New Chapter, Same Story

G&X , Q&A

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Chapter one & Chapter two.

Somehow my husband and I ended up with two sets of boys, each two years apart, with just under five years in the middle. (Ok… it wasn’t “somehow” they were planned. I know how this works y’all.) ((Please take me out of the south. I’m using “y’all” now.))

Anyway. I’d say the first set is deliciously delightful and the second set is delightfully delicious. I love seeing how all four of them interact as they learn and grow together— but I was looking at the littlest two especially hard this week.

Q. turned 2 in March of 2020.

You all (not “y’all”!) know exactly what else happened that month.

Last week A. turned 2… which is the same age Q. was when A. was a little baby and all “this” began.

And something (read: everything) about that feels wrong. Because despite living in three different homes between two states, my husband changing jobs, beginning to homeschool, focusing on my writing, and all the other crazy/wonderful/exhausting things that have happened over the last two years… I feel like I’m living in a vacuum. It’s not that time moves fast (although that’s true) it’s more like time doesn’t exist.

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I would like to invite you to travel with me to somewhere I’ve been many times— maybe somewhere you’ve been too. I was raised in Florida (the part that doesn’t count as “The South”) and so my mind reverts back there often.

(To be clear, this is a mental exercise. I don’t have the kind of Beyoncé money I’d need to fly you all to Florida. Just facts.)

You’re standing on the beach, right at the edge of the ocean. The water comes up, rushes with an exhilarating chill filled with teeny fish and tumbling seashells. The sand goes soft beneath your feet. You sink. Not a lot— just a little. It’s kind of exciting, maybe even almost comforting like an anchor. As the wet sand envelopes you, the universe grants you permission to hold still and…breathe.

Another wave comes, and you sink deeper. After about three waves, you’re ankle-deep in gritty mud and you’re wondering if sand-fleas bite or if they just enjoy freaking you out by wiggling against the skin on your toes.

Either way you’re feeling all these things that aren’t just the cool ocean water and you panic. Not big panic— small panic. Tiny panic.

Masked panic.

The kind you feel when you’re running up stairs and someone starts to run up behind you.

So you yank your feet out. And the waves return, moving you through the entire process again. And again and again. Until… you either decide to swim, or go home.

Y’all… (there it is again. I can’t help it, I’m tired of fighting.) I feel like my feet are stuck and I’m just yanking them out over and over and over… and I’ve decided I want to go home but someone else has the keys and they’re probably out swimming parallel to the shore— avoiding drowning in the rip-current. Which is exactly why I’m not swimming, it sounds exhausting (and frankly, dangerous.)

I’m sunburnt. There’s sand in my swimsuit. And the lifeguard is blowing their whistle pointing at a shark by the sandbar but no one is listening. Heck… it’s starting to rain and flash lightening… and now the lifeguard is packing up to leave and leave all the idiots on the beach to fend for themselves.

Maybe part of the reason I’ve been feeling the way I’m feeling is because A. developed a double ear infection just like Q. did at this exact age and it’s giving me flashbacks of entering a pandemic with no sleep and unending ear-piercing screaming while I try to remain calm and not terrify my older kids when all I really want to do is hide under my covers -alone- and read a book or watch a show or, could you imagine— sleep.

That’s a run-on sentence. You’re welcome. Despite my instincts, it’s the only running-away I’ll be doing. The only running I’ll be doing at all actually.

I’m sharing this purely for transparency’s sake, to let my friends (who I know for a fact are going through their own things) know you are not standing on the shore alone.

I’m around if you want to talk while the ocean roars, although text may be better than phone. (Ear-piercing screaming, remember?)

I know it feels like we’re stuck, like the radio only has one station that plays one song. I know it feels like we’ve been trapped in some sinister version of Groundhog Day. I know all sense of control and “normal” has made our picture of what we thought the future would look like become foggier and foggier. But I’m standing beside you, watching the sun rise and set… the tides move in and out… and the beach is always better with friends.

Q. age 2 , A. age 2