Day 8: Quarantine Catastrophe

Even though Israel quarantine is like Wuhan quarantine (house arrest), our groceries are delivered to us, the air conditioning is excellent, and we can eat three meals a day on the patio in the yard. Life's really not that bad. And yet, after eight days of quarantine at the Boss' aunt and uncle's apartment outside of Tel Aviv, I've realized it was a mistake to allow the Boss to raise my children, as they clearly have no idea how to function in these “harsh” conditions. 

The Boss thinks she's way more important than she is. She's working remotely two evenings a week, but it was obviously just a coincidence that none of the kids could fall asleep last night and that two of them were crying. They didn't miss Mommy; they were just psyched to spend eight hours straight with Daddy. The tears were tears of joy. 

This morning, she tried to make the kids feel better about the situation by explaining that she's only working 20 hours a week in Israel, whereas she worked 40 in Chicago: "It's just that those hours are in the evening when you're home instead of during the day when you're at school." Broosevelt couldn't articulate it, but his eyes said, "So even though you'll be working less, it'll feel like you're working more. I love Daddy so much."

(See below for Broosevelt's note confirming everything written above.)

The Boss does three hours of Zoom calls with her colleagues in Chicago and then, to make herself feel better about abandoning her children, scrubs the shower during a 15-minute break. She then scarfs down the delicious and healthy dinner I've microwaved, and goes right back to work. When she's finished for the evening, she folds the laundry, cleans up the toys on the floor, and sets up appointments for once we get out of quarantine. She's under the mistaken impression that she needs to do everything in this house when, in fact, I am the one who taught Broosevelt how to swing a bat, who makes sure the kids set the table for dinner, and who fills up the kids' water guns before they even ask.

The Boss is frazzled. She can't even follow the one rule our family holds dearly: No Phones at the Table. On three separate occasions in the last few days, all four of my children rightly and simultaneously condemned her for using her phone during the only sacred time we share. The only thing keeping her afloat is, of course, me, the one person who thoughtfully listens to all her feelings of guilt and anxiety during our nightly Pillow Talk of Validation.

Panini's definitely not her best self in this grim quarantine of gentle Mediterranean breeze, yoga in the yard, and nearly unlimited screen time. Three days ago, she baked Oreo cheesecake cookies but was so confused by the metric system that she threw away the first batch and started adding flour by hand. The nine "edible" cookies tasted like Oreos and sponge.* Two days ago, she got a migraine due to exhaustion, dehydration, and an extraordinarily weak constitution. Yesterday, she broke a glass into 20 pieces. She spends most of her time on the (used) iPhone she got for her 12th birthday. Sadly, she doesn't know that her friends in Chicago will soon stop pity-texting her and move on with their lives. The Line of the Week came from Boni when we were all looking over Panini's shoulder while she was on TikTok, and Boni said, "Is this seriously what she does all day?"

I have no idea what to make of OG right now. When we're all eating breakfast, she's brushing her teeth. When we're all exercising, she sits in the corner and does puzzles. When we're all going to sleep, she does handstands. Today we forgot to feed her and she forgot to ask to be fed. She ate breakfast at noon. OG is, admittedly, a sweet, squeezable, little angel. But when all you do all day is read, draw, and avoid getting squirted by the hose, your time on earth is limited.

Broosevelt the Quarantine Mistake Maker has a new favorite word: Sorry. Sorry for standing on the couch; sorry for spilling the water; sorry, father, for disappointing you in general. He likes to play soccer, but he refuses to take the damn ball outside. He's good at piano, but he needs to stop singing. He knows all the rules in chess, but he cries when I crush him. I've realized that he keeps asking about other planets because he might actually be living on one: At breakfast the other day, he said the Oatmeal Square sticking out of Boni's underwear smelled like the Huns in Mulan. 

Boni has moved up the Power Rankings this week, embracing the opportunities this rigid quarantine provides to do yoga, eat every 90 minutes, and never get dressed. She is, however, full of mosquito bites, excuses, and Privilege. Yesterday at breakfast, she demanded creamy peanut butter rather than chunky, honey on top of her peanut butter, and two slices of bread to make a sandwich cuz god forbid she get her tender little Privileged hands sticky. Despite having the Line of the Week, she also experienced the Nadir: After her bath, she was swinging her towel around while drying off and she demolished a fancy ceramic soap holder. It took me half an hour to clean up the soapy shards. 

I'm the only one who's figuring things out during these trying times. Work starts in a few days, and I've nearly finished reading the first book I'll be teaching. I've mastered the spatial dynamics of the dishwasher, I've showered nearly every day, and any/all claims that I broke Panini's phone while replacing the battery are completely false. I'm also getting into incredible shape: The other day, I walked up and down the 30-yard parking lot behind our apartment for, like, a really long time.

The pita and hummus are excellent, the grapefruit trees in the yard are awesome, it's 85 degrees every day, and we have a kiddie pool to cool down in. Alas, we spend most of the day inside, accusing one another of cheating in UNO, leaving Sand Art glitter everywhere, and breaking shit that's not ours.

The dishwasher is currently leaking.

We need to get out of quarantine yesterday.

*Panini tried to veto me including information about her ratchet cookies because she doesn't want you to think she's a bad baker. Let the record reflect that she is an excellent baker but that she cares about what other people think, which is wack.