This is the space I inhabit most of my waking hours every day, during Covid-19.  It's a comfortable sized room with a large window onto our backyard. The walls are lined with shelves of books, notebooks, art supplies, plus a desk, a couple computers, pens of various styles and colors... I have so many tools for expression, as a professional and/or as simply me, in arm's reach.

On the right side, you see my workstation.  Here, I do my job from home, primarily. It's also where I journal, issue email and texts to folks I love, and write cards and letters to go out in snail mail.  I increasingly appreciate the utility of this work space and the flexibility to use my tools in different ways.

On the left, under my son's painting of a planet, lays an altar.  It's new.  It's special.  It represents my escapist dream of a solitary life in a shack by the sea.  In my imaginary seaside retreat I am soothed by the sound of the waves, restored to myself by the absence of heeding and tending the needs of others. I am whole and wholly my own.

Establishing the altar was a suggestion from my new therapist.  She is younger than me, vibrant and vital, creative and wise.  She nudges me back to myself, a dynamic, multi-faceted me, through little activities that express my deep insides out to my open view.  I see me.  I know, and can be, more me.

By setting up and using both of these spaces, the workstation and the altar, I have jerry-rigged a "room of one's own" where I can think my own thoughts and act on my essential Jenni-ness.  The room more functional than Romantic - I can't hear waves crashing on the shore and there's an assortment of random kid-stuff crowded under the altar table (not to mention an occasionally pungent litter box in a corner) - but that's all part of me, too.  I am not a solitary life.  I am whole and wholly my own, and gratefully interdependent with my partner, child, friends, and colleagues.  

In this room, I am learning to restore myself where I am.  It's gradual, baby-stepping work.  Close the door (they can knock), pop in earplugs, light a candle, sit down...  I know I have the tools I need, inside and out, and am practicing how to use them.  

Today is Mothers' Day and, as celebrations go, it was a dud.  Kiddo was out with his dad.  J was digging a foundation for the new shed.  I went grocery shopping.  The store was crowded, despite going at my usual Sunday morning hour, and everyone appeared to be purchasing flowers, plants, cards, gifts, and ingredients for festivities with moms.  

Driving home I was surprised by a wave of sadness.  Mothers' Day has rarely been a big deal for me.  N's dad wasn't really into it, and it's awkward to take your own young child to purchase a card or gift for yourself, so I accepted it as a flimsy excuse for a Hallmark card event.  But, ugh, no event for me and my motherhood.  

This year, I am keenly aware of my relationship with my son in a different way than prior years.  Partly, it's because he's 12 and relates to me in a different way than he did as a smaller child.  Partly, it's that we're under a stay-at-home order so we are together, each day, more than we have been since he was a newborn.  I enjoy his company, (most of the time... he is a tween).  I welcome his ideas, interests, and developing perspective.  I'm surprised by his vocabulary. I'm laughing to tears from his comedic timing. 

If you know me well, then you know I wasn't planning to be a mother.  I was a newlywed anticipating a two career household, with a cat, and no children.  I looked forward to fulfilling work, out there, in the world, and hopes for comfortable compensation in the future.  

But kiddo came along and everything changed, as they warn you it will, and now it's 12 years into this mothering gig and I'm missing my kid on Mothers' Day.  And that's a good feeling.  I'm grateful for this darn kid and I'm grateful to be his mother.

Two years ago, this very weekend, we saw our house for the first time.  I was enchanted immediately by the open living room, large windows with So Much Light, and perfect number of rooms.  The backyard felt huge and just what my apartment-raised son needed.  I had to have this house.  We had to make this home.

Two years later, complete with a pandemic and stay-at-home order, and we are home all the darn time.  It's perfect.  

Which is to say, it's got its quirks. We don't entirely understand why the former residents did many of the things they did to the house and yard.  They had an abiding love of plywood and fake-wood paneling, not to mention corrugated plastic, chunks of petrified wood, and an overabundance of small lava rocks. Some of the wiring puzzled us, but we're pretty sure J resolved that.   

The house, itself, has good bones and the structure teems with life since we occupied it.  Four cats, three humans, self-propelled dust bunnies... podcasts, laughter, music, Super Smash Bros, neighbor kids, friends with kids... 

The yard was all for N, in the beginning.  Even before we moved in, he was spotted and befriended by the neighbor kids over the back fence.  Conversation quickly turned into playdates and birthday parties.  With a little vision and J's muscle and sweat, the yard became something we could all enjoy.  Garden beds were built, filled, planted, tended, and harvested.  I honestly couldn't believe J's willingness to submit green lawn to boxes of dirt for my amateur agriculture.  

The front of the house looks largely the same as when we purchased it.  We did removed the metal moon and sun thingy from the front wall.  J replaced the mail box post and added two new garden beds on the front lawn.  But, in general, you might not recognize that a different family resides here.  However, inside and out back, it's all us.  Pictures, paint, books, games, noise, cooking smells, cat fur... hammock, raised beds, garden starts, overfilled-and-half-disassembled shed, flowers, barbecue smoke, and a wheelbarrow boat.  

Today, I am grateful for the house, yard, and neighbors.  The family we are becoming.  The time and place to inhabit together.  I am grateful to be home.  

Recent days have been bumpy.  Each day with its own series of ups and downs and back up again (mostly). Because the "new normal" doesn't arrange itself overnight. We create it one small course correction at a time, which bring us closer to stability, familiarity, and a sense of normal.  

Things that are working in my house: making art, physical activity outdoors, planting seeds (literally) for a big new garden, revising the schedule of working-at-home and school-at-home, practicing patience and mercy (aka grace) with ourselves and each other.  What's working in your home? What fails are you either learning from or just moving on from?  It all counts.  

I was tired, pausing, and resuming, on Sunday, March 22.  I'm exhausted, queasy, still in my pjs, and sitting very still, today.  The last two days I pushed to keep up with my job and kickstart the kiddo's homeschooling.  I tried to make (force) a normal level of productivity from both of us.  But this isn't normal.  So we'll ride the waves of productivity and rest.  We'll plan and accomplish; rest and recover.  These aren't cookie-cutter days.  These are days of adaptation and attention. 

Pause. Breathe. Repeat. 

Social distancing and staying home - doing everything for the family at home, feels more difficult and draining than I think it should.  Or, maybe, it simply is difficult.  And I am tired.

I'm tired in my body, my mind, and my emotions.  I'm not to the bedridden, despairing fatigue place.  I'm at the place where I can pause, nap, move slowly, set priorities and only do those tasks.  Pause between tasks.  Nap, again. Jot a few notes in my journal.  I'm at the place of acknowledging that this is challenging.  

It's challenging for good reasons.  Transitions from one set of routines and expectations and the corresponding feelings to a completely alternative and, frankly, alien set is challenging.  The limbo of not knowing how long this will last and what the impacts and implications will be on jobs, school, resources, etc. is challenging.  The multi-tasking to manage working at home and schooling at home and parenting all day while doing both of those things all at the same time is challenging.  Feeling distant and disconnected from friends and coworkers and neighbors and family is challenging.  Feeling crowded, as a deeply introverted introvert, by the tasks, immediate family, work-related texts and emails, podcasts and TV playing in the other rooms are all challenging.  

So we, I, pause.  To say, yes, this is a different kind of unfamiliar labor for which I'm not trained because there is no training.  To say, it's ok that this is hard.  To say, now we, I, pause.  I acknowledge the work I'm doing.  I rest and restore myself.  I identify the skills I'm using and prepare to use them more appropriately and skillfully in the coming week.  

And I nap.  

Practicing social connection in the time of social distancing... We're adapting to, and grateful for!, varied ways to maintain social connection during social distancing. Texting, chatting in the driveway, "elbow-bumps" and "air hugs," and hollering over the back fence to the neighbor kids. How are you staying connected in these strange covid-19 days?

"Pause. Breathe. Repeat."  An entry about remembering to take my own advice. And some household tools for remembering your calm and focus in the midst of a very challenging transition.