"New Normal"

It is 7:56pm and I am in bed, before my 2 year old niece and at the same time as my 65 year old mother. Aside from being bed ridden with a strained back and pathetically attached to a heating pad, I am taking advantage of having a door for the evening. Hazel is not sleeping through the night, so my sister (Kate) and brother-in-law (Alex) have moved upstairs to my mom’s room to be closer to her, alongside the 8 month “small” golden doodle my parents purchased that weighs around 35 lbs and is the length of a patio chair. I am sleeping in Kate and Alex’s room because my back is progressively getting worse, leaving mom to the pull out couch I usually inhabit. Everyone is collectively running around grabbing things from bedrooms and bathrooms and moving them to their new posts. I can hear Hazel bail on the hardwood floor above me and burst into tears. Murphy (the dog) barks and dad shouts “No!”. These are the new sounds of home.

Hazel and I go on morning adventures every day. I have her from 8am till around 11 and then my mom (Grandma or G to Hazel) takes over until nap time, then I pick it back up until dinner. The weather has been unreal here - sunny and cold AKA not raining. For March in Vancouver, that is magic. This morning I took Hazel down to the water to walk by the boats in the harbour. The path lining the beach is wide. The scarce passers by keep their distance while exchanging smiles as Hazel yells hello to their dogs. She moves at a 2 year olds pace on her runners bike, stopping to speak to the daffodils and ask me “what’s that?” while seemingly pointing to nothing a million times. We walk passed Lunas, a Mexican restaurant, and Smitty’s Oyster Bar. I picture the summer. The busy patios and happy hour margaritas. I remember how beautiful July and August are here and for a moment feel excited, only to quickly melt into confusion. Will it be like other summers? Will I still be here? Do I want that? That homesick feeling for Nashville creeps in. A mother and her toddler walk towards us from the boat docks. Hazel stops on her bike and stares — she does this whenever we pass another kid. The boy tries to walk towards her but his mom holds him back. “Oh no honey” she says with sadness, “you can wave!”. They wave to each other and exchange totally disappointed Hi’s. It breaks my heart whenever this happens. “C’mon Haze, wave goodbye!” I say enthusiastically, as if that is satisfying to her. We come to a narrow point in the path. Two older ladies are walking towards us with dogs and another couple just behind them. Hazel is moving fast towards them and I feel nervous and anxious and disheartened all at once, yelling “STOP. Wait for me please”. I see my own expression mirrored in the faces of everyone else. They are both thankful and apologetic. Hazel understands, somewhat. She knows that people are getting very sick and we have to be careful and keep our distance and wear mittens when we are outside so we don’t spread germs. This doesn’t stop her from pleading with me to play on the playground draped in caution tape.

In the evening Kate and Alex finish work and come outside to hang with Hazel in the backyard. Mom is planting seeds in the vegetable garden and dad is presumably somewhere watching the news. I am face timing my girlfriend T. My conversation is interrupted by an excited toddler laughing at Murphy (this god damn dog) who is chasing her own shadow back and forth across the patio and barking. Mom yells “No!”. I explain to T that this is my life right now. With the entire family under one roof for the first time since I was 13 (plus some new additions), it is a constant calamity. There is so much space here and yet we are on top of each other. “Less work” yet no time. More hands on deck yet everything seems harder. And with no timeline in place, all I can do is nervously laugh at this extended family vacation that is now morphing into everyday reality, and be grateful for this messy new normal.