COVID- Covert

It’s Day 19 of quarantine. I think. At least it feels that way.

I’m not complaining. Just venting. Into my elbow. I’m not blowing any hot air on anyone. They aren’t even close anyway; just a mere 12 feet away. Safe practices.

Except when they need something. Like snacks snacks snacks. Or the WIFI password. Or toilet paper. Or when they need an assignment graded: Y’all don’t do this at school. You stay on your bottom and wait for the teacher to answer your raised hand. So sit down! I’ll recognize you when your hand is raised for at least 20 minutes. Mama is reading the CDC website and/or funny homeschool memes. Probably mostly the latter.

We’re doing our part to flatten the curve. We are avoiding people, washing hands, and eating. You know, to keep our energy up for homeschooling and sanitizing. Quarantine snacks fight germs. Especially the white colored ones. Chips, ramen noodles, crackers, milk (and cookies)…Funny thing is, my curves ain’t really flattening. In fact; opposite: quarantine cushion, if you will. Ugh. It’s for the greater good, though. Where one curve flattens, another one fattens. It’s science, and I understand that. Because I am a homeschooling teacher and I.can.teach! We’re going to find a cure for cancer under this roof! (Jokes, jokes. We can’t even find the password to our WIFI.)

The homeschooling is going pretty well. I mean, I am a teacher by trade. But I don’t live with those people. I can teach, and I’m not the worst at it, but these kids under my roof are something else. They are a unique class, for sure, and I’m having to write IEP*’s for each of them. (Side note for you not familiar with edu-lingo–IEP stands for Individualized Education Plan but in this case here it stands for I Ein’t Playin’ *with yo’ little bad selves no mo’ <and that’s all the way improper English I know but this is my school and I’m doing what I want ’cause ain’t nobody paying me ‘cept myself.>) I’ve taken a sort of sickening pleasure in using my red pen on my own children’s work. My middle child is ticked at me and implored me to put the pen down. I just can’t, darling. That one’s wrong. So is this one. And while this virtual learning thing is pretty cool, the recorder practice is sort of not cool. Yes. The assigned recorder practice. (You guys know the instrument: long, black, plastic, holey-thing that kids blow their hot breath into. When played correctly it produces about seven semi-melodious notes, and incorrectly it sounds like a whale in labor. How do you type that noise in English? Waaaahhhh? Whurrrrrr? RIIIIIIIIIII?) I love you music teacher–love, love you — but the recorder? Are you trying to kill us? Quarantine is supposed to keep us alive and human population well. Got a full blown Quarantine Quartet over here playing “Hot Cross Buns.” One on the recorder, one crinkling a bag of chips to the beat, one audibly sighing at everything I ask, and me with the solo of corks uncorking. My ears are bleeding (quickly googles signs of Coronavirus). Social Distancing children! Get away! Go play your music for the squirrels or the bears awakening from hibernation. They’ll enjoy it! Or die! I don’t know…POP.

And then the oldest with the eye rolls. She needs a strike, Mrs. McLendon (her teacher). I’m keeping a tally for you for when and if y’all ever return to school. She needs punishment from you, too. I don’t think you’d approve. She’s not rolling her eyes at you and the virtual teaching, it’s at me when I get out my red pen and tell her she is wrong. She’s so… sensitive. Sheesh. I don’t deserve this! They don’t pay me enough.

My husband’s profession is stock market what nots. He’s F.U.N. right now. A whole bag and a half of it! He got a ticket for a roller coaster that seems to only go down right now. Can we exchange it? I know it will all be alright in the long run, but this stopped being fun a minute or two ago. Kind of like a colonoscopy prep. Gracious. Rushing down is fun on things like slides and sleds and ski slopes because those eventually come to a halt. HALT! We’re waiting, y’all. But STOP. We’re ready to get off. (At least I am).

In all seriousness…this is all uncharted waters. It’s weird. It’s not “normal.” It’s scary. But it’s life.

We’re going to be ok, y’all. And while I complain so much of the time about so many of the things, I see that so many of the things I complain about are actually so beneficial right now. Life is good. It’s good. It’s good.

(I’ve typed this after a glass of wine. Or two. “Pop Goes the Weasel” a la recorder has some measures in the music that require more than a few cork-popping noises– a few staccatos that just make the song. Not about to let my Quarantine Quartet down…)

My youngest has taken the stock pile of toilet paper and started to roll the house next door, all to the musical score (played by our little Beethoven of the recorder) of “The Wheels on the Bus” and with the words “The paper on the roll, goes bye bye bye, bye bye bye, bye bye bye. The paper on the roll goes bye bye bye, all on the ground” and I don’t know how I feel about all of this. It’s like he’s just throwing money around-and while he’s not asking for snacks at the moment – his little hiney is about to learn a lesson in upcycling.

(We’re not allllll the way heathens, yet, y’all.)

We are going to be alright.

(Maybe not my ears or liver, but, we are all going to be alright.)

And I think this middle child of mine might be performing on Broadway one day. With a recorder. I’ll save y’all some tickets.

Alright, alright, alriiiiiiiiight.

P.S. The extrovert in me is dying a slow death. I’m sending virtual hugs to all y’all. I MISS MY PEOPLE.