By Anna Jordan
@annaleighjordan

In the light of the moon, three little children lay in their beds. 

The house is silent except for my husband’s intermittent snores that are, actually, not annoying me. Propped up on two pillows, I sit in bed struggling to focus on my book. It doesn’t matter what book it is because for weeks I’ve had to exert a lot of effort to focus on anything longer than a caption. I thought I’d be plowing through my reading list during this time; I’m not.

My mind wanders inexplicably from the page in front of me, and my thoughts turn to breakfast for the next day. I take a mental inventory of what is available: an awkward amount of nearly bad produce and a pantry that is dwindling to the food items that can only be described as why-did-I-buy-this-in-the-first-place.

I’m 13 days deep into a little quarantine game I’ve been playing called “how long can we go before I mask up and head to the store.” This is not my record, by the way. Last month I managed 15 days, but my children are leveling up in their food consumption. It seems the day—all the days—are simply an endless quest for snacks. Each of them a very hungry caterpillar munching their way til bedtime only to start up again with the same amount of voracious hunger as the day before. 

Two days ago I cheated my game by having my husband pick up a dozen eggs when he mentioned he was going to run out for beer (for the record, only the eggs were the cheat, not the beer. My husband isn’t playing and non-family purchases don’t count… also, I don’t know why I’ve enforced such a complex set of rules to a game that I made up and am playing with only myself. Further proof that I really don’t have a lot going on right now).

Before I know it a small, warm hand grazes my cheek.

“Mom, mom,” my youngest daughter whisper-yells into my face. I crack my eyes a sliver and realize my book is still resting on my chest. I fold down my page, slide the novel onto my bedside table, and glance at the clock: 12:37 a.m.

“I’m hungry. Also, I dribbled a little tiny pee in my pants. Can you get me apple slices and underwear? Please?” She pats my face forcefully as she makes her request.

Seriously? Still I usher her into her bedroom, slip her into new undies, and tuck her in. 

“Mom, the apple slices?” 

I roll my eyes, but in the darkness she can’t tell. 

“I don’t slice fruit past midnight,” I say and pat her on the head. 

We’ve been here before, so I know she won’t put up a fight. Honestly, I’m tired enough that if she had put up the fight, I would have given in except for the fact that we are totally out of apples.

Somehow the bodies of my children are sustained through the night without cut up fruit (a miracle!).

By 6:05 a.m., I can hear my son raking through his LEGO bin. The faint sound of my middle-daughter rummaging for a pair of slippers in her closet commingles with the dinging of my alarm clock, and as I stretch to hit snooze, I realize that my youngest has somehow made her way back into our bedroom and into our bed. This would explain why I can’t feel my left arm. 

Her blue eyes pop open in the early morning light, once again her hand is on my cheek. I know she’s thinking about breakfast. 

At 6:35 a.m., my children manage to slice open a grapefruit. They rip apart its pink juicy flesh like a pack of hyenas tearing into a gazelle. I pour coffee into the largest mug I can find and wonder how they could be so completely ravenous at such an early hour. 

Since no person has ever been satisfied by any amount of grapefruit, they are still hungry.

At 7:45 a.m., they eat eight waffles, and they are still hungry.

At 8:05 a.m., they demand more waffles, but since I am out of the necessary ingredients, and I have only just finished cleaning up, I attempt to dissuade them with a brief lecture about listening to our bodies and not eating because we’re bored. (This is ineffective).

At 8:40 a.m., they consume four pieces of peanut butter toast (and they are still hungry).

As the day progresses the children consume 25 baby carrots, 16 large handfuls of popcorn, seven rolls of turkey lunch meat, six stalks of celery, five slices of salami, four scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream, three Persian cucumbers, three peanut butter Lara bars,  two snack bags of whole wheat goldfish, one pint of blueberries (minus a few weird and moldy ones), and the remaining half of a leftover turkey burger.

They are still hungry.

In the evening, they plow through a family-sized platter of fajita fixings (thank goodness for take out), a bag of tortilla chips, a bowl of guacamole, the last of the sour cream, and three gummy vitamins.

For the time being, it seems they are full. 

I cocoon them into their comforters and stroke their heads. They smile sleepily, and my youngest sighs. 

“This was the best day ever,” she says. The other kids murmur in agreement. 

Together they recount how much fun they had playing with the hose in the backyard, and how great it was to make that popcorn and play with modeling clay at the kitchen table. My son says he wants to do a round of “highs and lows,” and my middle daughter declares that she only has highlights to share. I run my fingers through her beachy blonde hair as she talks, and it occurs to me that, in contrast, I could come up with quite a substantial list of lows. We hadn’t so much as left the driveway in over 48hours. I accomplished almost nothing on my to-do list. At one point, in the early afternoon, I had the passing thought that if I were to set up a time lapse video of “a day in the life” quarantine-edition it would really just be footage of me walking back and forth in the kitchen. 

As I lay in bed with my three temporarily satiated children, I wonder if perhaps I’m going about this all wrong. I’m fixated on the daily practice when I could be thinking about the overall process. I know the purpose of sheltering at home is not personal growth, but perhaps it could be. 

I keep comparing my children to the very hungry caterpillar because of all the food they’re eating, but I’m missing all the other ways they’re being filled up. The ways we are all filled up. Because in between my mental distraction, preoccupation with the news, need to squeeze work into the early morning and late night hours, and constant constant food prep, we’re making memories and finding connection in ways we never have before. My kids are right: there are so many highs.

Here we are, encamped in a domestic chrysalis, and maybe, after all these weeks of sustenance and solitude, we can emerge transformed.