Consider the lilies of the field

Some people think it’s 4.5 weeks we’ve been sheltered in place. For me, it’s been both. I’ve been in NYC for more than a month and I’ve known my granddaughter just shy of that. What an extraordinary time to be born. A time of fear. A time of patience. A time of anticipation. A time of renewal. A time to re-focus. A time of life lessons. A time to embrace God’s immense love.

I’ve been remote teaching now for four weeks. It’s like being locked in the dug out on Opening Day. Not a huge fan. Not because I don’t like technology. What I don’t like are the kids who are drifting, who have given up, who don’t care. They are flying out there in cyberspace away from self-discipline and predictable routine. Grades don’t count. We pass or fail. We give everyone a break. I wonder how this is all going to play out for this group of kids? You know, the ones caught in the middle. The ones without a lot of parental supervision and support. The ones whose parents are “done fighting” with them. The ones whose parents give up.

Those are the ones teachers worry about the most. We always have. We always will. Especially now. We worry because in March we were just getting it together, just figuring out each other. A month ago, most of them accepted that I’m “tough”, but by Spring they know why–because I care. By Spring students have learned how–and why– to push themselves–for themselves, not their teachers or parents.

But now, dozens and dozens and dozens of my students, and students throughout the United States, aren’t doing anything. They don’t care.

How do you get them motivated from afar? I tried a cool, creative writing assignment. We are podcasting. And now we are finishing reading “Fahrenheit 451” and taking traditional Cornell Notes to get them ready for high school. I’m hosting Book Club discussions and using my excited voice to share my energy and enthusiasm hoping that it’s contagious. I’ve written them motivational emails, shared our teaching plan with parents every week. I immediately email back anyone who has a question.

Crickets.

The kids have checked out.

And we have 7.5 weeks left until summer.

The teacher in me can’t stop being a teacher. I can’t stop caring. But then I have this beautiful baby in the world, and my beautiful daughter who is The Best Mommy Ever and my son-in-law who is in medical school studying so hard and taking the night shift to watch his little girl so his wife can sleep. I have so much to be grateful for. The smiles. That are real now. Her sweet cooing sounds. And the way I seem to be able to soothe Millie to sleep. We already have this amazing bond.

And then there’s Bradbury’s book and protagonist Guy Montag, whose life forever changes following a conversation with a young neighbor who asks if he’s happy. Realizing his entire life, his job, his marriage, has been a farce, he frantically searches for answers in stolen books, including the Bible, of which he has no prior knowledge or context. He tries to memorize biblical text and becomes frustrated when he comes to Matthew 6:28: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin.” His entire life has been predictable, and now he becomes unhinged when he can’t interpret the passage.

It was, of course, genius for Bradbury to include baffling text in his book about a world gone mad. He includes references to classic novels, poetry and the Bible precisely because they provoke thought.

Ah ha!…….AH HA! Lightbulb moment!

It’s not about the book. It’s not about the students. It’s about the lilies. It’s about Baby Millie. The flower isn’t going nuts. Millie isn’t either. (She’s actually a most excellent, calm baby.) I am the one losing it. Not the students (they’re cool–no homework, no grades). No spinning. No toiling.

Consider this, my sister tells me, “Enjoy time away from the classroom. You don’t have to grade. You don’t have to deal with nasty parents. You don’t even have to ‘motivate’ kids who don’t want to be motivated.”

Consider Millie and the fact that tomorrow it won’t rain and I’ll go for a walk and look at the tulips a few houses up the hill. And we’ll have yogurt, apples and walnuts in the morning and a cup of coffee, then I’ll record my daily lesson, and read student stories and find time to kiss this new human being.

Consider the hell many others are dealing with right now. Worrying about my students’ academic future isn’t productive. In fact, stressing about anything isn’t helpful.

Consider transforming worry into prayer.

.

for good

It’s Thursday, 2 p.m. East Coast Time. I opened the good wine, Raymond’s 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon District Collection. (Sip and Stay Sale Boisset Collection https://my.boissetcollection.com mention my name as your ambassador and it’s up to 40% off and free shipping through the end of April). (Side hustle) I’m enjoying this delicious Napa wine with a 500-page book that I’m finally now getting into, and the NYC Spring rainstorm. and no news is good news, and the baby, and my daughter, and my son-in-law studying to become a doctor, and the trains that never stop, and the sun that just came out.

I’m sitting on my couch bed, near the balcony where I can feel the wind and the fresh air. The baby is good. She’s drifting in a breast-milk tummy-full slumber. She’s smiling. She’s healthy. She’s Life.

Her mommy is looking for a bigger apartment to accommodate her visiting family member(s) and potential baby-care relatives staff. A Real Estate transaction two-and-a-half weeks after giving birth, and her mother here, and her husband in the next room cramming for a two-hour test on Monday. Oy-vey!

Did I mention a pot of veggie curry is on the stove?

Did I mention I haven’t had much sleep since February?

Did I mention I Amazoned some new comfy clothes, a forest green T-shirt dress, a light-weight purple grandma/teacher sweater? And some vitamin C and elderberry gummies?

Did I mention my hobby is online shopping for groceries? That I never “win” the Game of Home delivery? That I place between 20-28 items in my shopping cart, but am always denied? That I do this when I’m supposed to sleep? That I’m obsessed? That I want to figure out how to beat “The System”? That it’s different in NYC than other places, like Southern California. Apparently in California, as attest by my Facebook friends, you can get scallops delivered to your front door and make pumpkin bread with real pumpkin and and organic green beans.

Did you know not everyone’s so lucky?

I wouldn’t know if I wasn’t here.

I wouldn’t know that people live in 500 square feet apartments where there’s no room or budget to hoard speciality items and palettes of toilet paper. If I wasn’t here I wouldn’t know that you can’t pick up wine at a grocery store, that you have to go to a dedicated wine or liquor store–that closed down due to “19”. I wouldn’t know that living near the railroad track and the freeway isn’t looked down upon; it’s sought after. If I wasn’t here I wouldn’t know that landlords rent out apartments that look like crap, that they don’t care about things like lead paint and replacing gross dark green carpeting and painting over the azure blue walls a neutral white. If I wasn’t here I wouldn’t know you need a broker to negotiate an apartment and he charges $5,000. If I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t know that you can’t snap your fingers and get in a car, that you have to take mass transit where social distancing isn’t possible or practical.

Now that I’m here and not there, I didn’t know how good I had it. I didn’t know that my daughter’s current one-bedroom apartment near the noisy Long Island train is like living in Beverly Hills compared to the dank, dark, dowdy two-bedroom, $2,100 Queens apartment she and her husband just toured, the one that currently houses eight bunk-bedded souls.

Ellen DeGeneres blew it when she called herself a “prisoner” “trapped” in her beautiful Malibu ocean-view home. She meant no harm, but was schooled, and me too.

Truthfully, honestly, my life in California, for all the complaining I do, is much easier than my day-to-day existence here in NYC. It’s just tougher here. Harder to get food. Harder to sleep. It’s more expensive. Less peaceful. Harder to get around——to escape.

I am spoiled. There’s the truth of it. I like getting in a car and driving five minutes to work. I like living near the ocean. I like having a backyard and a front yard. I like having an army of loved ones around me in good times and bad.

But.

This place, this city with a gigantic heart, is teaching me something I would never understand back home. NYC and her Golden Apple is teaching me to be grateful. NYC is teaching me to focus on The Good. And remember the sweet times, the musicals that I normally always see when I’m here—-and will see once again in the future. The way New Yorkers, my daughter and son-in-law, and soon Millie too, pull up their boot straps and get it done. New Yorkers are beasts and I’m a wuss.

Living in NYC for a month now, crashing in my daughter and son-in-law’s living room while I and participate in daily rituals of caring for a new baby, has been a lesson in self and environmental awareness. I am completely out of my element. I am sleep-deprived, like the new parents, and totally and completely in love with this new person.

She looks at me, with her Winston Churchill grimace or her gummy-mouth smile, and I realize it is all worth it—every single worrisome CV-19 Press Briefing moment.

I am not home. Don’t know when I will return. Nothing is predictable. But I am where I am needed. Or where I need to be. On the flip side, when this is all over, I will no doubt look back at this time and realize that of all my years on Planet Earth, this last month of worry and delight have been the best days of my life.

I have been changed, “For Good”. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZ0pXUb5jVU

the persistence of memory

Walking in the Surrealistic Canvas of Today with my daughter and two-week-young granddaughter at a nearby park on a glorious 67 degree NYC day, we social-distanced while getting a bit of much-needed fresh air. The park was confettied with old and young, cyclists and joggers, strollers and park bench sitters, all staying respectably far away from each other. It was eery and wonderful. The baseball field, framed by white flower-laden trees and cheerful red-breasted robins, was barricaded from the public with trash trucks and park law enforcement vehicles. A mom and a dad stretched white sting between two poles creating a makeshift tennis court. Masked grandpas chatted two benches apart as my daughter circled around and around the track.

People are dying. People are suffering. And there’s this: Life.

A nurse in scrubs stretches and decompresses as her caring husband gives her physical and psyche space. I watch her and think about all that she’s seen in the last several weeks and want to give her a hug, but realize what she needs most is to be left alone and separate from the day she’s had or is about to have.“God protect her,” I pray.

On the east side of the park near the closed playground, my daughter sits down to feed the baby and a husband and wife in their 60s greets an old friend in his 70s who says, “I’m going back to work.” He’s an undertaker, if that’s what they call them nowadays. “Business has been so out of control,” he says, “It’s like World War II. We can’t handle any more bodies.”

“No escape,” my daughter says, as she places little Millie back in the turtle-covered stroller.

I look up at the stained-blue sky and think, We are in a Salvador Dali painting, flying like Peter Pan between fragments of disconnected metaphors and a Jamaica Kincaid novel. It’s all real and none of its real. We are in a dream, a nightmare, a Sunday school class at Christ Church.

It’s not our fault. Yet it’s anti-human.

And the park. And the baby. And all of our lives. And I might die. Cuz I’m a Baby Boomer. And I haven’t retired yet. And I haven’t lived my best life yet. And if I do get this stupid virus please don’t put me on a ventilator. I don’t want to live the rest of my life–if I make it–with my lungs shredded so that I can’t go to Tuolumne Meadows Poetry Festival this summer in Yosemite’s High Sierras or get that little RV I’ve had my heart set on and tour the U.S. I have stories I want to write and pictures I want to paint and babies I need to see grow up and grandsons who need their grandma and I shouldn’t have to think about dying from a stupid, horrible pnemonia/flu virus while I’m here in the park taking my granddaughter for her first walk.

I might. Die. So might someone I love. My sister who has a compromised health condition, and my cousin, who is also vulnerable. And all those people I don’t know. They are dying now. Like the ruthless panther-predator that it is, this damn virus might take one of us down. As I watch a little girl with braids learn to ride her bike for the first time on this fine Spring day, I realize how truly vulnerable I am, how vulnerable everyone is and always has been.

We knew a crash was coming. Before the virus, we’d likely blame it on the Democrats or Republicans; we knew the High roller Times wouldn’t last. We just didn’t expect to get clubbed from behind when we weren’t looking.

Dali said it best: “What is a television apparatus to man, who has only to shut his eyes to see the most inaccessible regions of the seen and the never seen, who has only to imagine in order to pierce through walls and cause all the planetary Baghdads of his dreams to rise from the dust.”

Breathe in and out, in and out. Notice. Listen. Look. I’m in a Dali painting, a collision of melting pocket watches and jagged cliffs. Surreal.

Spring break

Today is the start of my school district’s Spring Break. I had a four-day camping trip scheduled and my older daughter’s 40th birthday party to help organize and I knew I would be fretting about Katie and the baby and missing her and now I don’t have to. Fret that is. I get to take a walk with a pseudo mask. I get to hunt for magic in the streets of Queens. I get to make phone calls home and text tons of Baby Millie photos to my West Coast family. I get to blog. I get to read my gigantic 500-page book. I get to knit and realize knitting is kinda boring. I get to watch my daughter bathe the baby for a first time. I get to cuddle and wrap myself in rapturous powderesque baby love.

It’s funny how an infant’s poop doesn’t smell bad. It just smells like baby and you don’t even mind changing their diapers because you get to pat their cute little chubby marshmallow butt and sing songs and try to enchant them realizing it’s really the other way around.

There’s something about being around a baby that wipes away all the problems of the world. They open their little eyes and it’s like the sun shining through the limbs of a tree in full bloom. It’s like seeing beyond the stars and realizing that there’s so much more than now.

What a time to be born.

In the spring. With daffodils and puffy clouds and blue skies and grey skies, if you live in NYC, and apartments blasting with heat and neighbors upstairs who play the drums past 10 p.m. and yell and scream and you think maybe you need to call the cops, but you don’t because it’s NYC.

You go for a mid-day walk with a yellow scarf wrapped around your face because you were told before you traveled here that masks were stupid, and you notice things like silver railings that frame brick homes and you think, “Hmm, that’s different.” And you notice a brown-leisure-suit-mottled-marble fence guarding a two-story duplex and wonder, “Why?” Then you turn the corner and your mouth drops at the blossom-laden trees and the neon blast of Spring bulbs and bushes that jazz up gardens that aren’t so well kept and realize, maybe for the first time, that there is air and sky and people who care and that even though no one else is on the street, you aren’t alone. There are Signs of Life everywhere.

The neighbor who was kind enough to sweep up the trash in front of his garage, then when I say, “Thanks for making the street look nice,” he said, “No problem.” The guy sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette who asks, “How’s the baby?” The dog walker who makes sure I have ten feet to pass before offering, “Have a nice day.” Now these aren’t fireman honking horns outside Manhattan hospitals amazing deeds. They are normal, how’d ya do? moments that I’ve actually never had before when I’ve visited my daughter’s Queens neighborhood. But I can see people are trying. They are trying to look at your eyes. They are trying to say nice things. But I can also see they are scared.

Fear can do crazy things to the brain. It can make us suspicious and stingy, on edge–not at all like our youthful Spring selves. Fear makes us old and grey and sick.

Babies are Spring. They give us hope. They give us a reason to believe in goodness and fellowship. They give us a reason to pay attention to the birds and the fragrance of the pink magnolia tree three doors down. By the way, if you’ve yet to do so, go outside and see for yourself. Get yourself geared up with your “outside clothes” and take a stroll. You are bound to see something simple that is simply amazing.

And when you get back to the apartment or your house or recreational vehicle, go online and order some flower and vegetable seeds. Give some to your neighbors. Come Summer, when we safely breach our cocoons, we’ll collectively breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of sunflower-feeding Monarchs and the caw, caw of seagulls dancing in the morning dew.

Sack of potatoes

Like everyone else, I’m getting tired of wearing leisure wear. Heck, I had planned to exclusively wear comfy clothes for a week to help my daughter with the new baby, then return to my life, teaching, grand parenting, and thinking of my next chapter–retirement. Then life took a very strange turn. And today something that in normal times I would have celebrated, has profoundly rocked me: No more school. Until Fall.

No. More. School.

To be clear, I’m still teaching, just not in Room 18. Us teachers still have a presence. We are remoting. But it’s just not the same. Somehow, we have to find a way to connect, and we will. Still, we worry, can’t sleep, and fret about what this loss of routine and educational structure might do to the kids whose only structure is going to school.

Damn this stupid virus. Damn it to hell and may it never return.

I look at the last photo I took of my classroom; I can’t help but mourn all the the great lessons yet to introduce: Democracy In Action, where students find a cause they care about and step up and take action. The Inventor’s Project in which they research America 50 years from now and consider political, social, education and environmental projections and create an invention to address a future challenge. Promotion ceremonies, the dance and Disneyland. Wrapping things up. Saying goodbye. Reminding them on the the last day that once you are Ms. Barker’s student you ar always my student. Tears. Then summer!!! A well-earned summer.

It helps, I guess, that we’re all going through the same thing. There’s some sort of comfort knowing that all of us teachers across America are grieving. We care so damn much. But we are resilient and will make the best of it. That’s what teachers always do.

Which brings me to some happy news: The sack of potatoes. We have been out of food, scraping the bottom of the produce bin, cleaning out the dry beans, and left with a half a cartoon of milk. No deliveries in NYC. Sorry, all time slots are filled Despite our 2 a.m., 4:30 a.m. and throughout the day frantic attempts to set up grocery delivery since both my granddaughter and myself are medically vulnerable to the virus—NOTHING!

Cue in “Ride of the Valkyries”.

So my warrior daughter puts on her warfare-out-in-public gear and trudges to the actual grocery store–the one a new mom isn’t supposed to go to–and returns to the apartment with six bags or $214 worth of groceries. She scored the motherload! And as a bonus, she somehow muscled two big containers of paper towels and toilet paper. It felt like Christmas in April.

As soon as she got home, she decontaminated herself as did I after putting away the groceries. Now we’re set for a couple of weeks. I already made a lovely pot of vegetable soup and we had an arugula salad for dinner. Unlike my prior life where, I admit, some of my produce rotted in the fridge, now I treasure every item of food as if it’s gold. Nothing goes to waste. I promise you, that sack of potatoes cooling in the fridge, won’t have chance to go to seed. And if it does, mark my word, we’re planting it in our very own Victory Garden on the balcony.

You know what they say about breaking a bad habit, that it takes at least a month to form a new pattern? If this virus is around for a couple of months–or longer–as the experts predict, maybe all these lessons, these revelations, will change long-term behavior. I mean, if the CoronaVirus19 disappeared in just two weeks, if the symptoms weren’t that bad, we wouldn’t change the things that needed changing. It’s gotta hurt, right, for us to pay attention, for it to be real?

It’s like having the flu. First, you feel out-of -sorts. Next, you go to bed. Then you spend the entire night thinking you’re going to die. Then you ask for help and the only thing someone can do for you is get you a glass of water. Eventually, you get on the other side of the demon gremlin, and you rest. And think. And rest some more. And think some more. And go back to your old ways.

This virus, as we all know, is different, smacking our silly faces and shouting, “Sit your damn butt down and listen. You aren’t such a hot shot. Get your shit together.”

If after all this, Americans go back to their old ways, we’re screwed.

I pray we never recover and, at long last, wake up and become better versions of ourselves.

pace thyself

Working from home. Remotely. Baby in the House. Far away from Home. Feels like Winter when it’s actually Spring.

Walking around the block feels like the past, the future and nowhere in between. Am I breaking the law? Putting myself, my family, in danger? People in masks. Impressively respectful.

I need air. I need my beach. My dogs. My bed. But I am here and they are there. Near the coast, but not at the coast.

Remote. Like everyone else, I’m dealing. I’m grateful. Believe me, I’m grateful, grateful, grateful that I get to work at home, get to be with my beloved daughter, granddaughter and son-in-law. I get to smell baby breath and watch this little being grow and watch my daughter grow. I am so very blessed. I get to hang out with humans who care about me and I them. In the same apartment. Maybe for a long time.

It’s The Uncertainty.

Then it’s The Resolve: It’s going to be This Way. For a LONG TIME.

So now what? Unpack the bag I packed 2.5 weeks ago expecting to be here for no more than a week? Buy more clothes? I’ve been hand-washing the same grey and black shirts and slacks, and that one pair of comfy shoes I wore on the plane, every day and it’s getting kinda old. I know it’s trivial. I should be ashamed of myself for having such tiny thoughts. But is it time to think about settling in?

Two weeks ago I upgraded my travel size toothpaste thinking I’d be here, at most, two more weeks. Maybe now it’s time to invest in boxed hair dye.

Never having had to endure a weather-related catastrophe, I guess it’s like preparing for, and enduring, a very bad weather event. Hunker down. Stock up. Take out the paints and canvas. Start that 500-page book. Distract yourself from fear.

Work. Not every minute. I don’t have to be a slave to the computer screen, addressing my remote students’ every need. But they NEED me and I need them. (I’m historically lousy at balancing home and work life.) So this is the ultimate test: I need to pace thyself.

Step back. Breathe. Smile. Dance in the sunset, even if it is just a sweet memory for now.

Every day for the unforeseen future I have the privilege of watching a wee baby fall in love with her parents–and me. I am reminded that while the days ahead are uncertain, our commitment to each other is rock solid.

Time to unpack.

EKG SKYline

Good morning world! My name is Millie Beverly. Mommy and Daddy tell me my first name means strong and my middle name also means strong because I was named after Auntie Bevie. She’s the whole family’s superhero, whatever that means, because of all she’s gone through; Mommy says Bevie is a vessel of hope.

Mommy and Daddy say it’s important to be strong in life so they wanted to fortify me with all the tools, including my name, that I might need for the next 90+ years. I actually have no idea what fortify means or 90. The only thing I know is the world is a lot different from the place I came from.

Six days ago I was in warm, dark and cozy tropical water cave. I didn’t have to think about anything. I had everything at my beckon call.

Snap, snap, waiter, waiter!

“How would you like your drink, Miss? Warm or warmer?”

It was like I was living full-time in a five-star hotel comp’ed by Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. Now I’m here, listening to something called Netflix, my grammy’s tapping, tapping purple knitting needles and something called a keyboard. She’s doing something called editing. She’s called something like a teacher. And, she likes coffee. And California wine.

You know me, I’m into milk from someone called Mommy. And cuddles. And pooping. And smiling (at least that’s what Grammy calls it, but I’m not going to tell her it’s really just my tummy gurgling). And sleeping. A lot of sleeping. Because I have to rest up. From what I’ve seen so far, and believe me it’s not so easy to focus nowadays, I have a lot to learn. Grammy says, “No need to rush, little one.”

I think Grammy might be the river or maybe the sea, where the rain falls and the wind sings, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

I’m no longer head-first like I was six days ago; my arms and feet now have room to stretch. I wear clothes. And diapers. I have a piece of plastic on my belly where Mommy and I held hands before I was born. Honestly, I really don’t want to think about that. It was pretty tough, and that’s all I’m going to say about that, except I’m glad I don’t have to be born again. I’m good.

It’s all so strange and vaguely familiar, like an EKG sketch of Manhattan’s skyline off in the distance. Trains roar past. Just not right now.

Everything and everything

It’s kinda hard to explain it. Overwhelming and completely normal. That feeling that you just want to be better. You want to be healthier. You want to be kinder. You have your priorities figured out.

You realize you don’t have all the time in the world, like you did before.

So you know your imprint needs to last beyond making meals and cleaning up. You know your whispers in the middle of the night, your silly, made-up songs you sing when the parents are out of the room, need to touch your little ones’ most ancient self. Because it’s gotta last. Your love has to last beyond your years.

I remember my mother’s eyes when new mom Katie was born. Mom knew she wouldn’t be around for long. Her chronic lung disease, caused by a lifetime of smoking, was taking its ugly toil. It was all she could do to walk. But that she did. Heroically. Through the streets of Solvang, CA where she bought my baby girl, the mother of my new granddaughter, a ceremonial birthday candle, as she had done before for all the grandchildren and grand nephews and nieces. That day, I remember dressing up my baby girl in a Sunday school frock and hat, knowing how much her outfit would delight my mother. And it did.

It was a wonderful last trip to the Central Coast of California. On the scenic drive, Mom shared what it was like growing up with a “distant” mother, who herself was mysteriously adopted in England by a church elder. Her mother, she said, favored her sister and brother. She, Mom explained, was the working child who did everything she could to please her mother by completing all the household chores–and then some. Mom never experienced the deep, long-lasting, forever, just-because love from Grandma Elizabeth.

That trip, almost 30 years ago, helped me figure out my mother and forgive her for not being the mom I thought I needed. Our heartfelt conversation made me realize it was me not her that was the problem: I wasn’t the daughter she deserved.

From that day forth I did my best to do better by Mom. She was a champion. A warrior. I waited too long to figure that out.

Babies give us a chance to connect with the past, the present and the future. Our stories are deep and intertwined.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I whisper to three-day-young Millie, cooing the same words I say to my grandsons, the same words I sang to my mother when she was latched to a respirator in the dark days before she died.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Ray Bradbury told me, and others who cared to listen. “Do what you love and love what you do.” Try not to worry. Be present. Let go of the bad. In the end, at the beginning, none of the bad stuff matters.

Yes, I’m sleep-deprived. Yes, I wish I could go outside and scream at the top of my lungs, “This is my granddaughter! Isn’t she amazing?” But we have to be careful, restrained, for we live in a time of pandemic disorder.

Like other elders, I’m here in our tiny cocoon, thinking about life, Millie, Mom, and wondering what this time in history is all about. Together, with a tear-drenched, off-key lullaby, we’ll figure it out.

Life in the midst of darkness

On this day, an extraordinarily normal thing happened to an extraordinary ordinary family during anything-but-normal times: A child was born to a NYC couple, the woman, age 29, the father, 30. This girl-child greeted her teacher-mother and first-year med-school dad soon after lunch time, weighing in at 9 pounds, 3 ounces, 23 inches long. Mother and child are both doing fine as her masked-donned Papa cradles his daughter for the first time. Extended family are looped into the blessed event via the wonder of texting, phone calls and digitally remote conversations. As the sun–on-cue–pulls back the curtain clouds on the first Sunday of Spring, tears of joy are shed and God is profusely thanked.

Nothing will ever be the same.

Not the park.

Not the grocery store.

Not the long subway trek to work.

Life transformed into a translucent elixir of milk and honey.

Today there will be no talk of calamity because one thing is more certain and predictable than gloom and doom news: A new life, my granddaughter Millie, was born and from this day forth she will be loved forever. And with that love she, too, will become a giver of love, bearing the torch lit long ago by parents of parents, from East to West.

This is how it works.

Love.

Nothing else matters.

Chapter 3: Waiting for Baby in the Eye of a Pandemic Storm

It’s hard not to worry. We’re in the midst of a world health crisis and my full-term+ daughter is on the NYC subway heading to her Manhattan elementary school to finalize plans for remote teaching. She is healthy. So is the baby. Thank God. But she’s “out there” mingling with people who might be very sick. As an ultra protective new-mom-to-be, she knows it isn’t a good idea to be in public right now, but she’s required to report to school and plan remote lessons for her fourth-graders. She cares deeply about her students’ education, but she’s also worried about draining her sick leave; like other mothers in her situation, she zealously hoards her sick days so she has more time to be with her baby post-delivery.

Let me be blunt: America’s attitude toward new babies and their parents sucks. There is NO WAY mamas, like my daughter, should put themselves in harm’s way because they need to bank sick leave. But American women are put in that no-win situation every day–Coronavirus19 or not.

Now this is sick. Sick! New parents ought to be able to spend as much time as they need to in order to connect with their little ones; they shouldn’t be stressed out about the inevitablity of handing their babies off to strangers, to institutions, because they can’t afford to live. This isn’t right!

My teacher-daughter is one of America’s “lucky” ones. At least she has sick leave plus six weeks of maternity leave. But two or three months isn’t enough time. You carry a baby for nine months, then transfer your infant to a stranger for eight-plus hours, return home–exhausted–and, in the case of my daughter and other teachers, patchwork-in grading and lesson planning.

Come on America! We CAN do better for new parents.

I am such a fan of Finland and what this Scandinavian nation did post World War II. Collectively, the Finns decided to re-think their war-battered society and asked, What kind of nation, what kind of people do we want to be? Their answers led to a complete overhaul of their government and social systems–from re-structuring public education and housing to prioritizing a new-found respect toward the elderly and the young. The Finns examined their weaknesses and vulnerabilities–honestly. They focused on shared values and created systems that fostered mental and physical health for every member of society. In Finland, no one is discarded; every human being has extraordinary worth and value–starting in the womb. Unlike the United States, Finland offers enviable maternity leave, and provides financial incentives for parents wish to stay home with their young children.

And don’t get me started on Finland’s impressive education system. They got it right, that’s all I can say.

And so can we.

Right now, we are in a war against an enemy we didn’t realize was coming. But like Finland, we have an opportunity to re-think our society and ask, “What do we want?” and “How can we make America truly better–for all?”

As we sit at home reassessing our lives, let’s be inspired to use this time to develop a renewed, healthier nation. We can FaceTime, Zoom or Skype innovative Think Tank solutions. We can seize control of the remote and Change the Channel.

A new life will soon be born into America’s family: My granddaughter. Your grandson. Your niece, cousin, a neighbor’s firstborn or third child. In the center of this daunting, billowing pandemic storm, are our children. I dare anyone to look into their eyes and say, “This is it. We can’t do any better.”

It’s time to put down the swords and re-evaluate who we are and what we want to be.