The other morning at the breakfast table, my almost-six-year-old daughter started laying out her whole life plan for me. I wound up recording about 14 minutes of it, since Sprout was really on a roll (yes, her Eggo got cold).
She had everything planned out:
- Her career
- Her spouseās career
- Where they were going to live before and after they had kids
- How many kids she was going to have
- What pet each kid was going to have (and be personally responsible for)
- Where her brother Button would live, and how Button would take care of the kids she already had if she was giving birth to the younger ones (because she expects her spouse to stay with her in the hospital ājust like you did with Mom.ā)
- How they would all evacuate their house in the event of a fire
Hold Up ā What was that last one?
Sheās been very focused on what to do in the event of a fire.
- Whoās going to get Luna?
- What if weāre outside and canāt hear the smoke detectors?
- What if a fire starts when weāre asleep?
- Will we go to the front yard, or the back yard?
- No, really, whoās going to get our cat? We wonāt have time to put Luna in her carrier.
The other day she made an emergency kit in a pile on the couch:
- Snugglies, including Fletcher (her forever favorite) and Sushi Cat.
- Toys
- A coat, in case the fire happens at night when itās cooler
- A blanket
- Snacks
Sheās a very structured kid. She likes process and routine. It makes sense to her. So sheās drafting this all in her mind when she starts thinking about fire.
And sheās thinking about fire a lot lately. Sometimes so much that she says she canāt think of anything else.
But itās not as if suddenly thereās been a lot of external references to fire that sheās been bombarded with. We donāt live near a fire station, nobody we know has dealt with a fire recently, and the only time weāve ever had to call the fire department was years ago for what fortunately turned out to be a very minor issue.
So⦠Yeah. Where did this come from?
Buddy Holly, āBen Hurā, space monkey, Mafia
Years ago my friends and I would riff on āWe Didnāt Start The Fire,ā adding new verses to this random jumble of baby boomer buzzwords. Looking back on that word salad, it feels like a proto-Twitter stream.
And I think about that because of all this around us right now. The ambient anxiety. The multi-pronged, world-on-fire assault on our attention every day.
With all that going on around her, and being a young kid, sheās processing only part of whatās going on. She understands social distancing, and she understands why she canāt play with her friends, why school closed, and why (for a long time) she couldnāt even go near her grandparents.
A fire is smaller and easier to respond to than all this.
Sometimes it comes up to the surface
Before bed time every night, Sprout and I read together. Normally I prop myself up in her bed with a few of her snugglies, but the other night she asked me not to use Nice Bear.
āNice Bear has a fever,ā she said, āAnd snugglies donāt have vaccines. But they do have medicine. So sheāll get better, but you shouldnāt put her in bed tonight.ā
The subtext of her anxiety has always been about this pandemic, but it doesnāt always come out as directly as it did in that conversation.
Sprout is an intense extrovert who was cut off from her Young Fives Kindergarten class months ago and has spent most of that time with me, her mom, and her baby brother. Nothing about this new normal feels normal to her.
She craves the world that sheās known for most of her life and thatās kept just out of reach.
When we go out into the backyard, she makes up Star Wars themed games and tells me to do voices (My Ewan McGregor Obi-Wan has gotten pretty good over the last two months). But what do these Rebels and Imperials do every time we play?
They plan birthday parties. Or Christmas. They invite guests and think about food and games and presents.
Itās the flip side of her panic planning about fire safety.
She could have adventures in the farthest corners of the galaxy, but all she wants is to play games with some friends and share cake.
What I can and cannot do for her
I can hug her as many times a day as sheāll let me.
I can tell her sheās loved, and her mom and I will do everything we can to keep her safe, no matter what.
I can wear a mask, and can be vigilant about my own exposure when I have to venture out into the world without her (especially soon, knowing that Iām required to teach face-to-face in a classroom).
I can pretend to be Obi-Wan Kenobi and Darth Vader and, yes, even Luke Skywalker, if thatās what she needs.
But I cannot make sure that her school is safe for her to attend.
And I cannot convince every person to make the small concession for the health and safety of others and wear a damn mask.
And I cannot single-handedly convince the federal government to just try and do better.
I cannot step into a clean suit and stare into a microscope until I have an a-ha moment that allows me to save everyone with a simple answer nobody has thought of.
And I cannot be all the friends she misses. I cannot be a kid.
We do not have a metric for all weāre losing
We can measure the lives lost.
We can measure the number of people who were infected.
We can measure the number of people who were exposed, or at least the number of people who were able to get a test because they thought they were exposed and were able to jump through whatever hoops were required of them to get a medical opinion.
We can measure the number of people filing unemployment claims. We can measure the number of businesses closed or filing for bankruptcy. We can measure the value of the stock market and the GDP.
But we have nothing that measures how many good ideas will never be put to use from the people weāve lost, or because the people still living havenāt been able to think about anything other than their fear or anger or exhaustion.
We canāt measure the achievements, advancements, or good deeds lost. We canāt even guarantee that some of these things have only been delayed.
We cannot know the landscape of the path we shall never travel.
And if we cannot have some kind of measure to know what we could have achieved if our nation hadnāt been forced a poisoned cocktail of unpredictable, indiscriminate disease and conscious, callous government disinterest and disinformationā¦
All we can do now is the same thing we could do before.
Wake up every day and try.
Force yourself out of the doomscrolling (literal and figurative) and find that small patch of goodness that you can tend.
If you donāt know where to start, make a list of the essentials. The things you need now, and any time that all this feels like too much.
And donāt forget to include snacks and snugglies.