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I was speaking to some friends recently about post-Covid anxiety. How this return to “normal” life (which, apparently in America, includes a return to mass shootings; don’t even get me started) brings with it all the unprocessed baggage from lockdowns and quarantines and social distancing. I confessed my own hesitation to jump back into the busyness–and business–of regular life, of cluttered diaries (that’s “calendars” in Australian) and packed schedules.

One of my friends leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “I’m not trying to problem-solve here,” she said, “but trust that you are not alone.”

It helped, this acknowledgement, this recognition. And I’ve suspected as much is true, as I’ve commiserated with people over the fact that theatre tickets now require us to sit right next to strangers once again; that we’ve entered the phase of reentry wherein we feel a nostalgia for those quiet hours spent trapped inside our own homes (but not for homeschool. Never for homeschool).

True to the principles of reentry, birthday parties have once again joined the group chat, and last weekend was The Kid’s turn. The party had been rescheduled from the day before, meant as it had been to take place outside and there were torrential downpours, but the next day’s weather wasn’t much better so we headed inside his friend’s apartment for the festivities.

On the way up the stairs, TK came to a halt beside me. “No,” he said. “I’m not going. Let’s go home.” No stranger to picking battles or to having social anxiety, I explained to him that I knew it was hard but that we had said we would be there, so we were going. And that I would (sigh) stay the whole time.

We went. And I sat on the couch like a creeper while he navigated his way through games (to which he RSVPed no), dancing (same), and photos (he actually gave in for that). He asked the parents why they had such a small apartment and how much the rent cost, and I tried to steer us away from those topics which I had clearly said in the car on the way over were off-limits. I was at turns mortified, sad, and frustrated. But also? I was wonderfully overwhelmed.

He is only ever himself, and those who know him know that, and accept him as he is. When I texted the mom a thank you (for the party and letting me crash it), she texted back that her daughter loves James and couldn’t imagine having a party without him. (Did I mention he was the only boy there?) These moments, they bring the tears but they also bring so much beauty that never would have happened without them. So many people who turn out to be Our People, more deeply so than any typical birthday experience would have revealed.

We did a role-playing game later called “Things We Can Say and Things We Should Just Think, or Say Only at Home” and after giving examples like “your house is lovely” or “why does your house smell so bad?”, Little Brother wanted to provide his own: “Why is your house a fucking house?” And this is how stories are born.

This afternoon, TK will get the highest award his school offers, a banner, and he told me last night that he’s a bit nervous. Then he grabbed a toy plane and called it the Feelings Plane and talked about how it was flying into nervous territory and I rejoiced in a victory, in this articulation of feelings that I didn’t master until, like, last year but that he is all over at age nine.

The sun came out today for the first time in over a week, and while the rest of us marvel at our improved moods, there are those around the state who have lost homes and livestock and so much. There is rejoicing and grieving. There is loss and gain. There is mortification and beauty. And as we sit in the school hall this afternoon watching TK stand proudly and nervously in front of his peers, I will remember that it all counts.