How is it already mid-July? One of the largest difficulties (or maybe blessings) that I’ve noticed in the midst of the pandemic is that time is confusing. I often find myself asking what day it is – particularly as I’m at home caring for the boys, and we do the same thing over and over and over again.
The days run together.
But mid-July also brings up a great deal of uncertainty. Many schools have not yet shared plans for the fall or have already changed plans. Parents, students and instructors remain in the dark about what August will bring and the changes that will occur in order to safely bring students and teachers back on campus.
And, even in those schools that have released plans, there remains uncertainty.
As a professor, I want to know what a socially distanced classroom looks like. I want to know how I’ll be able to manage a hybrid classroom – students in-person and remotely at the same time, while also offering flexibility for those unable to attend during class time for whatever reason. I want to know the logistics of isolation when students get sick and instructors are unable to come to class, whether due to illness or isolation.
So, here we are mid-July, with no concrete answers. Come August, we’ll have a better idea because we’ll be living in the situation.
In the midst of all this uncertainty, it’s easy for anxieties to consume us and for tensions to fly high. After all, we’re all trying to do what’s best for our families and our communities.
However, July is not only a reminder of the dwindling days of summer and a return to school. For me, it’s also a significant month because it marks one year since my twin boys entered the world.
One entire year.
I don’t even know where the time has gone. Everyone says that. The first year flies by – and it does. Particularly for us: When I try to remember the specifics of the first six months, I find myself caught in a blur of anxiety and frustration. Breathing concerns followed feeding difficulties and weight issues. The endless hospital trips and sleepless nights before we were finally on track in January.
Now, looking at the bouncy, ever-moving boys in front me, if you had told me that these were the same babies who were labeled “malnourished,” I’d say you had to be joking. But, so it is – and we’ve come so far.
In a way, I look forward to the certainty of our routine: the same thing over and over and over. Wake up, feedings, playtime, nap time, feedings, playtime, bedtime.
At least here, I’m secure in the knowledge that my boys are safe, happy and thriving.
Come fall, I may not know what lies ahead – but here, in the present moment, watching my boys crawl and climb and lead with their curiosity, I’m content.