Of all of the unique challenges that come with large family life— the abbreviated appliance life cycles, the hunt for a vehicle big enough to accommodate everyone, the juggling act that is scheduling eye and dental appointments— one of the toughest is strategizing a game plan in the trenches of an outbreak of an illness that you know has designs on working its way through every single member of your household.
If you’ve ever tried to size up a moving target, you get it. Too many variables. A whole host of unknowns. So in the end, you just make an educated guess and go with it, knowing you might miss the mark entirely, or need to regroup and try again at any point.
That’s been us for just over a week now. Doing the best we can to fight the fires, contain the damage, and stay sane in the process.
Our plan, made in the opening peals of a battle we had hoped was fully joined but feared was still in its initial stages, had Alice and me out of constant contact with most of the family. It made sense, even as we recognized how very difficult it would be. After all, Christopher had just returned from a 16 day trip. We have five children homeschooling. There’s laundry needs washing and meals that need cooking, chores to oversee, toilets to clean, life. How was all this possible, even with the suspension of chauffeur duties and a coupon for free grocery delivery for the next two weeks? Christopher is entirely capable. That wasn’t the question. The question, rather, was could I do it? And would the children let me?
Let me tell you, it’s been hard. So hard. Unnatural, to be honest. And frankly, a failure. New fevers have popped up daily, sending family members down like dominoes. It was only a matter of time. We tried. I can honestly say that. But in the end, well… the family that stays together gets sick together.
Kudos to the folks who can manage to shut a door and never open it to see their 13 year-old’s map drawing, or let their 6 year-old say goodnight to his baby sister. Bravo to the disciplined souls who declare entire floors off limits and maintain strict protocols for interaction. That’s not us. We weren’t even attempting anything nearly that formal. Just a casual, “Hey, Momma is hanging in her room. Daddy will be downstairs helping you with your school.” And it was rough. I am used to children on my lap, violins being tuned over the sound of math lessons, and what feels like an all-day feeding trough of snacks being prepared for a couple of puberty-stricken boys. Hearing the life taking place below me as I rocked Alice in the near-quiet was surreal. It solidified what I already know deep in my soul: God gave me “all these kids” in His kindness, because I am nowhere near ready for a nest made calm by the maturing of children and my own ability to indulge myself in whatever hobbies I choose.
I’m not ready for the distance. I’m happy to still be here, in the place where little girls still let me braid their hair, and a handful of little boys wage war on my coffee table with plastic soldiers as I sip my morning coffee. I want to be in the middle of the train tracks, the “Mom, can I ask you about something I read?” and the need for random items like additional white vinegar or cream of tartar on the grocery list to fulfill someone’s curiosity about the world. I love watching my older kids grow and fly and take ownership of their own days but oh, I’m not ready for the days of active mothering to come to a close just yet.
There is something beautiful about stepping back and remembering, through a pause, what a good thing you have. I’m grateful I had a window of distance to illustrate to me just how deeply I love this place in the path where I find myself. But I am ready to rejoin the fray, to resume my place amongst the people I love most. It was a well-intentioned plan. Maybe it could have even worked. But I’m not sad to say that it’s over, and we’re all back together, where we belong.