It is Christmas, or nearly so, and we are yet again wearing masks in shops and watching case numbers climb as we go about our merry way attempting to buy gifts and see family or friends and pretend it isn’t happening all over again. Thanks, covid — best gift ever. Sarcasm aside, this is life now, and we are here, and I guess we’re just going to have to press on with it regardless of what happens. Mostly this means that yes, we’re most likely going to get covid at some point, and it might be awful, or nothing, or anything in between, and beyond wearing masks and staying home and hoping for the best (all of which present their own problems), there’s not much we can do about any of it. Life’s random like that.
I think I’m getting to the point where I’m mostly accepting whatever fate decides to bring this coming year. Do I wish we weren’t in a pandemic? Sure. Do I have all my fingers crossed that school will actually start next year, that we won’t be home schooling while working full time (hah, right) and that life will go on as normally as possible? Yes, of course I do. Do I hope we don’t get sick? Absolutely.
Do I have any way of controlling any of this? Nope. Not really.
All of this has me thinking of my great-grandmother. She married at 16 and would go on to have ten kids. Nine survived to fairly old age. The tenth died in 1918 at 9 months old. I don’t know what the cause of death was, but when covid started I went back to check the family tree and discovered the year. It made me wonder. She never spoke of the last major pandemic, nor of the child that died. She focused instead on the family she had and the joy their visits brought her.
And so, I stick the presents under the Christmas tree, help my local cafe out by ordering yet another coffee, and hope I can find a way to bring in a bit more joy to my family this year, whatever comes.