What does it mean to be a hero in a crisis? There's no good answer for this. In a pandemic, front line workers are heroic in keeping us healthy and cared for. On the other hand, I've read enough to know that the label itself -- heroism -- can be a burden. If your mental state is weakened by life's circumstances, or by the pandemic, must you prove your heroism now? Isn't it equally heroic to retreat and take time to recover from the overwhelming burden of acting like a hero during your waking hours?
On the other end of the spectrum, we read about those who act selfishly, protecting their own political might or personal freedoms without sufficient concern for the good of the community. People are all over the place in their response to the pandemic. We anticipated this when there was first mention of a health menace: there would be heroes, but too, there would be those who would, intentionally or unintentionally, completely wreck the chances of getting through this for others. It was bound to happen. It did happen.
Then there's another group -- a set of people that has been on my mind lately. You don't read about them too much because they haven't the burden of contributing to the economy (nor do they slow it down by virtue of their unemployment). I'm thinking of grandparents. Elderly grandparents. Those over 65 who are retired and who are nonetheless closely connected to their families.
It so happens that all my friends who are grandparents are intimately involved in the lives of their grandchildren. Maybe they can't quite devote the time to childcare that I can, but nonetheless they love their moments with their littlest ones -- over dinners, holidays, get-togethers. Longer weekend visits, school events, spontaneous drop-ins if they live nearby.
Everyone has had a terrible time of it with the pandemic, but I do think one should include in the rubric of the heroic, those many, many grandparents who have had their lives ravaged in profound ways by the pandemic. These people know they must remain under a lock-down. Their kids and grandkids who cannot maintain lock-down rigors have to keep their distance. The way things are going now, with rising rates of infection in most states, it's pretty clear that the isolation of most grandparents will have to continue for a long time.
Imagine this! All that's precious, taken away. And it happens in the years when you love your family more than ever. Years add love. Too, you don't take any of your sweet little guys for granted when you're older. You understand the value of your time with them. You thrive on it, you set your life's calendar by it. All this vanishes, while threats to your longer and more or less healthy life mount and the ease of retirement disappears and your social connectedness dwindles, especially if you're not facile with zoom or some such technologies.
Of course, I've been lucky. Because my kids could maintain jobs in isolation, I could keep on seeing them, even as they've had to be more rigorous in their social distancing toward the rest of the world than the average persons their age. But when schools and daycares become part of their lives once more, I will join the ranks of those grandparents who can do little more than wait for the day when it is again safe to rejoin the world again.
I say all this because I do realize that all my writings about grandkids right now may be especially tough to read if you're a grandparent who has been stranded since mid-March. You could argue that reading about a more normal life is reassuring, but, too, you could argue that it hurts. Or maybe it's a small mix of both. We all like to say "we're in this together," but the reality is that we are all in this in very different ways. I feel terribly sad for those who have lost loved ones. For those who are sick and struggling and will likely continue to struggle with the remnants of this virus for a long time. For those who have lost their jobs, their hope for a good life. For those on the front lines and especially for those who never imagined themselves to be threatened at work by a virus and suddenly they are, and they get few rewards for it -- just a small pay check that barely pays the bills. And for grandparents everywhere, but especially in countries where infection rates are not going down (the US comes to mind). Today, I'm thinking about you. A lot. Especially (but not only) because I, too, will be one of you soon, where being with my most precious little ones and their parents will be a dream and a memory and not part of my everyday.
To return to more lighthearted themes and notes -- today once more belongs to Primrose. (Thank you Snowdrop, for introducing me to the Penguin books by Salina Yoon: Primrose loved them all and surely has them memorized from all the times we read and reread them...)
Breakfast. With peaches. Well, mango too. Love that mango tango!
Tea, with Panda. I didn't even know she had this quintessentially girlie toy (even though Sparrow likes to pour himself a cup too, though I'm never sure if he's just doing it to appear older, like his sister) -- it was neatly tucked away somewhere, but she pulled it out and there we sat. The macarons were also her idea.
Tea, for grandma. All my grandkids know that I have this tea ritual going. Real tea. Every day.
Our good old timed-release selfie!
I suppose every intense set of days has, for me, a musical theme associated with it. Most definitely, the song clipped for you below will forever trigger memories of this visit. Primrose sings it beautifully and right now it's her favorite.
And toward evening, I leave the little girl and my daughter and the whole Chicago family. I need to get home before dark since I can't see a dark highway in the way I could once upon s time, in my long drives across the country.
There are a thousand ways in which I could maybe spend time with the Chicago family again somewhere in the next half year, but none of them are clearly spelled out right now. All I have is my bundle of hopes and my far reaching optimism that this will be possible sooner rather than later. Because the thought of "later" is too tough to stomach.
Leaving was very very hard.
But hey, see you soon little Primrose! Super soon my sweetest little one. Super super soon. I hope.
I pull in to the farmette driveway just as the sun has tucked in its last rays beneath the horizon. The bugs are out, but somehow I can't focus on them. Ed's been holding the fort with the animals. Hmm, the lilies need a trim. I have a couple of days to make progress there. I'll start tomorrow. Meanwhile, Ed -- can we have some popcorn?
On the other end of the spectrum, we read about those who act selfishly, protecting their own political might or personal freedoms without sufficient concern for the good of the community. People are all over the place in their response to the pandemic. We anticipated this when there was first mention of a health menace: there would be heroes, but too, there would be those who would, intentionally or unintentionally, completely wreck the chances of getting through this for others. It was bound to happen. It did happen.
Then there's another group -- a set of people that has been on my mind lately. You don't read about them too much because they haven't the burden of contributing to the economy (nor do they slow it down by virtue of their unemployment). I'm thinking of grandparents. Elderly grandparents. Those over 65 who are retired and who are nonetheless closely connected to their families.
It so happens that all my friends who are grandparents are intimately involved in the lives of their grandchildren. Maybe they can't quite devote the time to childcare that I can, but nonetheless they love their moments with their littlest ones -- over dinners, holidays, get-togethers. Longer weekend visits, school events, spontaneous drop-ins if they live nearby.
Everyone has had a terrible time of it with the pandemic, but I do think one should include in the rubric of the heroic, those many, many grandparents who have had their lives ravaged in profound ways by the pandemic. These people know they must remain under a lock-down. Their kids and grandkids who cannot maintain lock-down rigors have to keep their distance. The way things are going now, with rising rates of infection in most states, it's pretty clear that the isolation of most grandparents will have to continue for a long time.
Imagine this! All that's precious, taken away. And it happens in the years when you love your family more than ever. Years add love. Too, you don't take any of your sweet little guys for granted when you're older. You understand the value of your time with them. You thrive on it, you set your life's calendar by it. All this vanishes, while threats to your longer and more or less healthy life mount and the ease of retirement disappears and your social connectedness dwindles, especially if you're not facile with zoom or some such technologies.
Of course, I've been lucky. Because my kids could maintain jobs in isolation, I could keep on seeing them, even as they've had to be more rigorous in their social distancing toward the rest of the world than the average persons their age. But when schools and daycares become part of their lives once more, I will join the ranks of those grandparents who can do little more than wait for the day when it is again safe to rejoin the world again.
I say all this because I do realize that all my writings about grandkids right now may be especially tough to read if you're a grandparent who has been stranded since mid-March. You could argue that reading about a more normal life is reassuring, but, too, you could argue that it hurts. Or maybe it's a small mix of both. We all like to say "we're in this together," but the reality is that we are all in this in very different ways. I feel terribly sad for those who have lost loved ones. For those who are sick and struggling and will likely continue to struggle with the remnants of this virus for a long time. For those who have lost their jobs, their hope for a good life. For those on the front lines and especially for those who never imagined themselves to be threatened at work by a virus and suddenly they are, and they get few rewards for it -- just a small pay check that barely pays the bills. And for grandparents everywhere, but especially in countries where infection rates are not going down (the US comes to mind). Today, I'm thinking about you. A lot. Especially (but not only) because I, too, will be one of you soon, where being with my most precious little ones and their parents will be a dream and a memory and not part of my everyday.
To return to more lighthearted themes and notes -- today once more belongs to Primrose. (Thank you Snowdrop, for introducing me to the Penguin books by Salina Yoon: Primrose loved them all and surely has them memorized from all the times we read and reread them...)
Breakfast. With peaches. Well, mango too. Love that mango tango!
Tea, with Panda. I didn't even know she had this quintessentially girlie toy (even though Sparrow likes to pour himself a cup too, though I'm never sure if he's just doing it to appear older, like his sister) -- it was neatly tucked away somewhere, but she pulled it out and there we sat. The macarons were also her idea.
Tea, for grandma. All my grandkids know that I have this tea ritual going. Real tea. Every day.
Our good old timed-release selfie!
I suppose every intense set of days has, for me, a musical theme associated with it. Most definitely, the song clipped for you below will forever trigger memories of this visit. Primrose sings it beautifully and right now it's her favorite.
And toward evening, I leave the little girl and my daughter and the whole Chicago family. I need to get home before dark since I can't see a dark highway in the way I could once upon s time, in my long drives across the country.
There are a thousand ways in which I could maybe spend time with the Chicago family again somewhere in the next half year, but none of them are clearly spelled out right now. All I have is my bundle of hopes and my far reaching optimism that this will be possible sooner rather than later. Because the thought of "later" is too tough to stomach.
Leaving was very very hard.
But hey, see you soon little Primrose! Super soon my sweetest little one. Super super soon. I hope.
I pull in to the farmette driveway just as the sun has tucked in its last rays beneath the horizon. The bugs are out, but somehow I can't focus on them. Ed's been holding the fort with the animals. Hmm, the lilies need a trim. I have a couple of days to make progress there. I'll start tomorrow. Meanwhile, Ed -- can we have some popcorn?
