“Why is there a Nerf gun in the bathtub?” my husband asked the other day.
And I had to stop to think. There had to be an explanation. Then I remembered.
One of the boys had been having trouble logging onto a class and called for help. I was on a video meeting, so I turned my camera off, muted myself, and jumped up from my desk to take the laptop with me while I went to help. I didn’t want to miss hearing anything in the meeting.
But the computer cord knocked my cup of coffee off the desk—where the mug smashed into pieces. Coffee went everywhere, including all over the Nerf guns that were on the office floor.
My son came running because he was worried—not about me or the mess—but because there is a cage of finches in the office, and he didn’t want them to be scared by the noise.
As I tried to clean up the spill and the shattered mug, I realized one of the Nerf guns was drenched in coffee. I didn’t have time to clean it, so I tossed it into the tub, figuring it could wait while work and school couldn’t. And it’s still there.
As I was telling my husband the story, it suddenly occurred to me—the Pre-Covid Version of Me wouldn’t be able to follow this story at all. Children home on a workday—and logging onto what? Muting myself? A video meeting? Nerf guns inside the house? Finches in a cage? What could I possibly be talking about?
I was struck by how many things in our world have changed—not just mask-wearing and social distancing and not being able to hug people we love. Our daily lives are different in so many ways, transformed suddenly almost a year ago and then evolving bit by bit every day.
It struck me how adaptable we are. And how, as we change to meet the moment, so do our stories.
I used to let our children have a special snack in the living room now and then. These days, they eat what they want, when they want, where they want.
We order groceries that appear on our porch, and each time it’s a bit of a Christmas morning to see which items the store had and how creative I’ll have to be with dinner tonight.
On Sundays, we gather around my laptop to participate in Mass. Our sons know by heart how to make a spiritual communion using a prayer none of us had heard a year ago.
My husband and I spend hours discussing when to send our children back for in-person schooling, focusing on questions about health and social and emotional needs. Academics aren’t even a concern.
It’s a strange time. And there’s a Nerf gun in the bathtub.
One day we’ll look back on this time and share our pandemic stories. Maybe they’ll make sense to us then, or maybe they will seem bizarre in whatever our post-Covid lives become. They might make us laugh or cry. But as we tell them, we will remember who we were in this moment and we’ll think about how this time changed us. Because we may return to some kind of normal, but we will never be the people we were before the pandemic.
And that’s probably for the best.
As we continue on our Lenten journey, I find myself wanting to be open to change—in little ways and in bigger ways. Just as with the pandemic, we don’t get to choose what happens to us, but we do get to choose how we respond to it—and how we will grow.
Copyright © 2021 Catholic Review Media
English
Spanish