This time last year, I wrote a note to 2020. I thanked it for the gifts it gave amidst the turmoil, waved it away, and asked that 2021 would be kinder. I'm not sure whether or not that worked out. 

2021 was a weird one. 2020 was strange, but 2021 was weirder - and in some ways, harder too.

When we began the year, we were still at home. We were teaching virtually, learning virtually, and working virtually. By the time the New Year rolled around, it was getting old. We were hoping for the light at the end of the tunnel, and although we didn't know when it would be, we just knew it had to be getting close. After all, how long could this really go on?

When we began the year we were looking forward to a new president and an end to political nonsense. We hoped that the crazies would be taking a back seat. But instead, they got louder and tried to overthrow the government, leaving the giant task of repairing all that was nearly lost, and in some cases, trying to replace what had long been broken.

When we began 2021, we thought Covid would be gone in the spring, then everything would be better. And it was...

for a while.

In March, vaccines became a reality, and we thought, "Here it is! The end!" But then people didn't want the vaccine. So we hoped it would be enough if we did our part. We hoped could chase it away - will it away.

And it looked good for a while.

Summer felt normal.

For a while.

But then the virus rebounded, and we cancelled our trips and put our masks back on.

In September, school started and we hoped it would be a typical year, but, no matter how happy we were to be there, it was anything but typical. People had forgotten how to be together, talk to each other, and work together. Kids needed to re-learn how to play together. Teens needed reminders to look up from their phones and look one another in the eye. People were hopeful and confused and excited and hurting all at once. We were supposed to be back to business as usual, and we tried. We adjusted expectations and made allowances. We guided and supported, and were so grateful for how far we had come. We celebrated every single bit of "normal" that we had. And it almost felt like enough.

And then the headlines returned, with graphs and numbers and warnings. Events were once again cancelled. The search for masks and Clorox wipes was replaced with a search for at-home test kits and hopes that this wave will be shorter or less severe. 

So why has 2021 been weirder? 

It's weirder because it sometimes feels like 2020 didn't exist. It was a lost year that often gets forgotten in conversations, or skipped over in memories. It's weirder because we're in a fake new normal in which we pretend that everything is the way it was, but nothing is. It's weirder because we still can't even agree about what we've been through, let alone how to deal with it. We live on a constant tightrope between overreacting and under-reacting, desperate to let our guards down but still afraid to do so.

Last year, as I bid farewell to 2020, I thanked it for the gifts of quiet and togetherness. What will I thank 2021 for? Vaccines, face-to-face conversations (even masked ones), hugs, moments of joy, celebrations, and glimpses of a new normal. Progress.

I hope that, in 2022, we will be gentle with one another as we recover from all that we have been through. I hope that we learn from it. As we eventually emerge from this uncertain time, I hope that we will step into the light of possibilities with a sense of determination, joy, and and above all, kindness. I hope that 2022 will bring health, gratitude, and peace. I think we're ready for that.

Modern Life and the Mysterious Blue Van

    Every generation has its own fears. I grew up in a small town where life was mainly uneventful in terms of major news. Our tv news came from New York City, and our local paper was mostly filled with high school sports and local politics, with world events mixed in. It seemed like the kind of town where nothing remarkable would happen. And yet, every year or so, the halls of the school and the playgrounds would suddenly fill with reports of a mysterious man in a blue van (always blue) who was lurking in our streets, ready to scoop up random children with promises of puppies or candy. Nobody actually saw the van, but a lot of kids seemed to know people who did. Stories of the blue van were both terrifying and exciting. I remember standing at the playground fence searching behind the school. I looked with a mixture of fear and dreams of the glory that would come from being the one to catch him. (The fact that our playground fence faced a forest with no roads in sight never crossed my mind). Eventually, after a few days or weeks, the stories of the blue van would run their course and we would return to our regular, less scary and slightly less exciting lives. 

    Last week there was a concerning social media post about my children's school. School officials and police handled the situation and deemed it not to be an actual threat. They informed parents and students of the situation, and it seemed to be done. No big deal, nothing to see here. Then, the following day, there was a Facebook post from a parent who had heard that "many people" were keeping their kids home from school the next day because the students didn't feel safe. Others chimed in agreeing that this was true and expressing their dismay at the situation. As I read the post, a block of ice formed in my chest. Instantly my mind started to reel. Was it safe? Did those students know something that the rest of us didn't? How could we find out? Would I be a fool for sending my kids to school, or an over-reacting, hysterical parent if I kept them home? And was it worth the potentially horrific consequences if I made the wrong choice? The questions formed a nonstop loop in my head, punctuated with mental stories of worst-case scenarios. I monitored Facebook all night. I considered asking the girls, but since neither of them had mentioned it, the last thing I wanted to do was project my anxiety into their minds. 

    This anxiety wasn't new for me. My children were in kindergarten when the Sandy Hook shooting happened. Although we shielded them from that story for years, I have been very aware, through their entire school lives, that there was the potential for my children to be shot at school. For the first few years, I froze every time I heard a siren during school hours. Eventually I was able to move those worries to a back burner, but unfortunately, as they got older and without my knowing, the girls developed fears of their own. Just a few weeks ago, someone at their school mistakenly hit a wrong button and released an automatic announcement indicating a lockdown situation. It was remedied within seconds, but in that short time some students had run to the woods to hide. We talked about the event, including how the students had stayed there for some time after things had cleared up. When I joked that maybe they had wanted a little break from school, my daughter stopped, looked me in the eyes, and said, "No, Mom. They were scared. There isn't a single high school student who isn't scared every single day that they're going to get shot at school."

    The girls did go to school on the day in question, and everything was fine. They noticed that some kids had stayed home, but weren't overly concerned. That morning I managed not to act like I was sending them off to war as I left for work. I had a cry in the car and tried to use my anxiety strategies to ground myself in probable reality instead of worst case scenarios. It was during this time when I suddenly remembered the blue van of my childhood. I realized that it still exists, but now the mysterious man has been replaced by an angry kid with a gun. That was oddly comforting. It reminded me of kids and rumors and the ease with which they grow. Also that they are usually only loosely based on reality.

    The comparison isn't that simple, though. Our blue van rumors grew out of a vague awareness of a story that someone saw on the news or an after-school special. Today's kids see reports and footage from school shootings all too often. We worried about a mysterious bogeyman with a baseball cap and sunglasses. They worry about the people in their math class or cafeteria. What must that do to kids? And what must it do to a community - when the perceived threat comes from within? What have we, as a society, done to our children?

    So, where does this leave me? On one hand, kids will be kids, rumors will fly as rumors do, and most of the time it isn't a reason to worry. So that's good. On the other hand, we live in a country where we expect our children to learn in a place where they worry, not without reason, that they might get shot because some other kid has a bad day and access to a gun. We can choose to overlook the fear or stuff it down, but what we are asking of our children, and ourselves is truly awful. And for some reason we live in a society that doesn't seem to want to do anything about it.