Yesterday morning, my 11-year-old woke up with a cough. He had coughed a few times the day before, but nothing regular. I chalked it up to “reactions to springtime weather” and gave him some Benadryl. But yesterday, it crossed the line into “persistent cough.”
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We are now 11 months into this pandemic’s direct impact on our daily life. I told my 11-year-old the other day that we are “living history” right now. Some day, entire textbooks and documentaries will be produced about the year 2020 and beyond. I compared it to how World Wars I and II stretched on for years, with no particular end in sight at the time.
As if “living history” is supposed to be some sort of consolation for the havoc this pandemic has wreaked on our lives.
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Wednesday, January 6th, started as an ordinary day. Actually, it started a bit better. I hadn’t slept much, staying up far too late watching the results of the Georgia Senate runoff races. But I was running full steam ahead on adrenaline.
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My 11-year-old likes to run around in the backyard. Almost every single day, he’ll announce, “I’m going outside!” and grab his coat. Our backyard is oddly shaped and not flat. He’ll run – back and forth, back and forth – between two trees on the uneven terrain. Says he needs to “think and get my energy out.”
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We have been home for 262 days. Five people, contained within the walls of this house. The days are repetitive and exhausting. I felt like I should capture a single day in this strange world we live in. And yet, at 262 days, we have been living it for so long that it is “normal.”
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