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To Be a Parent Right Now Is To Be a Liar
My four-year-old called it “the sickness.” After preschool was canceled and we all moved inside, he would look at the calendar and ask, “When do you think the sickness will end?” He doesn’t ask that anymore. Instead, when we go on a drive, once every Sunday, no stops, he’ll point out places and say, “Maybe next year we can go there.” The 7-Eleven. The library. The playground. It’s a long list at this point.
Now he’s five. His birthday was celebrated indoors. His grandma and cousins drove by, beeping. We told him it was a fun parade, but he mostly seemed confused. Pretending these activities are entertaining is familiar to parents now. We’re stuck making the best of it as the weeks turn into months, as one season becomes two. “Maybe next year,” my son will say again, his voice a whisper, a promise.