Sunday, May 17, 2020


Jo:  Who will be interested in a story of domestic struggles and joys?  It doesn't have any real importance, does it?

Amy:  Maybe it doesn't seem important because people don't write about them.

Jo:  No.  Writing doesn't confer importance; it reflects it.

Amy:  I don't think so.  Writing them will make them more important.

~Little Women, 2019

We have about three weeks left of school.

Caleb misread this word as "cactapus," which is a good name for what I am when I'm grumpy with my kids, which is to say, pretty much all the time.

I have spring fever, and cabin fever.  Possibly disco fever.  Probably not boogie fever.  Thankfully, not a medical-grade fever.

Caleb set up a school seat for Ears, and for, inexplicably, a set of snowman-themed Christmas gift boxes.

Thankfully May is the month I traditionally do all the next year's school planning, which is great fun and a lot of work, so I have something to keep me busy at the moment-- or "off the streets and out of the bars," as a woman once put it when I was in the grocery store with a bunch of little kids.  

Which is more beneficial now than ever.

We were reading about the story of David and Bathsheba one morning when Caleb asked, "What's adultery?"  Jeddy drew this helpful diagram to explain.

Quarantine drags wearily on.  We desperately miss hugging Grandma and babies and real church and easy grocery shopping.  I'm sure I've gained the quarantine 15, between endless comfort food and no-consequence drinking every day of the week.  And every time I think, "I should eat better," I soon sigh and think but why?

Caleb with his newly-potted volunteer maple tree--that he named Ears, after Ears.

My weekly routine has boiled down to:   Monday, reserve a grocery pickup time.  Tuesday, receive my food delivery box.  Wednesday, place a farmer's market order.  Thursday, place a food delivery box order.  Friday, place a grocery order.  Saturday, farmer's market and grocery pickup.  And Sunday, assemble ourselves on the couch to play pretend church, with a mixture of joy and depression that this is possible but this is how it is.

This is how we keep track of the calendar now.

I try to stay at least a step above pajamas most days.  Back in January, I bought what I had no idea would become my quarantine pants--fuzzy fleece drawstrings.  Some days I step it up a bit and wear leggings instead.  And sometimes I can't take it anymore and I get fully dressed in skinny jeans and boots and a big necklace.  

Usually it's back to the trusty quarantine pants the next day.

I actually had to start wearing real shoes more often because I was starting to get foot cramps from wearing slippers so much.

So which March sister was right?  Does writing reflect importance of our domestic struggles and joys, or confer it?  

I'm not sure.  

Maybe writing helps us see that things we thought were trivial are important after all.  Maybe the God who knows the number of hairs on my head cares about my fuzzy pants and foot cramps and grocery list.  Maybe He notices my cabin fever and guides my school planning, and in fact, is working out every detail of this miserable world event--for my good, as He promised.

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