Texas, like many other states, officially announced that school is cancelled for the remainder of the academic year. Rationally, I knew this announcement was coming. Rationally, I knew it would be for the best. Rationally, I thought I had prepared myself for this.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Today, when Governor Abbott cancelled the school year, I lost it. Ugly cry lost it. Through tears and gulps for air, I repeated, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
My husband, confused by my reaction, gently reminded me, “But, you had said that you knew this would happen, right?”
Right, I did. I knew it was coming. But somehow, that didn’t matter. When it came, it felt like a stake through my heart. It destroyed me.
Because what I hadn’t realized until today was that behind all that rationality was something else. Something I didn’t even know was there: a glimmer of hope. And, as irrational as that glimmer of hope was, it was keeping me going. It was getting me through the days, the weeks, the months. It was making this impossible situation—homeschool, working from home, and the rest of it—possible. That glimmer of home was getting me through from one day to the next; it was sustaining me.
Today, that glimmer of hope—the one I didn’t realize was there before—went dark. That new darkness hit me hard. I cried for my kids not seeing their teachers. I cried for the teachers not seeing their kids. I cried for the friends we so desperately miss. I cried for the lunchboxes that won’t be packed. I cried for the backpacks that won’t bring home readers or folders of crafts. I cried for the Pre-K Mother’s Day Tea—a day that a cherished with my daughter and no longer will get to have with my son. I cried for the end of sharing boxes and napmats and carpools and school pickups. I cried because we lost the best part of the school year. I cried because they didn’t even get to say “goodbye.”
I know there are worse things than a Pre-K and Kindergarten school year cut short. I know I should be grateful for all the things I do have—things like health, a job, a house, food on the table. And, I am grateful for those things. So very grateful.
But, while I am grateful, I am also giving myself permission to mourn the loss of that glimmer of hope today. Today, I am giving myself permission to be just plain sad.
Tomorrow, I will regroup; I will move forward; I will be strong; I will be fine.
Tomorrow, not today.
Van Plus Fam 