It’s Friday evening at last. I should be feeling relieved, looking forward to a break from the treadmill that this week has been. Yet, I am back in my study after prying apart tweens going at each others’ throats over an eraser. I had to assuage adults whose tempers were flaring because of being cooped up inside the house for months, almost a year now. The air inside the house is stale, not just from the closed windows and doors, but from the resentment and restlessness simmering under the surface.

The pandemic fatigue is real and hitting hard. This week, I kept all three of my kids home after one threw up and the other ran a low grade fever with cough and sneezes. I did what I had to do, call the pediatrician, set up tests and wait anxiously for two days for the COVID PCR results to come through.

The words “Negative” have never felt so momentous. I slumped in my chair, the waves of anxiety and fear evaporating into the air, co-mingling with barely suppressed temper.

I have never been more grateful for lots to do at work. It kept me sane. It kept my mind from going to the dark, scary places, the what-ifs that come with a positive result.

I will be done work in a bit and I am looking forward to a break from so many things that seem impossible. I keep telling myself, when I am vaccinated, when my children no longer have school, when so much does not ride on my presence at home, I will lock myself up in a cabin near a beach or in the mountains with a bunch of friends and talk about everything but work, home, school or children.

For now, that dream will have to sustain me, see me through week after week and hopefully, some day, I will write from that cabin pining for home.