Quarantine by Numbers

33 – The number of days we’ve been in isolation, at home, no longer interacting with the real world. The last day before the world shut down and we were told to stay home, the kids didn’t have school. It was a three-day weekend and that Friday we met my mom at the movies to see Onward. The movie theater wasn’t busy, but we ran into our neighbors at the one o’clock showing. I resisted the urge not to say how crazy this is, to say more than “It’s so good to see you.” Already, the grocery stores were filled with frantic people and all the toilet paper had sold out. I wanted one more day of normal, even if I couldn’t see exactly how not normal everything would become.

One – The number of times I’ve been to the grocery store. The number of times I’ve used the Target drive up. The number of times we’ve ordered dinner. The number of afternoons I’ve had alone while my husband took the kids to the park.

Two – The average number of hours we spend in the morning on homeschooling. I sit at the kitchen table with both kids while they work. My daughter, in fifth grade, is mostly self-sufficient with her Chromebook and Google Classrooms. My son, on the other hand, needs more direction and more breaks. He’s in second grade and his work is more hands on. The first fifteen minutes tend to be stressful, but we pretty quickly find our groove.

20 – The number of minutes we read silently together each day. I set a timer. It’s a mostly perfect, blissful twenty minutes.

157 – The number of index cards I’ve accumulated in reading through old journals. Last summer, I had a vision of index cards stacked around a table, a research project of sorts that would require me to mine through my old journals. I gathered the journals and some other bigger writing projects I’ve done and threw them in a box where they’ve sat for the last nine months. When I was deciding what I’d work on while the kids did their schoolwork, this project seemed like a no-brainer. What better time than now? Let’s see what we have here and what themes emerge. Maybe I can figure out what writing project I should work on next.

12 – The number of journals in the box.

14 – The number of times I’ve worked out at home. In an average week, I go to the gym four to five times, so I figured I’d work out that much at home. That lasted about a week. I love the gym because I can work out hard alone. That equals enough mental space for me to be able to handle my life without losing my mind. Working out at home is not the same. It will never be the same, no matter how hard I work out. It will also never be alone as long as the kids are home with me (that’s spelled disaster more than once already).

22 – The number of walks and hikes we’ve taken outside. In a perfect world, none of this would have started in March. It would be late May, already warm enough to open the windows, already warm enough to wear short sleeves or maybe a light sweater. Mid-March in Upstate New York isn’t the worst of our weather; March goes out like a lamb after all. Thank goodness. Thank our lucky stars it wasn’t mid-January with below-freezing temperatures and the always-there potential for two feet of snow. At least in mid-March, at the very least this year, we’ve been able to go outside every couple of days and haven’t completely gone stir crazy. Not yet, at least.

56 – The average temperature in April in Rochester, NY.

52 – The average temperature in April 2020.

39 – The high temperature today. It also snowed last night, Lord help us.

74 – The number of days since the groundhog lied to us about an early spring. This year, for the first time, we watched the Groundhog Day festivities online, thousands of people swarming the streets of Punxsutawney (a contagion nightmare, if there ever was one), and were pleasantly surprised at the prediction of early spring. But we were skeptical. A few years ago, spring came fast and furious, flowers blooming a month early and temperatures in the eighties in February. It was magical. That’s the kind of spring we needed this year. But no such luck.

3,534 – The number of times each day I’ve had to reassure myself that we’ll get through this.

256 – The number of times I’ve believed it. The rest of the time, in the midst of my disbelief, I’ve cried, thrown a fit, or taken a nap. Right now, naps are everything.

1,440 – The number of minutes in each day, about 960 of which I am awake and not alone. In the last month, I’ve spent only about five hours alone. That’s less than I’m used to being alone in a day.

Eight – The number of books I’ve read since this all started: four novels, two children’s books (aloud to my kids), and two nonfiction books. As the days have worn on, my attention span has stretched out like a rubber band, and I find reading to be more and more challenging. My mind floats away while my eyes continue to scan the page, leaving me frustrated to back up and start over. This is only temporary, I keep telling myself, and I keep picking up books.

36 – The number of books I currently have checked out from the library. Yesterday, I finished reading the last of my stack (the rest belong to my kids). I’m so sad the library doesn’t have a drive-up service where you can order your books and swing by to pick them up. I’ve bought a few books online, but it’s not the same. I love my library. I miss it.

Zero – The number of people I know who have been sick. Every night, when we say our family prayers, we are grateful for that number. I’m especially grateful that my husband, who works as a paramedic, hasn’t been sick or symptomatic.

Infinity – The number of days it feels like it will be before life gets back to normal. The number of ways life could be not normal from here on out. The number of versions of my life I’ve imagined living while being stuck in the house day after day. The number of days I squandered not realizing it could all come to an end. I try to imagine myself when this is all over, who I’ll be and how I’ll change after living through this. She’s out there somewhere, the future me. She’s a figment, a ghost, a wish that I’m holding in my hand one minute and the next is blowing away. I can’t see her yet, but I believe, hope against all hope, she’s out there and she’s okay.