Giving myself time to reflect

I came across a note today as I hurried the kids out the door on their first week fully back in school since March 2020.

I have no memory of this request, but I know a few things:

• The handwriting is that of my youngest daughter (age 8).
• It was written sometime in the last 18 months, during remote learning in the pandemic.
• I was on my own Zoom call while this request was made and am responsible for the scribbled response.
• There was strategy behind this request: The oldest always asks her younger sister to make requests she thinks will be denied.
• They were obedient and went back to their Zoom calls.
  

This note makes me smile. It also makes me sad.

I smile because it shows their sweetness, obedience and resilience that I've seen in bigger ways than ever before this pandemic. While I stay glued to my screen from 9-6 daily, my kids have been curious, creative, adventurous and funny. They have learned how to pass me notes without their arms appearing in my Zoom background. They've learned which calls I'm on where they can appear and say hello to the people on my screen. They've even learned the names of the people I work with and can recognize them in other contexts without ever being formally introduced.

I'm still marveling at the time we received a mailing from World Pulse with photos of community members sketched on the cover and my youngest exclaimed, "Mom is that Tam?"

We have all learned so much in the last 18 months. They went from asking: "Mom my teacher says we need attachments. What are attachments?" to: "Ms. Anisa could you enable screen sharing so I can show you my story"" in a matter of weeks.

I've learned so many new things about them, the kinds of students they are -- where they struggle, where they shine. I admire them as people so much more than I did before.

The note also makes me sad.

I feel guilty that for the last 18 months they've been around me constantly but I've rarely been able to look directly into their eyes. There was the time my youngest was crying in the bathroom, blowing her nose between sobs because her teacher hadn't invited her to unmute all afternoon, even though she'd had her hand raised. I was presenting to a group and couldn't go the few steps to the bathroom to give her a hug.

There was the time that they were playing in the kitchen and my oldest cracked her head open on the countertop. Her sister helped her to the couch and got her a paper towel before she timidly interrupted me from another call to take her to the emergency room.

These are some of the moments that fill me with guilt and sadness at all the ways I've failed them the last 18 months. But today, for the first time in 18 months, I'm sitting with my laptop outside at a coffee shop. We're still deep in the pandemic, but the schools have found a way to reopen. We have a long way to go, with lots of worries and uncertainty. And yet, I'm able to take a breath long enough to reflect on this note that I don't remember. Let myself feel the sadness I've been burying for 18 months. Let myself feel the deep appreciation I have for my sweet, sweet children. Who at some point in the last 18 months had hope that I'd let them skip the rest of their school day to lie in bed and watch a movie.