I felt suffocated today. Contained.  Claustrophobic.  Zero personal space.  Everywhere I turned was a kid. Connected to me, hanging on me, eating from me, crying to me, loving me, needing me.  When I open my iPad the Paw Patrol theme song starts playing. Or Jack Hartmann (don’t even get me started on this one) is singing about sight words.  When I turn on the car Frozen 2 starts blasting through the speakers.  When I open Google docs to write I have to switch out of my daughters account (she’s  4). A pile of laundry. A beeping dishwasher shouts I’m clean but I have no time to empty it. Projects in various states of undone. A mess that needs cleaned up.  Baby toys.  Toddler toys.  Packages on the front porch that still needed opened, sterilized, cleaned, put away. 

The washing. The cleaning. Clorox. Alcohol. Gloves. Face masks. It swallowed me up.

I am not organizing my pantry, learning another language, exercising, baking, reading, or dejunking my closet. I am just in it all day. I think you either have unexpected found time in your life right now or the small sliver of personal time you did have just got even smaller. Like zero. I’m in camp 2.

I kicked and pouted and cried and acted like a toddler for the first half of the day.  I resisted. I rebelled.  My response to It All (oh yes, did I mention we are in a global pandemic?) was anger and defiance.  For a minute it felt good. To cry and be angry.  It was cathartic.  But then it felt bad to actually stay that way.  Heavy and lonely and sad.  

I put on my sneakers. Gave my toddler the iPad (sigh). The baby was napping (praise be).  

I did a 20 minute workout in the entryway of my house. Amongst playmats and rattles and plastic easter eggs and lol dolls.  I sweat. I got out of my head. 

I felt better.

Had some water. Took off my sneakers. 

Then, almost on auto-pilot, I sat down on the floor, set my timer for 10 minutes, and meditated.  Nothing fancy. I just sat still and closed my eyes.   I fell almost immediately into that deep space.  Where the answers come without even asking the question. When you didn't know there were questions to be asked. Where the knowing can rise up and guide you.  When the timer went off I had returned to myself.  And even though my environment hadn’t changed, I felt space and expansion. 

When I use my tools - sweat, movement, meditation - I can shift almost immediately.  I can be in the flow rather than against it.  I can accept + welcome + receive + enjoy.  I’ve read it a thousand times: act as if everything that shows up in my life is here because I asked for it.  Treat it all (this is the tricky part for me) as if I had prayed for it to come. Open the door for it, give it some coffee. Get close.      

Right now all the normal scaffolding of life has been taken down. School, routines, schedules, appointments, vacations, holidays. Monday feels like Tuesday feels like Friday feels like Sunday. I’m a person who loves scaffolding. An outer system that holds up an inner system. Structure. Flexibility and spontaneity within the bigger framework of a reliable and consistent routine. This whole at sea without an anchor feeling has me feeling adrift. A little aimless and murky. Disoriented. I cling to our simple routines that have becomes vital to our daily joy and hum: morning wake-up times, breakfast, getting dressed, “school at home,” family walks/bikes/scoots, Aster’s feeding + nap times, lunch, swimming, showers, pjs, dinner, bedtime. It’s simple. Consistent. And we are all together for all of it. This is both amazing and very, very difficult.

One of my favorite parts of The Stay Home has been dad’s immersion into my life as a stay at home mom. He always got it, but now he really Gets It. He’s around for bedtime massages + giggles + piggy back rides. Afternoon swims. Dinner. Sienna is swooning with newfound love for this time with her dad. I’m not saying we don’t have moments. Oh we do. But my hope is that shifts like these are lasting. Not the moments one of us wants to go AWOL, but the other ones.

I’ve also learned that presence trumps perfection. I don’t have to find the most amazing at home craft activities, the best toddler Einstein app, become Ina Garten, Mary Poppins or Tracy Andersen. I just have to be there. To show up fully and be present for myself, my daughters, my husband. My family. Some days it is ugly and I struggle. But I still show up. I put my phone away. I don’t multi-task. The TV stays off. A lot less gets done but my whole family is happier. Things are calmer. I’ve stopped the expectation of myself that this should be a time of uber achievement and lofty expectations. By letting these go, I think I’m finally actually doing the most important thing there is to do in life - quarantine or not - playing, pausing, flowing.

It’s been about 35 days of The Stay Home for us.  Easter was on Sunday. Last week was filled with egg coloring and anticipation.  I tried to redirect Sienna’s attention to Easter as the day Jesus rose from the dead which was extremely confusing to her so we basically celebrated the Bunny. Hunting for eggs was an all day activity.  I must have hid them 37 times.  After too much sugar and hunting, we “went to church” online.  We go to Family Church. Love it. They have done an amazing job reaching out, staying connected and continuing Sunday services virtually.  But this is the first one I’ve been able to watch.  Same with school, church, yoga.  Yes, all these things are now available online, but it’s just different and this season of my life doesn’t allow me to time out and get connected in this way.  I haven’t found that rhythm yet.  And I’m not sure I want to.  I’m still clinging to how it used to be. 

It’s difficult to fall away from everything that once was, all at the same time.

School, work, church, socializing, going anywhere. A completely new way of being parent/teacher/playmate and interacting with your family 24/7.  

So I keep returning to the things that anchor me.  That orient me.  

I keep it very simple. 

Stay healthy.  Move. Eat. Play. Sleep.  Love each other. Be kind. Be gentle. Let go of expectations. Give everyone some grace.     

It’s how I keep the cranky toddler inside me quiet. At least most of the time.