Marbles & Other Normal Things

Despite a looming global pandemic, I was on the lookout for marbles for a homeschool co-op history lesson (that I never got to teach). So, I did something painfully normal: I wrestled three kids into car seats and headed to Dollarama.

It was a Monday afternoon in early March. The math worksheets were done, I wiped the last of the chicken soup off the table and there were probably toys all over the floor. (There are always toys all over the floor.) We had a few hours before quiet time and skating lessons. Lots of time for an errand.

After a parking lot physics lesson about why cars can’t see you when you’re three feet tall, we opened the door to the last family shopping trip of 2020.

I cleared out the bin of marbles and grabbed some random Easter things. I talked the girls out of fluttering garden bird decorations with a (surprisingly successful) “we’ll get them next time we’re here.” I tried to find the last few things on my list before anyone broke anything or I had to take a picture of something random “to add to your Christmas list,” all the while subtly (and unsuccessfully) attempting to bypass the cheap toy aisle.

I probably sighed in annoyance as I stopped someone from running their fingers along the shelves, touching everything breakable, threatening a domino effect. The girls probably fought about who would hand which item to the cashier. We probably stood in line much less than two metres behind someone and there was definitely not a mask in sight.

We headed to the parking lot, weighed down with more marbles than I’ve ever purchased and the blissful ignorance of how we would be spending the next few months.

Now home, just minutes later, the three year old probably tried to make a run for it so she could jump on my bed in her shoes. I threw together a snack and collected the skating gear from the basement while Wild Kratts played in the background.

At the time, it was all strangely normal. Looking back, it seems like another world.

Fast forward just a few days.

Toilet paper hoarding had begun. Youtube was teaching me how to make masks out of old t-shirts. I was glad I’d decided to buy the Easter things because, according to my inbox, every store I’d ever bought something from was closing.

The marbles sat untouched in the reusable shopping bag in the mud room.

At first it was almost a relief. Running errands with three kids is no joke in the best of times.

But the other day, eight months into a global pandemic, I had the bizarre desire to wrestle three kids into car seats and run some errands.

Although it’s been a while since the last time one of my kids licked something in public and although I’ve taken everyone to stores individually since March, I surprised even myself. The thought of wrangling three mask clad little people up and down one way only aisles sounds both very exhausting and very not normal.

No matter how hard I try, finding normal isn’t easy these days.

And shopping is not the only thing that has changed.

My dressy jeans, the ones without worn knees from hours of crawling after babies, have sat untouched since March, but they look a little lonely now. Although I used to wear them somewhat reluctantly and exchange them for a pair of yoga pants just about as soon as I got in the door, I can’t help but wonder when I might wear them again.

Large gatherings are rarely ever my first choice when I’m trying to come up with something to do but there’s a nagging feeling of wistfulness when I consider it will likely be a while before I’ll be able to see faces while walking down a packed downtown street or attend a large wedding.

The thought of taking my kids on a plane usually seems overwhelming and not worth the effort or cost, but what if it’s years before we can easily leave our province?

I don’t expect to ever particularly like the hassle of shopping or dressing up or crowds or travelling with kids. And I don’t think I need to like them either.

Still, I'm left with this question: is it possible to miss the things I thought I hated?

Looking at something as if I may not be able to do it again for the foreseeable future certainly has the potential to rattle my perspective.

Did I savour enough of the normal things?

Should I have savoured uncomfortable pants and small talk? Is it really possible to savour toys on the floor and endless laundry and kids who won’t sleep and all the million other normal little things of motherhood, of this season? Can I learn to delight in COVID restrictions and masks and missing friends?

Truthfully, all these things, regardless of the realm of normal to which they belong, will be ancient history someday.

Cue the (unwelcome) pressure to enjoy every moment.

Cue the mixed emotions.

But if there really is a season for everything, if I can navigate the tension of mixed emotions, I suspect there’s something to savour even in this season.

Perhaps I’ll even find another use for all the marbles.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Savor."