Where Are The Zombies?

The day the world went dark

We’re having dinner at my father-in-law’s when I see a notification dance along on my phone.

“Babe,” I whisper to my husband. “The NBA just shut down…”

We exchange worried looks. We had been keeping an eye on this COVID thing for a while now, but it wasn’t until everything started closing that we realized how serious it might actually get.

We don’t have time to discuss it. If the pandemic really is coming, it’s going to have to wait. I fish out a soggy piece of pizza crust from the baby’s mouth while my husband cuts up strawberries for our toddler. The world may be shutting down, but it’s business as usual for our little family. A dirty diaper waits for no man.

On the car ride home, my husband squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “It’s not the end of the world.”

**

Two weeks later

It’s basically the end of the world.

I am glued to my phone, constantly checking for updates. The anxiety is real, palpable. Everything is shut down now. I leave only to go to the grocery store and then spend a half-hour wiping them down with Clorox.

“Where are the zombies?” I yell down to my husband. He’s downstairs working in the basement. He doesn’t leave the house anymore, either.

“If it’s the apocalypse, there should be zombies!”

As it turns out, when the world ends, there are not necessarily zombies. But there is laundry. And cooking. And cleaning. And tending to the needs of your baby and toddler who seem to have no appreciation for the fact that we are now living in end-times.

We are lucky. This becomes the mantra I cling to. And it’s true. We are healthy. We are financially secure. We have a strong support system. And as a stay-at-home mom, my routine is not nearly as disrupted as other people.

But still, the lack of playdates and mommy and me classes and family support is staggering. The mental load of processing this new information is draining. The need to be everything for my children at all times is exhausting. Loneliness feels like a monkey on my already tired back. I can’t seem to find the energy to shake it off.

When my father calls me and asks how I’m doing, I burst into tears. “Not well,” I reply. “And the zombies haven’t even come yet.”

“Don’t forget that what you’re doing is incredibly hard,” he reminds me. “You’re doing a great job.”

I hang up the phone and go check on my crying baby in her crib. As I rock her back to sleep, I remind myself to hold on. After all, this couldn’t possibly last much longer.

**

One year later

It feels like the anniversary of a death. Except instead of mourning a loved one, I am mourning the world as I had previously known it.

Am I being dramatic? Probably. But after a year of living in a global pandemic, I believe I have earned that right.

I watch my children push race cars across the floor and feel my eyes well with tears.

This twisted, masked, fearful version of life is all they have ever really known.

In the beginning, I thought this would be a blip on the radar for my children - a difficult thing they’d endure but not really remember. Now I understand that this is actually going to be their childhood in and of itself. They are the children of the pandemic.

Face masks are common. Testing is routine. Schools are closed.

This isn’t a freak event or a hard couple of months. This is their life. This is their childhood. This is how they will spend their formative years.

This is not what they deserve.

This is not what I imagined.

**

18 months later

My son starts preschool.

It is supposed to be a happy day, one I’ve thought about for a long time.

I imagined walking him into his classroom, introducing him to his smiling teacher, kissing him goodbye, and sneaking out the door to privately shed a few tears in the parking lot.

Instead, I drop my 3-year-old off outside through a side door. We are both wearing masks, and we can’t tell if his teacher is smiling or not because she’s wearing one, too. I have 10 seconds to kiss the top of his head - no lingering allowed - before he is ushered inside to wash his hands for the mandatory 30 seconds.

Since I never even left the parking lot, I don’t need to sneak out, but I do shed a few tears.

It’s not just because my baby is going to school for the first time.

These are tears of grief that my son is starting school in such strange circumstances. These are tears of sadness that I didn’t get to step foot inside his classroom.

And instead of my biggest fear being that he has a bad day, my biggest fear is that he contracts a potentially fatal virus we’ve spent 18 months trying to avoid.

**

Twenty months later

Still no zombies.

Today’s battle: getting my now two-year-old daughter to keep her mask on during library storytime.

She was nine months old when the pandemic started. I never imagined we’d still be in this situation when she’d be old enough to wear a mask.

But that day has come, and it has come with a vengeance.

“I WON’T WEAR IT!” she screams.

Masks are required for everyone over 2, and the librarian has already given me a stern look.

I remind myself to breathe.

“Kendall, if you want to stay at the library class, you’re going to have to wear your mask. If you can’t keep it on, we will leave.”

I state the boundary clearly and calmly, like the confident mama leader all those books tell me to be.

She looks me square in the eye and rips off her mask, her chin just slightly beginning to quiver.

“Okay, since you can’t keep your mask on, we’re going to leave.”

Chaos ensues. I grab the diaper bag in one arm and my sobbing toddler in the other.

We kick and scream our way to the car. Everyone stares on the way out.

I buckle her into her seatbelt, climb into the driver’s seat, and take some deep breaths. This is the fifth ruined outing in the last two weeks. Trying to keep a mask on my 2-year-old reminds me of trying to keep a hat on a baby at the beach. An exercise in futility.

I blink back tears.

We are never going to go anywhere. If she can’t wear a mask, our already limited options are cut back even further. How are we going to survive the winter? I can’t take another 3 months stuck at home.

**

Two years later

I spent the one-year anniversary of the pandemic crying and the two-year anniversary of the pandemic laughing, probably because I am now dead inside. (Still cashing in on my right to be dramatic…)

But also because, despite the pain and sadness and despair and upheaval that has been the last two years, I am still standing. I have poured every ounce of my energy into being a safe place for my kids during this unpredictable time. I have created magic when there felt like there was none to be had. I have chosen faith over fear time and time again. I never, ever gave up, even when I really wanted to.

So instead of spending this anniversary grieving about everything I’ve lost, I’m viewing it as an opportunity to celebrate all I have survived. This isn’t a cry of despair - this is a victory song.

There’s a saying in football: bend don’t break.

It essentially means, your defense can take a hit, but don’t let your opponent run away with the lead. Maintain some semblance of control. Don’t be broken beyond repair.

That’s what I’ve done these last two years. That’s what every mother has done day in and day out. We’ve fallen short. We’ve cried and then cried some more. We’ve binge-watched bad reality TV shows and eaten too much chocolate. We’ve taken some really bad hits. We’ve bent farther than we ever thought possible. But we’re still here. Even after 24 months of a global pandemic - we didn’t break.

I think that’s all I can continue to ask of myself: to bend with all my might. To refuse to be broken.

I might take some hits, but I’m not out of the game.

There is still some fight in me yet.

(Which is good, because I’ll need it for the zombies…)

This post is part of a blog hop to share our pandemic stories. It's hosted by www.laurapbass.com and you can read the next post in the blog hop by clicking here.

The Tiniest Flame

It was the end of the day, and we laid on the beach- happy and burned, covered with sand and sweat, feeling the delightful contentment that comes from spending the day in the sun.

Our chairs formed a semicircle as we began to chat: my father, my sisters, my brother, my husband, and I.

I’m not sure how it happened, or why. What words were said or when. But my Dad was in the hot seat. This happens a lot with us. The pull of the big family collects and builds, growing into a gigantic wave as each of us piles on top of the other. A beauty to withhold. Unless you’re the one pinned underneath the wave.

My Dad was in the hot seat, and we were being relentless in the way that only family can get away with. Somehow the topic ventured to his writing, or lack thereof.

What you have to know, what you have to understand is, my Dad is a creative genius. I know that is a bold claim. And I know I am prone to hyperbole, but I am not exaggerating here. This is my stake in the ground, and I will defend it until my dying day. Or probably his, as his tombstone will inevitably read “Here Lies Dad, A Creative Genius”.

If you’ve met my Dad, if you’ve listened to his show, then you know I’m not wrong. Creatives are a dying breed, and my Dad is one of the few true ones left. Everything about his existence is inventive and dynamic and just, magic.

There is a book inside of that man, of that I am sure. (There’s also a movie and a theme park, but it all starts with the book). A book he has already conceptualized. A book that is hilarious and unique and textured. But a book that he cannot seem to get off the ground.

We start in, and I can feel it grow. The wave is mounting, picking up speed- dangerously close to crashing.

My husband looks at me, and I avert his gaze. I know what he is thinking. He doesn’t understand. Never could. He wasn’t raised in this brand of prickly love. Never baptized in the cold waters of honesty.

I’m doing my best martyr impression:

            You are depriving the world of your gift!

            You just need to focus!

            Writing requires discipline, you know.

            You have to make the time, dammit!
 

All true. But the problem isn’t the words, it’s the delivery. It always is with me. But this is a little much. I’m extra-heated, brutally sharp. The words are loaded. I am suddenly angrier than I’ve been in a long time.

My Dad knows the drill by now. He sticks to the script, plays his part well. Sits there and takes it as his 23-year-old daughter lectures him, father of seven, on time management skills. He knows to pause, to let the rant run its course, but his frustration becomes obvious as he removes his sunglasses, rubs his eyes, takes a deep breath. He is a man with a long threshold and a short fuse, and I’m approaching the breaking point.

I know it and start to retreat, not wanting to be on the receiving end of that backlash. Not at all satisfied, I mumble a halfhearted apology involving something about his “best interests” and do my best to let it go.

My Dad, the man that he is, forgives and forgets, and it is dropped and left there on the beach as we go inside. We do not take it with us.

It’s taken me years to realize that this was the moment I decided to become a writer. I’ve traced my steps all the way back to that afternoon on the sand, where the words were loaded and the anger was hot. Sometimes rage is an arrow, a lit-up neon sign begging you to pay attention.

I was a writer who wasn’t writing. Moreover, I was a writer who didn’t even know I should be writing. This part of me, this crucial, vital piece was buried deep inside, begging to be set free. Just the mention of writing, just a little crack, was enough to give it some air, to spark the tiniest flame, to bring the thing back to life.

We left the argument on the beach that day. But I did take something with me, after all. Long after the sand had been washed away, those words and feelings remained, tugging at my heart, forcing me to pay attention. To take them out and stare at them. To let this anger teach me. I didn’t know where to start, but I knew I had to. And that was something.

Hell, looking back now, it just might have been everything.

Notes From The Thin Place

The question I get asked the most is if I “feel like a parent?”. Usually I just smile and shrug, offering a “kind of” as my reply.

I’m not really sure what they’re asking. Do I feel qualified to be a parent? Absolutely not. I, very admittedly, have no idea what I’m doing and the knowledge of that unknowingness feels like an abyss that I try very hard not to fall into every single day.

Am I adjusting to my new role? I am trying my best. Transition periods are hard and joyful and murky and scary, and this one is no different. I am trying to find my way. I am trying to put together the pieces of my life into something sustainable, something recognizable, something rich and important and worthy of the life we’ve just created.

Are they just asking if I feel connected to my child, if parenthood is everything I thought it would be? If so, the answer is a clear and confident yes.

This comes as somewhat of a surprise to me. I spent the last nine months worried I wasn’t going to feel an instant connection with my baby- that I wouldn’t be one of those parents who would fall in love the second they saw their child. It was a very real fear that I held close and kept hidden from public view. The fear that it would be harder for me to fall in love, that I wasn’t cut out to be a mother, that my baby would be getting the short end of the stick.

It wasn’t completely far-fetched: I’m an anxious person, I don’t do well with change, and to be honest, newborns kind of freak me out. And even though it’s not talked about all the time, I know there are mothers who experienced everything I’ve just described and then some. That experience is real and completely valid, and I tried to give myself predetermined grace to feel whatever it was I needed to feel on my timeline. I knew I would love my child, but if I didn’t feel a gushing sensation the second he was born, I wanted to let that be okay without adding on additional layers of guilt.

But the second I heard his cry, the moment he was placed into my arms, I loved him beyond description. More accurately, it felt like I knew him. Like everything in my being recognized everything in his. Like something inside of me locked into place. Like a missing piece was returned. There you are, I thought to myself. I’ve been waiting for you.

**

Still, motherhood has not been a breeze. I’m finding that just like any other experience, there are elements of both. It is a profoundly joyous experience, accentuated by moments of exhaustion, despair and frustration, served up with a side of pure, unrelenting fear. I cry almost every single day- from fear, from anxiety, from gratitude, from the overwhelming enormity of it all.

I tend to have unrealistic expectations. I want things to be perfect. I want my vacations to be something out of a story book. I want the holidays to match the spread in Good Housekeeping. I want all the beautiful, perfect, shiny things.

I’m beginning to see that that’s just not possible. Whenever we experience great joy, fear and sadness and anger are also present. They manage to seep into the cracks. They gather on the sidelines, waiting for the moment where they are let into the game. I used to think this was just me, that it was something about the way I processed emotions, but now I think it’s just the way life works. When you feel things strongly, you feel all the things- that's part of the package. We cannot have the good without the bad. There is no “joy only” filter we can apply to our lives.

But luckily, the reverse is also true. In times of heaviness and sorrow, there are elements of joy and grace sprinkled throughout. They too find a way to seep through the cracks. We just have to train our eyes to look for them.

It took me three weeks to write this essay. I’ve written sentences during nap times, paragraphs on my iPhone during snuggle sessions, I’ve edited during pumping. My motivation and creativity feel very far away. My mind is preoccupied, drained, distracted.

And yet, my heart is full. I am tired to the bone, but joy is ever present, encircling me even in the hard moments.

When my baby cries nonstop and I can’t figure out what to do and I worry about him getting sick or feel anxious about things like sleep training or wondering when and how I will ever write again, I focus on the gratitude. When I close my eyes, I can truly feel it flowing through my bloodstream, so glad that this is my life and these are my problems.

**

There’s a Celtic saying that goes “heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in the thin places that distance is even smaller.” Thin places can be actual locations where one feels close to God- the Sedona vortexes, the ocean, the Grand Canyon- but they can also be emotional experiences- weddings, funerals, the holiday season.

Pregnancy and motherhood? It’s the ultimate thin place. Everywhere I look I am surrounded by God’s presence. I have never felt more exhausted, more uncertain, or more alive in my entire life. Joy flows through it all, even in moments where I’m in over my head or I’m tired to the bone. I am in the thin place- I literally feel the divine with every breath.

I am in awe of my community, of the amount of love and support that we’ve received from friends and family, coworkers, and strangers. We’re being served in the best possible way, and it helps to know that we are not in this alone. I see God in the chicken casserole, the hand-knitted blanket, the way my grandmother looks when she holds her great-grandson for the first time.

Love isn’t something you can always see with your eyes, but here in the thin place, it is felt in every moment. It has a thick, visceral presence. It is warming. It is soft to the touch. It is the sound of God whispering, “I’m here.”

A Letter To My Mother

Dear Mom,

I wanted to write a letter to thank you for all the things you’ve done for me. As I get closer and closer to becoming a mom, I find myself thinking of you- of all the things I never realized, or said, or acknowledged. But the thank you is so big and so intense, words can’t see to convey it. Everything sounds fake or trivial or pretentious. Thank you doesn’t do it justice, but thank you is all I have.

Remember that quote you posted on Grammy’s Facebook wall for her birthday? “There's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours began.”  I’ve always loved that quote, and it’s always reminded me of you. You are the beginning of my story. You are the start of everything I am, and we bleed into each other because you are my foundation. I know what that feels like now. To be the beginning of someone’s story. To be the entry point. It is an honor and a responsibility, my greatest privilege and greatest fear. I desperately want to make my son proud of me.

In case I haven't told you lately, I am so proud of you. I am so honored to share my story with you. You were my first home, and you’ve taught me everything I know about being a person in this world. I am not just a better person because of you, I am a person because of you. I am me because of you. Everything that I am and ever could be is a direct result of you and the way you raised me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to adequately thank you for that.

You’ve taught me how to be a person of passion, how to make chili, how to do laundry, how to smile at strangers and dip french fries in a Wendy’s frosty. You’ve taught me to love musicals, to work hard and honor my commitments, to take risks, and to apologize. You’ve taught me to host parties and help others and value family and always buy popcorn at the movie theater. And I thought I would stop needing you by now, but it’s proven to be the exact opposite. The older I get, the more I need you. Because you are the person who reminds me of who I am. And because I still have so much more to learn.

As nervous as I might be, I’m not really worried about being a good mom. I owe that to you. I have seen you raise and love baby after baby, and I know what it takes to be a good mother. I know that I have it in me, because I have you in me. Even if I’m half the mother you are, my child will be luckier than most. There will not be a day that goes by where he wonders if he is loved, and we both have you to thank for that.

It is an honor to be your daughter, and I can’t wait to add another link to our family chain. Thank you for sharing your story with me, for loving me profusely, and for always pushing me to be the best version of myself.

You are a phenomenal mother.

Love,

Jillian

How To Build A Life

He told me how scared he was to leave. How wide and big the future seemed. How every direction felt equally wrong and right all at once.

“I know this sounds weird, but this is a special time. Try to enjoy it.”

My words ring hollow. They are made of solid lead. They taste sour, even in my own mouth.

The tricky thing about life is that it’s hard to enjoy the time while you’re in it. Especially the hard stuff. When you’re in the middle of the hurricane, all you can hear is the howling of the wind. You’re in the thick of it, and that’s all you can see. The unknown. The trepidation. The shape of the fear. You can’t appreciate the value of a lesson you haven’t yet learned.

I remember that particular storm. It’s easy to look back in fondness now that the moment has passed. It’s almost impossible to do so when you’re smack dab in the middle.

I didn’t know then because I couldn’t have seen. I hadn’t lived through it. I wish I could’ve given myself the story, had allowed myself to read that very last chapter, to know how this thing would end. That it would pass. That I’d be okay after all.  But I couldn’t. And I shouldn’t have regardless. Because some things are meant to be lived, not read.

**

This time, too, I am scared and fearful. Full of nerves for the unknown.

29 weeks pregnant and life is about to tip on its axis. My world will be re-arranged. Altered and never going back.

I’m trying to appreciate the end of this season. To smell the metaphorical flowers and soak up the simile sun. I am trying, this time, to stand at the edge with a heart full of faith instead of a body riddled with fear. To whisper yes, to trust myself, my husband, the universe. To know that I will rise. That I’ll figure it out. That this too shall pass.

I’m taking the lessons I’ve learned over the past five years and putting them in my pocket like stones. This one for patience. This one for trust. This one for learning to savor.

I’m walking into the woods, and I don’t know what the other side will look like. But I’ve been here before. Yes, I’ve been here before. And I know I’ll find my way out.

**

I don’t know when I became an adult. When I graduated college? Bought a house? Got married? Paid for my own health insurance?

When did it happen? What did the moment look like?

Somewhere along the line, I did it. I knit this life together with shaking hands.

Just this morning, I sat in my home surrounded by my things. My dog, my books, my coffee cup. My pictures and my flowers and my warm fuzzy blanket. Just things. Just the things that make up my life. The things I’ve strewn together with such care.

We like to think that change feels like being thrown in the deep end. But most of the time, change is deciding to swim from shore to shore. We wade in the water. There’s no end in sight. We get deeper and further with each stroke. And eventually, we make it.

**

I told him, Look at all we’ve built together. But really, it’s look what we’ve received. Look how we’ve been blessed.

Life is not a piece of IKEA furniture. It doesn’t come with all the parts. There is no instruction manual. Some people think success is a formula that can be learned. But success isn’t even a word that can be universally defined. You can’t recreate something that is constantly changing.

I didn’t earn a single thing that happened to me. I just met each opportunity as it came across my path. I took a step off the shore and chose to swim.

Write the word faith on one hand and the word hustle on the other. That’s it. That’s everything you need to know. That’s the place we need to be: the intersection of faith and hustle. Because life takes care of us when we let it. That’s the faith part. But the hustle comes when we grab the moments with both hands and choose not to let go. What’s that saying? Opportunity is missed by most because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work.

This is what I whisper to myself at night, what I should have told him when he asked: Have faith that things will happen to you the way they are meant to. And when they do, work like hell to make the most of them. Live in this space. Set up camp here. This is how you build a life.

**

The fear won’t end, though. That’s part of the lessons.

It does get easier. You remember your way. You pick up your stones. You make your guide map. You know things like who you are and how you’ll react and what you need to do to take care of yourself in the dark moments.

But the fear still comes, and it’s foolish to think that it won’t.

Fear clings to change, and change is inevitable. It’s part of the package. Learning to navigate change and ignore the fear is a battle we will fight again and again.

But there is a beauty in the struggle and a satisfaction from doing the things we are petrified of doing. There is power in showing up with a pounding heart and shaking hands and just doing what needs to be done to move the needle forward. One day you will look back and smile. One day you will realize what all this was for, what this was in service of. One day, you will be so grateful, you’ll forget to remember the fear.

Home

“Make a home on the internet- people are going to want to know where to find you.”

As soon as she said those words, something locked into place.

For the past year or so, I’ve heavily resisted the idea of creating a blog. I’m not sure where the resistance came from, all I know is that it was strong and it was real and it was clear: I did not under any circumstances want to blog. I wanted to write. I am a writer, not a blogger. I don’t take pictures or cook Pinterest worthy meals. I am not an interior designer or DIY extraordinaire. And I am the last person on Earth who should have a lifestyle or fashion blog.

So I began publishing my work on other outlets, trying to prove that you don't need to have your own blog to be successful on the internet. And while that has been an amazing experience, and one that I will continue to pursue, it felt like something was missing.

It felt like pieces of my work were scattered. Like I was a dandelion who had blown all my seeds away. I was untethered.

I began to crave a place where my writing could live. I wanted a space where I could practice my craft on my terms. I wanted a room of my own. I was craving a home. And not so people could find me, but so I could find myself. 

This isn't your typical blog. I'm not trying to sell you anything. I don't have any wisdom or answers. This is not a humble brag, check out my stylized Instagram-ed life, kinda place. This is a space where I can be free and open. Where I tell it like it is. This is a space where shit gets real. 

When you visit here, I want you to settle in. I want you to kick your feet up. I want to make you coffee and feed you banana bread. I want you to feel relaxed, valued, seen.

And I want the freedom to do the same. I want to welcome you into my home and resist the urge to clean the floors. I’ll leave the dust bunnies where they are. I’ll let the clutter sit on the table. I’ll be brave enough to let you see me- stains and all.

I’m not sure what I’ll write about here. There will be no theme or set protocol. There isn’t going to be an editorial calendar. The copy won’t be crisp and neat. There will likely be typos and run on sentences. But it will be a space for my writing to grow and stretch its legs. It’ll be a place for practice and lessons and nurturing.

And I hope it’ll also be a space for community. I hope you’ll introduce yourself and stay awhile. I hope the words you find here will make you think and make you laugh. I hope you’ll leave feeling happy you stopped by. I hope it makes you feel like home.