Grief
Week 8
Today I cried for the first time about this pandemic. I cried because our financial future is uncertain. Because my career prospects are uncertain. Because it's hard to be with your kids 24/7. But mostly, I cried because I spoke with a friend this morning who decided to pull her kids out of Wyatt's preschool early. Something in that news unleashed a wave of grief I've been holding back. I joined the "reopening committee" for the preschool so I've had some insight into how things will be different when they can open their doors again. And it's going to be very different. Namely, kids will be restricted to the same group of 10 children and same point teacher each day and drop off and pickup will have to occur outside the building. This is a stark contrast to the mixed-age, free-flowing environment we signed up for.
I'm already weepy about Wyatt turning five and about him starting kindergarten in the fall. But to now think about the ways that his departure from preschool, a place and experience we've loved so deeply, will be different from what I imagined, has made the effects of the pandemic real. The bright spot in each of my days for the last three years has been being with Wyatt for a few minutes each day at this special place. To think that I won't get to walk the grounds, seeing the kids fly around the yard on trikes, take in their creations in the art studio, chat with the teachers and parents, is downright devastating. That I won't get to experience this new phase of Charleigh's life with her when she starts in July is heartbreaking. There will be no summer ice cream social to bid farewell to kindergarten friends, no preK ceremony amongst the redwood trees, and likely no fall harvest festival or silent auction - all of these gatherings puzzle pieces that make a strong community.
I've been seeing recently on social media memes and the like addressing that we're all trying to be grateful, to acknowledge that it could be worse, how much better off we are in each of our own scenarios than others who've lost jobs, loved ones, their own lives. But that it's OK to also acknowledge, despite our gratitude, that this is just hard. So today I'll just let the grief in and live in it for a little while.
Today I cried for the first time about this pandemic. I cried because our financial future is uncertain. Because my career prospects are uncertain. Because it's hard to be with your kids 24/7. But mostly, I cried because I spoke with a friend this morning who decided to pull her kids out of Wyatt's preschool early. Something in that news unleashed a wave of grief I've been holding back. I joined the "reopening committee" for the preschool so I've had some insight into how things will be different when they can open their doors again. And it's going to be very different. Namely, kids will be restricted to the same group of 10 children and same point teacher each day and drop off and pickup will have to occur outside the building. This is a stark contrast to the mixed-age, free-flowing environment we signed up for.
I'm already weepy about Wyatt turning five and about him starting kindergarten in the fall. But to now think about the ways that his departure from preschool, a place and experience we've loved so deeply, will be different from what I imagined, has made the effects of the pandemic real. The bright spot in each of my days for the last three years has been being with Wyatt for a few minutes each day at this special place. To think that I won't get to walk the grounds, seeing the kids fly around the yard on trikes, take in their creations in the art studio, chat with the teachers and parents, is downright devastating. That I won't get to experience this new phase of Charleigh's life with her when she starts in July is heartbreaking. There will be no summer ice cream social to bid farewell to kindergarten friends, no preK ceremony amongst the redwood trees, and likely no fall harvest festival or silent auction - all of these gatherings puzzle pieces that make a strong community.
I've been seeing recently on social media memes and the like addressing that we're all trying to be grateful, to acknowledge that it could be worse, how much better off we are in each of our own scenarios than others who've lost jobs, loved ones, their own lives. But that it's OK to also acknowledge, despite our gratitude, that this is just hard. So today I'll just let the grief in and live in it for a little while.
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