Granolavirus, Week Two

Almost every night, Eleanor asks me to “tuck her in,” aka sit on her bed and talk with her. It’s something I enjoy. But my heart sinks whenever she repeats the question: “So what do we have planned for tomorrow?”

I don’t know what she’s expecting me to say. I suggest a few fun ideas, but none of them entice her. I’m not a cruise director. Eleanor turns her face to the wall.

We’ve snuggled tight into our little routine, here. In the morning, I expect the kids to meet me around the kitchen table by at least 9:00 a.m. for “scripture power” time. (9:00 a.m. may seem like a late wake-up call to you, but it’s a challenge for the teenagers.)

After scripture power, everyone goes their separate ways for homeschool. I supervise William and Katie on their schoolwork while I practice piano (I’ve found some left-hand etudes by Bach, Saint-Saens, and Scriabin to work on while my right hand heals). Usually the littles manage to finish almost all their schoolwork before lunchtime, which is how most homeschool curricula is supposed to go (only 2-3 hours a day).

Meanwhile, Jeff pesters me for internet access, which I deny him until he’s done all his “analog” tasks, such as read for an hour, practice his piano assignment, work on the math assignment Brian gave him, and go for a walk. He’s … okay at doing all of these, and then spends the afternoon doing “homework,” which is whatever his teachers are emailing him. It’s almost impossible to know how much of this homework he’s actually doing.

And where is Eleanor during the morning hours? Usually back in bed. Most days, I usually haul her out of bed around noon, which is when we drive to the school for lunch. The school district runs a drive-through lunch program for ages 18 and under, and it’s a great excuse for getting out of the house.

Is it progress that Eleanor is at least coming with us to lunch? Last week she refused.

Afternoons are spent finishing up any remaining homeschool: reading our history chapter aloud, doing hands-on science experiments, playing outside, building with LEGO, etc. Eleanor spends her afternoons in her room, working on the math assignments Brian gives her. Jeff often takes advantage of my distracted state to vanish upstairs with a computer.

One would think I’d spend this afternoon block to get some writing done, but it’s hard. Having all the kids around is sucking the energy out of me. Interruptions happen about every 15-20 minutes. It’s difficult to focus on anything knowing that my teenage daughter is dissolving into the bedsheets down the hall.

A few times I’ve gotten up early to write before the kids wake, but when faced with that quiet space to myself, I found that all I wanted to do was nothing. “Pure nothing, in the middle of the day,” like the line from the Rita Dove poem.

Besides, most of my early morning hours are already devoted to my own sanity-saving exercise routine.

I don’t even want to think how things are going to shift when my music theory class resumes in another week.

Yet my brain can’t let go of writing: it is constantly, constantly working on the novel in the background, formulating scenes, plot points, reams of dialogue, descriptive paragraphs, character arcs. After a few days, I feel pent up and congested inside, and panicked that I’ll never get around to finishing the project.

So to state that I’m feeling frustrated with myself is an understatement. Am I really too busy for this? Or am I using my kids as an excuse?

Around 3:30 p.m. we still gather for kuchenzeit. This week in Panic Baking: Caramel Apple Dapple Cake (not as good as my mom’s apple cake), Wednesday Night Brownies (of course), Chocolate Chip Cookie Brittle (similar but vastly improved version of a recipe I already have) and Next Level Krispy Treats (they have double the butter and 4 ounces of white chocolate).

Brian’s been returning home from the hospital at odd early times, which can be frustrating, especially if he has more office work to do at home: I get all excited about having another adult to take a turn with the child labor, only to hear that I’m not getting a break after all.

On Friday, Brian worked entirely from home. I asked him to create his office space on the third floor, where I won’t be able to hear him. It’s disheartening to be constantly reminded that he’s able to accomplish his adult intellectual work when I cannot. I don’t blame him; this is the arrangement and partnership that we knew would work best for our family. And I’m kind of relieved that it’s possible for him to be home instead of going into the hospital, where he’s at risk for getting sick. But still — stay away where I can’t hear you, Other Adult.

Worst of all, because the kids don’t have any early-morning wake-up times, then bedtime tends to slide later and later into the evening. More nights than I’d prefer, the kids aren’t in bed until ten or ten-thirty, all of them needy for their mom, for the kind of stability I can provide them, since their lives are all upside-down. And I love that I can do that for them, and I love how our relationships are all deepening and improving as a result.

BUT — I am going a little crazy without having much alone time these days. I love my big boisterous family, but I’m someone who has always thrived on having “the gift of solitude” to recharge. Last night, a reasonable 8pm start time for the bedtime routine was upended by a Harry Potter board game. None of the children went to sleep until 11p.m. I tried to close myself up in my room with a book, but children kept popping in. It was great to get those extra cuddle times (Jeff came and talked to me! Voluntarily!) but afterwards I felt ragged, and furious.

The teenagers are starting to feel the negative results of their messed-up sleep schedules and sedentary lifestyle. Eleanor and Jeff complain that they are restless in bed and unable to sleep until one or two in the morning. Jeff seems amenable to making the lifestyle changes required to fix this, but Eleanor shuts down whenever I bring up the solution of basic exercise and earlier wake-up times, retreating into her shell of “I’m fine” and a quelling glare.

Last night was a breakthrough — Eleanor said she would like to spend some time walking on the treadmill, but when would she have the time? I pointed out that she might have to spend less time in bed in the morning, only to be burned alive with the Quelling Glare once more.

Ugh, the worst is knowing that I likely would have behaved in the exact same way at her age. What does it say that your mini teenage clone-self is occasionally intolerable?

So anyway isolation’s going fine.

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