Boychild has Covid. Has it. Had it. Tested positive. Still testing positive. It’s been 7 days of no daycare and no preschool which equals full-time quarantining. The good news is that he’s never been truly ill with it. No breathing issues, no big bad fevers. No terrible repercussions from Covid. Yet. We’re really lucky. Unfortunately, I think we also gave Covid to our dear daycare provider. Sorry! No, seriously, we are so sorry, Miss J. Sorry about that. Really, really sorry.

As a result of the Covid diagnosis, Husband and I have been in the trenches alternating care schedules and working as much as we can, given the circumstances. This is one time that I hate working hourly. Man, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid! And my precious, contagious child needs care. And entertaining. If I ever run for office, one of my platforms will be to provide child care and paid parental leave for all parents, regardless of employment status. The way I see it, investing in our kids means less potential issues down the road. Imagine beautiful child care centers for all kids. Fresh food, outdoor activities. Safe. Fun. Educational. All for free. For all kids. What a dream! But I digress.

The weekend became the work-week, as it often does, and Husband and I found ourselves negotiating our schedules like members of the U.N. or MI-5. I’d like to imagine that we sounded very cool, but I know that we did not. Here is a transcript of our imaginary scheduling conversations if we were, in fact, cool international spy people:

Me: Okay, first off, Code Red meets at the blast site at noon, which means I won’t be there for lunch tomorrow. So can you do the morning?
Hus: Yeah. Cool. I have a team SEAL meeting at 2pm, which shouldn’t run too long. Oh, but then there’s a setup for a Ukrainian invasion at 3:30.
Me: Can you go and come back?
Hus: I’ll do my best.
Me: You gonna be home for lunch tomorrow, though?
Hus: I’ll try
Me: Great. So, tomorrow, I start Forensic Data Training at 8am. Big day for me. Break at noon. Then I have am online Philosophy of War debate at 4pm and another meeting at 2:45. Can you?
Hus: I can’t do 2:45. One of my incendiary weapons students is coming in at 2:30. We’ll be shooting each other with rockets. In the crotch.
Me: ??
Hus: We’re wearing protection. Like codpieces and stuff.
Me: ‘kay. (pause) Hmm. I don’t want more kids, so I guess that’s fine. So, 2:30. Well, shoot. So, I’ve got a top secret meeting with Delta Aphigas, which is not their real name, but I guess I could just set Boychild up with the pachoose (iPad) and have him play something? I don’t know.
Hus: Sounds good. Hey- if I come back slightly burned, don’t worry, okay? It’s all part of the job.
Me: Okay?!

And so on. As we both had/ have jobs where events planning was an essential part of our lives, we are primed for this task. Boychild had a feverish few days, but then regained his energy and verve. All was going relatively well.

Until.

Until.

Husband threw out his back.

Picture it: Vermont, 2022
Up at 6:30 with a Covid-y Boychild. I stayed up later than normal (10pm) watching 1/4 of Annette on Amazon Prime. I was tired, so my reflexes were off, which is why I didn’t jerk away when Boychild accidentally(?) headbutted me in my mouth. I’m proud of my reflexes. They are as sharp as a box-cutter and they make me excellent at winning slappy-type card games and thwarting my child’s violent impulses. However, on this day, I was not awake enough nor hyper-vigilant enough to catch my child’s giant bobbling head coming for my face-parts. He joyfully hit me hard. My lip caught my tooth and I started to bleed. I shumbled (yes, shumbled- a cross between shambled and stumbled) to the bathroom because I began to cry and I was embarrassed that I was crying. Why was I crying? From the pain? The frustration? Both, probably. Also, I had not had enough coffee and it was way too early for this sh!t. Anyhow, I’m weeping in the bathroom, my sick child is in the other room watching “Odd Squad,” and my poor husband comes out the bedroom walking, as he says, like he “shit his pants.” The poor guy was in visible pain. BioFreeze and Advil weren’t cutting it. It was an inauspicious start to the day.

Husband finagled a doctor’s appointment that day at 3pm. I had an online training at 4.
“Don’t worry. It’ll take 20 minutes for Pauline to yell at me for not stretching, then I’ll be home.” He was incorrect. 3:45 rolled around. No Husband. 3:50. Nope. So I took Boychild upstairs with me and told him to play the Zebra Superhero game on my phone until I was done. I’m sweating. I’m usually very prompt with this sort of thing. I’m on Zoom and ready with my stuff 15 minutes beforehand, but now it’s 3:55, and I’m scrambling. I am also getting pelted with questions from Boychild, who locked himself out of my phone, deleted an app and almost called 911. I will be thankful when he learns to read. So, I’m on at 4pm, ready. 4:05 rolls around. No one. 4:08. No one. I check the link. I check the time. Finally at 4:15, my people show up on Zoom. I’m off to the races, sick child by my side.
I tell them that I have a child with Covid and he is here with me. Talking, talking, talking, to the people. Then I get interrupted:

Boychild: Mom.
Boychild: MOM.
Boychild: MOOOOMMMMM!
Me: (to the group) Give me just a sec. The little messieur has a question.
I actually said that. “The little messieur” Who am I? Am I some fancy French person?
Me: (putting Zoom on mute) What is it, honey?
Boychild: Can you tell me the name of this beaver?
Me: Not right now.
Boychild: What is the name of the beaver, mom?
Me: I don’t know. I can’t read it.
Boychild: But it’s right there. Look!
Me: (making some sh!t up because I’m not wearing my reading glasses) Sam. His name is Sam.
Boychild: ‘kay. (goes back to playing)
Me: (unmuting and breathing a sigh of frustration) Sorry about that! So . . .

In retrospect, Boychild was pretty good with an outburst-ratio of once per 20 minutes. I didn’t feel that at the time, though. I was covered in flop-sweat, like some Rodney Dangerfield wanna-be in a cold room. I felt totally unprepared. Then, just as I was finishing the presentation, I hear Husband come home and yell loudly, “Hellooooooo?” Then, he came upstairs, into the frame of the Zoom call to ask how I was doing. I was still presenting. I ignored him as though he were a spectre. Nothing to see here! Still totally professional! Don’t know what YOU saw. Everything is totally professional! I didn’t stop this presentation to answer a beaver question! I don’t know who said HELLO! Who is that guy opening a door on camera? Must be a robber! I might be murdered! I have no personal life! Please don’t fire me!

The gift of time is that it goes. It is, and then it is no more. No use dwelling on what happened. Boychild is doing well. Husband and I are trying valiantly to provide Boychild with activities and ignore the fact that he is being a jerk 1/3 of each day. He’s a kid. He has Covid. We get it.

We’ve made fortresses, ice spheres, paintings, and sculptures. We’ve had treasure hunts and played post office. We’ve played in makeup (I did a really nice green/gold Ombre eyeshadow on him that I’m pretty proud of). We’ve read every Garfield book in the house. Garfield is not, and has never been funny. I will fight you on this. It is as funny as a full cat box. I hate reading it and it has no value. I am sad and disheartened that my son wants me to enjoy it as I read it to him. I will not. It is not good. I read it anyway.

We’ve seen 5 hours of someone play Mario Galaxy on Youtube. Twice. We made it through 7 days of Covid so far. If boredom and scheduling are our biggest problems, I’ll take it. Though at times I want to hide in a convent or run screaming into the forest and find a coven of cave-dwelling Gen-X witches to live with, that is not my consistent experience of having a child with Covid. Boychild is healthy. Thanks to our vaccines and boosters, neither Husband nor I has gotten Covid. Even though it may not seem like it in the moment, we are a lucky, lucky family. But, fuuuuuuck it’s been a rough week.