Quarantine is not Grrreat!
How’s quarantine going?
Are you going a stir-crazy? Are you bored?
Is your boredom provoking you to ask questions like: How long can I do this for? or how much do I really love my family? or if I ran out for some Lysol and pepperoni and didn’t return– would any one notice?
We’re all going a little nuts. We’re all aimlessly flipping through TV channels. And like our toilet paper surplus, our patience is slowly dwindling.
For example, just now, as I write this post my 9 year old son walks into the room with a bowl of Frosted Flakes. No spoon. No milk. He’s still in his pajamas. It’s 4: 30 pm.
He plops on the couch across from me. He scoops a handful of Frosted Flakes into his mouth and chews, mouth open, like he’s trying to get Tony the Tiger’s attention and Tony the Tiger is blindfolded and wearing headphones and is pushing a lawnmower–three lawns away.
I’m staring at my son. He’s staring at the blank TV. He scoops out another handful, shovels, and chews. A few Flakes fall from his face, down into the crack between couch cushions. They will be there for years to come.
He looks at me.
I don’t say anything
“What? What are you looking at, Dad?”
Quarantine is not Grrreat!
Quarantine is confining and frustrating. I feel like Dr. Fauci at President Trump’s Coronavirus press conference–if the press conference was in my living room and my family were the reporters, waving their hands, shouting over each other, and questioning everything I do.
In a few days I turn 40.
Being quarantined to my house, listening to my son eat dry cereal like he should be bridled and saddled is not how I imagined spending my birthday.
But none of us imagined this is how we would be spending the opening day of the baseball season. Or the first buds of Spring. Or April Fool’s Day– unfortunately this is not a joke.
Only a few weeks ago my students and I were reading Hamlet, joking how it was fortunate Hamlet didn’t have to choose a prom date because the Prince of Denmark would not be able to make up his damn mind.
And now, so much of my students’ last few scenes of high school–prom, graduation– are an iambic pentameter of uncertainty.
We’re all feeling the anxiety and disappointment and frustration of the situation.
We all want to return to normal.
My son just finished his Frosted Flakes. An empty bowl sits on his lap. He runs his hand through his hair, which desperately needs a cut.
“Dad? Dad? Dad? Dad?”
This too shall pass.
PS– I do love my son. And my whole family for that matter.
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