Getting Schooled

I DECIDE TO BUY LEVI A NEW SHIRT FOR HIS FIRST DAY BACK AT SCHOOL, a colorful Hawaiian shirt from Billabong. I realize, perhaps a little too late, that he looks like a mini-Spicoli with his mop of shaggy blonde hair and mismatched, surf-inspired ensemble. I snap a few photos as he clutches his favorite stuffed kitties and gives me one of those thin-lipped exaggerated smiles 4-year-olds do as he hums, “cheeeeeese” and I document his first day of Pre-K.

I drive away, thinking about how I won’t post any of these insanely adorable photos on social media. I know there are going to be some people who won’t approve of my decision to send Levi back to school in the middle of a pandemic, so I decide to keep these photos for myself. My social media feed is landmine of emotional triggers as it is, flooding my veins with the kind of stress hormones that will kill you a lot faster than Covid-19.

With the start of the fall semester just a few short weeks away, parents are bracing themselves as they learn their fate about how, when, and if schools are going to reopen. Teachers either have to wrap their heads around of a job that is now potentially life-threatening, or they are forced to adapt their curriculum to an online platform and figure out how to embrace a new crop of students without ever meeting them in person. The only thing we do know is this is just one more facet of our lives we have no control over.

I analyze my fear and try to decipher whether it is rational and necessary, or unwarranted and potentially more detrimental in the long run than the virus itself.

It’s also one more painful consequence of trying to salvage some semblance of a functional society without any federal guidance or funding, and pubic school district superintendents in particular are in way over their heads. Without any clear, decisive information or necessary resources, the options suck and best and are potentially lethal at worst. It’s like driving up the Frying Pan in the dark without headlights, hoping you don’t end up in the river, wheels up.

Don’t get me wrong, we hesitated about sending Levi back to preschool, which, let’s be honest, is a petri dish of little kid germs even on a good day.

We all tell ourselves little stories and rationalize our faces off to explain the unknown. After all, isn’t that the basis of all religion? Here’s mine: these kids have been exposed to a million different viruses, which, from what I understand, is part of why (some) experts (suggest) young children have shown resilience to Covid-19, while others conclude kids are even more contagious than adults and describe them as “super spreaders,” like they are running around in capes and masks spitting on passers-by with Covid-riddled spit. The jury is definitely still out on this one—as evident in two articles published in The New York Times that totally contradict one another—as the debate over school reopening ensues.

It’s interesting how most of us are inherently selfish when it comes to taking sides of an issue. Most parents, especially those who have to work, desperately want their kids back in school. Teachers aren’t thrilled with the idea of walking into a veritable firing squad of a potentially fatal airborne contagion. Parents with vulnerabilities are terrified to open that window of risk. Then there’s the rare breed of socially conscious people who genuinely care about the bigger picture—I think I know one person like that.

I’m certainly not that stoic. I find myself in the cross hairs of trying to sort through this constant barrage of conflicting information, emotionally charged opinions, and making responsible choices that are in the best interest of my family. My approach has been to stay reasonably informed without diving too deep into the rabbit hole, to use common sense, and to throw a little bit of intuition in. I do the risk versus reward shuffle: I analyze my fear and try to decipher whether it is rational and necessary, or unwarranted and potentially more detrimental in the long run than the virus itself.

When we pull up to the preschool drop off, we are greeted by staff members in sunglasses, masks, and rubber gloves who look more like bank robbers than preschool teachers sitting outside at a makeshift table that is littered with bottles of hand sanitizer. They take Levi’s temperature and record it on a log attached to a clipboard instead of the usual iPad. Then I leave him at the curb where he will be escorted into the building by the staff and say a little prayer to a God I’ve never bothered to introduce myself to and am not really on speaking terms with.

I am not worried about Levi. My common sense and intuition meter tell me if the kids were susceptible to this virus, they’d all have it by now. The last time he wore a mask into the grocery store, he chewed on it until it was drenched in saliva, his bottom teeth sticking out from beneath the flimsy fabric. Then he proceeded to touch absolutely everything, just like the spit monster I described earlier. As far as I know (please god, I’m Ali by the way), there was no cluster outbreak at Whole Foods that day.

We are aware there is a very real threat he could transmit it to us. We worry, what if we both end up infected at the same time, then what? Sometimes I develop symptoms that manifest out of sheer anxiety and have to go on the trampoline and do a backflip to reassure myself that no, I’m not sick or dying. That has become my Covid Litmus Test.

I worry about becoming too complacent, too confident, and even too lucky. This thing is far from over. In the meantime, my child is flourishing, blossoming like a big, beautiful flower. He is happy, so I am happy.

Whatever happens, it looks like we’re all getting schooled.

With Colorado peaches, sunflowers, and eight hours of sleep,