My toddler-child announces that a virus has closed everything with the same volume and voice inflection you’d hear when party-goers yell “Surprise” as the honorary finally person walks in.
“School’s closed: A VIRUS! Starby’s closed: A VIRUS! Pool is closed: A VIRUS!” he joyfully announces.
I promise, I’ve tried to explain this virus pandemic to him.
Our first conversation was 3 weeks ago. I was meandering behind him as he rode his tricycle down the street.
“Wanna go neighbor’s house,” he requested.
And on any normal day, we would’ve gone to our neighbors house. We’re lucky to have neighbors that aren’t offended at our unannounced drop ins. (That we know of.) They don’t mind that my child helps himself to granola bars directly from their pantry or plays in their kid’s rooms as if it were his. (That we know of.)
But today we couldn’t visit.
“Baby, the neighbors are still sleeping,” I replied, hoping this would suffice.
But a few seconds later, guilt caught up with me.
“Baby there’s a big virus going around and we can’t visit the neighbors because we don’t want to get it.”
He paused for a second, then continued pedaling his tricycle.
“They’re still sleepin’!” he confirmed.
It’s hard to explain a virus to a young child, especially when they can’t see it.
How are little minds supposed to understand an “enveloped, non-segmented positive-sense RNA virus?” With identifiers like, “the largest identified RNA genomes, containing approximately 30 kilobase (kb) genomes.” How do I even start to explain this? (Source is THIS article written by people much smarter than myself.)
Then again, this past weekend, he stopped right in the middle of our walk, pointed to what I thought was woods, and exclaimed, “Oh no! Virus right there!”
I looked to see if I could make any sense of his claim, but he just kept insisting, “It’s right there! Right there!”
Maybe the joke’s on me and he can see it?
Other times he’ll randomly shout, “Come on virus! Come on!” Just like guys at a superbowl watch party, in between beer swigs, as they chastise their football team for missing a field goal.
“Come on!” he’ll declare one final time. And then he’ll get right back to his bike ride.
As time goes on and numbers of those who are unemployed, sick, and dying climb, I’m tempted to try to correct his pandemic outlook (or lack thereof).
This is not a happy scenario. In fact, I wrote about my own pandemic-anxiety in THIS post. Maybe I should take a moment to explain to him how tragic this is, far from the joy of a party or football game.
But, there’s something wonderful about his unenlightened interpretation. I wish, even for a moment or two, I could look through his lens, rather than the lens of news cameras and headlines.
Toddlers and young kids innately know something we adults often miss:
how to dwell in the present, without the weight of society, culture or even current events. Maybe I shouldn’t rush that gift away.
As Shel Silverstien puts it:
“There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends
Past the pit where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes, we’ll walk with walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.”
Shel Silverstien, Where the Sidewalk Ends
Until next time, Cheers!