Day 163

It has been a mentally and emotionally tiring day. I am back in Queens with Mom. I was not a good daughter in staying away for so long. I had left with the intention of being gone for no more than three and a half weeks, but the extension of our road trip meant that we were away for an entire month. The longer trip was good for my son, but it exacerbated  Mom’s loneliness. This is the first time in her life that she is living alone, and she suffocating in the emptiness. She misses Dad. My being here doesn’t alleviate the pain of missing, but at least she has someone to talk to, someone to lean on, someone to remind her to eat more than a few bites here and there. 

Yesterday, as soon as I signed the paperwork to withdraw my son from school, he and I got on the road and came to Mom’s. She hugged me tightly when I arrived. I could almost feel her body relaxing, the tension hissing out of her. But in some ways it’s still hard for my son to be here. He misses his grandfather. He misses being the center of attention. He misses his grandfather’s love. And the rules seem to have changed which is making things harder for my son. There was a time he could do no wrong. But now, mom gets frustrated at the little things, the lights that don’t get turned off, the towels that don’t get hung properly. Yes, these infractions frustrate me too, but he isn’t used to having to watch his every step here. He’s used to Grandpa covering for him. He’s used to Nonna and Grandpa bickering with each other but spoiling him. He isn’t used to getting in trouble in this house.

This morning, Mom asked me to run some errands with her. I had forgotten to make my espresso and so, while we were out on Metro in Middle Village, I walked into a Dunkin Donuts to get a cup of coffee. While standing on line, a full six feet from the woman and her child in front of me, a group of three teenage girls walked in. Not one of them was wearing a mask. One girl stepped up to the refrigerator to open it and in the process stepped close enough to me that I could feel her breath on my neck. I turned around, slammed the refrigerator door shut and told her to step back. I pointed to the markings on the ground, and told her that if she was going to walk into the store without a mask, despite the sign on the door demanding that customers come in with a face covering, she needed to keep at least six feet between us. She told me she didn’t have to listen to me. I told her I wasn’t playing and that she needed to step back. Annoyed, she turned away and stormed out of the store mumbling, “I don’t have to listen to this.” The woman in front of me turned around and said, “I don’t understand. Why is so hard for people to follow the rules?” Seriously, a few months ago New York City was a hotspot, how do people not realize how deadly the virus is? Why are they so callous and insensitive? When Mom and I walked out of the store, the three kids were sitting in the back of an SUV that was making an illegal u-turn. They opened the window and started taunting me. I didn’t hear what they said, but Mom did. She yanked down her mask, thrust her head up to the window and said, “I hope you all die like my husband. Maybe then you’ll understand.” And then she walked away.

Mom’s television is one of many things that has stopped working properly since Dad died. She needs a new one. She asked me to please research which television is the best one to buy. I know nothing about TVs. I watch the news and an occasional movie, but if it were up to me I wouldn’t have a television. I called my spouse — she loves her televisions and knows far more than I do — for guidance. She suggested we go to the store and speak with a salesperson. And so we did. The news was disappointing. They no longer make televisions that are not smart. Mom did not want a smart TV. She wanted what she has, something simpler. You already know Mom and technology don’g mix well. The idea of something more complicated crushed her. I tried to comfort her with the idea that she could get rid of cable and get something cheaper — Hulu or Sling. But that means more decisions, and without Dad every decision is like a bomb in her gut. Thinking exhausts her. Anxiety prevents her from sleeping. 

Without a resolution on the television, I had to continue my research on which textbooks I needed to buy in order to homeschool my son. As I’ve said, I’m not worried about ELA. I will teach him like I teach my college students. Reading and writing are like breathing. And it’s fun. But without having textbooks secured, anxiety over math and science was making me agitated. I asked the secretary in Bedminster to please give me the ISBN numbers for the textbooks used by the fifth grade. She told me to reach out to the fifth grade lead teacher. I did. She told me she couldn’t get that information and I should contact one of the secretaries. Why is it so hard to get a freaking ISBN number? It’s not like I asked for free textbooks — which I feel I do deserve since my taxes paid for them (but that’s another issue). We are in the midst of a goddamn pandemic. Me homeschooling my kid makes things easier for them. You’d think they’d be kind enough to give me a number. But no. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Slamming into a dead end, I reached out to a former neighbor who used to teach elementary school. She went above and beyond to help me and I am very grateful to her for taking the time to point me in a better direction. After hours on the computer researching textbooks, and corresponding with teachers and friends, I think I’m all set. Now, I just have to wait for them to arrive so that I can begin teaching.

This evening before bed, while my son and I were reading The Week Junior, I told him that I had started reading the Hobbit and I was getting excited about discussing it will him. He turned his head toward me so that he could hit me with his laser sharp gaze and said, “Mom, it’s school. It’s going to be boring. Homeschool is still school. And I hate school.”

“So let’s not call it school,” I suggested. “How about we refer to it as the brain garden?”

He erupted into laughter, “That sounds like a mental institution.”

“But it won’t be boring.”

Suddenly serious, eyebrows knitted, he said, “Do not call it a brain garden — EVER! If you do, people will begin to realize the truth that I have known for years.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re crazy.”