Campus is closed.
We learned on April 1, though it was not an April Fool’s joke, that our school will not open for the rest of the year. This was always a possibility, so the rational mind might say it should not have come as a surprise.
But I can tell you the loss still felt significant.
As foreigners, school is our community and its physical absence leaves a void. (Not to mention, it’s what we do with our children during the day.) This is perhaps why I didn’t write 10 days ago. It was all void think.
We are still finding a replacement for the adrenaline-fueled energy that got us through the first 6 weeks of school closure. For me, it has required a significant shift in mindset compared to the originally planned programming.
We’re now in this for the long-ish haul.
The 6-month haul.
We all need a sustainable schedule and mindset for it. (Hint: Less formal school work. More play.)
I’ve needed to change, cancel and be at peace with a delay in much of my own agenda (and consulting work) in order to be present with the kids. After processing a great deal of disappointment over this, I’m flipping the script. My future self knows that this forced requirement of being present with my children, at this period of their lives, will be one of the greatest gifts I never knew I needed. My kids will only be this smushy for so long and I can already see them molting out of their kid bones. Sometimes my reaction is to turn to Paul and say, “My god, they are growing up so fast, we need more of them!” This is unlikely the correct answer. And I will certainly get a whole lot more of the two I already have over the next six months.
In thinking about the six months ahead, it helps me to think about what we will learn from this period, or what we will remember most.
At 4 and 8 years of age, my kids may only remember the extreme punctuated highs and lows of our (so far safe and sheltered) version of the Coronavirus. I can already picture us around the family dinner table as these memories unfold; two sons taller than I, inhaling calories at a remarkable pace.
Someone cracks a joke with a mouth half-full of food.
We laugh - perhaps with a mouth full of food. Someone’s feet stink.
This too will feel like one of those sweet fleeting moments of parenthood you want to freeze in time. Paul and I will be flooded with memories of the juggling, the global anxiety, the worry about our friends back home, how far removed we felt from the rest of the world living on this wooded campus in west Tokyo, the decisions we had to make to evacuate to ‘home’ or not.
If we’re lucky, Liam will remember the time he worked really hard to build a soccer field and homemade fire pit in our backyard, flattening the land with a manual roller. Grayson will remember the time he hit 7 home runs in a row and learned to read.
Hopefully, they will remember the silly hours (and hours and hours) of playing Captain Hook, together as friends. Hopefully, this time as each other’s only physical playmates will cement their friendship far into adulthood. Hopefully, it will cement our bond as a family for the inevitable teenage twists that come our way.
Of course, they may just walk away remembering the time Paul brought home a Nintendo 64 as a national emergency was declared and the time they saw Mommy cry as we watched New Yorkers lean out their windows to cheer for healthcare workers.
Six months until my kids return to school and six months living this strange, parallel life. On this empty college campus in west Tokyo, my goal is to be present for it all.
“Extreme future mindedness can impoverish our present.”