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Diary of a Dad

 We wanted to take one child to the doctor, but the doctor had Covid. Most (not all) services were suspended. A nurse was around, but she would see you only for certain cases, maybe emergencies? Maybe if your son had a cleaver sticking out of his head?


Eventually, the doctor returned, but my son couldn't see her, because, in the waiting period, my son himself had acquired Covid. My son's school barred him from participation for ten days--because, although the CDC says five days, the CDC isn't the voice-of-authority you might desire, right now. If you had a population of little unvaccinated toddlers running around, would you want to play by the "five-day" rule?

I felt less sympathy for my children's teachers when they required me to return "the Shabbat Bag." Before winter break, before Covid Redux, my son had been "Shabbat Boy" for one week. I didn't really understand the assignment, but I think my son was meant to drink grape juice and write in a journal about his own personal connection with Shabbat. Given that my son can't write or draw, I did the journaling on my own. I hope I'm not setting up a twenty-year trend. 

Returning the Shabbat Bag meant entrusting my son--my "Covid Kid"--to my working husband. I tossed my daughter into the car; no one has pinned a case of Covid on her, and if you want your fucking Shabbat Bag, well, you're going to need to deal with my daughter for two minutes. I wheezed just a few times as I turned over my journal and challah-toy to the proper authorities.

Anne Lamott says we are all in a state of existential exhaustion, and, at this time, we must "remember to remember." We must recall what still works. So, in that spirit, I'm grateful for: Amazon Fresh, the film career of Nicole Kidman, the novels of Lisa Gardner ("a Mozart of crime"), and the Westport Country "Stars on Stage" series, which you can stream on PBS (Gavin Creel, Brandon Victor Dixon).

That's all for now.
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