A Case of Pandemic Brain
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A whopping total of five emails were sent today without the promised attachment. The response to such an event is a good measure of the recipient’s personality, particularly during this time when we interact mostly in the digital world, all of us from our remote pods. Some of us are running around like headless chickens while others wear crisply ironed button-downs to every Zoom meeting. Bless their hearts and those of their dry cleaners.
The client who sent a curt two-word response (“No attachment.”) prompted a conversation with my mom about which saint is in charge of procuring diarrhea for strangers. The editor who responded to a three-paragraph tale about the photo enclosed with a kind “no photo?” is a good man. Punctuation matters, y’all. The client who quickly replied asking if I’d had my coffee yet, even though it was noon and we both knew that was no longer a valid excuse — that client is a keeper and she earned my everlasting devotion.
I have been more of a scattered scramble than usual lately. I’m not sure if it’s the pandemic or whether the child’s ADHD is contagious or my grandmother is sharing an early peek of dementia from across the pond. Maybe I’m spent from a weeklong break which wasn’t a real break, mind you, it was working while being with the kids 24/7 and making sure some fun is had because otherwise the catholic guilt kicks in and we sure don’t need more of that right now. What was I saying? I’m sorry, I forgot what I was doing.
It stays light out for so long now and I feel like my internal clock stopped in March 2020, pre-daylight savings, so 5 pm not so much creeped on me today but slapped me silly across the face and asked where the heck was dinner. After a lot of shifting my weight while staring at the contents of the fridge, an assortment of ingredients was assembled into a meal and I sat down with a proud oomph. Attachments and calls and lunchboxes out of the window. I looked around at the faces sitting at the table and willed my brain to listen, to pay attention, to be here. Band practice was discussed. The merits of a new comic book release were laid bare. I gave just one reminder that all veggies must be eaten in order for dessert to happen.
And then the younger one, the one whose ADHD I suspect may be rubbing on me but who pays more attention to the little things than all of us combined, he pointed at the red clock in the kitchen and announced: “Mom, it’s 6:30, you’re going to be late for your class.” And up the stairs I went, an unfinished meal on the table, a happy headless chicken off to get dessert even though she skipped the veggies.
