers working abroad “for a while”: What if there’s a global pandemic and I can’t get to you?  Years ago, I rounded off my own season of globetrotting by putting down roots two time zones away from my family.  It was a choice about which I have no regrets; a phone call and a day of air travel used to be the only thing that separated us.  This year, however, I could not be with my family as they mourned the passing of my grandmother, said goodbye to the ranch, or celebrated my dad’s long-awaited retirement.  More deeply than ever, I have felt the distance.

The deepest I have ever felt connected to a village. 

And that’s saying something. My husband and I already knew we were lucky to count some of the finest humans in Napa as our friends. But it turns out, there were still a few more out there. If you want the short version of what I’ve learned, it’s this: a shared need creates a shared community. 

As this fall approached, one concern loomed that even our network of very dear friends could not fulfill: childcare.  We did not have daycare, or a grandparent, or flexible job hours that would allow our kids to start kindergarten and second grade from the living room and then “wait and see how it goes.”  So I did what any desperate mom would do: I emailed strangers.  

I emailed parents in my son’s class who I thought might fit a very specific description: a teaching job that started soon (like mine), or a sibling in kindergarten, with two parents working full time. Guessing who should be on the other end of that email list is no easy task when you’re working off an old roster and the memory of a seven year-old boy. My plea went something like this:  “We’ve never met and we’re going through a global pandemic and I wanted to know about the young people you’re trying to keep safe and it will probably cost money… maybe we could marry ourselves to each other for awhile?”  Shocker: not everyone got back to me.  But a few people did.  And over the course of this school year, these families have fulfilled more than a logistical need for where to take the kids, and when.  We have shared meals, celebrated birthdays, and met hard questions together with reason and empathy.  

The thing about parents working full-time jobs that don’t have flexible hours, is that those are not the parents who linger around during drop off getting to know each other.  We hustle in, and hustle out.  It creates its own brand of aloneness. In a year of isolation, however, the moms and dads we never used to see have become our community. My children have thrived with close friendships and lots and lots of play time.  My husband and I have added friends to our circle that we cannot wait to share with the world. 

The hardest I have ever worked for mental health. 

One morning last spring, I woke up and was already mad at every person in my household.  I resented that, in an hour, my husband would go to work and carry on as usual.  Before my children were even awake, I was livid that they would want my attention all day.  I was annoyed by my computer.  This is (gratefully) not my normal.  But because I have not lived the past 39 years describing my current mood as “teetering,” centering required new work.  And my kids!  They too, needed calm and patience in greater volumes than I had known them to want. What I have learned is to calm down a screaming amygdala by giving name to what I’m feeling, and notice what may have been happening just before I- or my children- arrived at “pissed as hell”.  This is not groundbreaking psychology; it’s just something that I was never forced to pay attention to before. What I have also learned is that there is a very short distance between my feet and my head.  If I am moving, I am happy. There were afternoons this summer when I met my husband at the door with my running shoes already on. For me, keeping myself grounded means literally hitting the ground with my feet. On the bad days, I move to reset.  And on the good days, a run to keep the bad days at bay.

The most aware I have ever been about the budget of minutes. 

You know what takes time?  Laundry.  And the dishes.  And getting kids into the dang car.  Cleaning up after breakfast. Do you know what I always tried to do, but only gave myself quarter time to do it? List any combination of those things, and you’d be close. It’s no wonder that I spent my thirties feeling just a little angry every time I needed to unload the dishwasher. Very few housekeeping tasks, and certainly the mind-numbing effort hurrying kids along all the time, “counted” in how I planned my pre-pandemic days. Yes, they had to happen, but no, they didn’t really count as work. I had a job for that.

A year working in and out of our home has shown me what stay-at-home parents have known for a long time: the house stuff, and the kid stuff, are work too. And they take time. I launched myself into motherhood some time ago without considering how many minutes it actually takes to wash, fold, and put away laundry for four people every week. Now that I am not fitting the laundry in between gymnastics class and birthday parties, I appreciate it for the formidable task that it is. Maybe this was obvious to everyone else; I will attest that I am a slow learner. My oldest kids is eight, and only now do I give my kids enough time to actually get in the car in the morning. Because getting in the car requires stopping to pick up a snail, forgetting a jacket, and commenting on the passing cars before anyone’s seatbelt can be latched. Is this the wisdom of forty? Or is it a lesson learned from budgeting my family’s minutes across a long pandemic summer? Either way, there are still two baskets of laundry in my living room, waiting to be unpacked.

The western world takes pause this week to mark a milestone, and so do I. Like most people in the past year, I will pass my birthday evening without the bangs and whistles of a big party. But the many extremes of spending a pandemic restraint have given me the final gift of my thirties: gratitude for lessons hard-won, and connections deeply made. And thank goodness our local sushi restaurant delivers- because tonight, I just don’t want to cook.