![]() ![]() My wife has become accustomed to this behavior. Around the holidays, I become annoyingly smug and reluctant to give clues. Each couple has their own tactics, and in mine, I am the self-proclaimed king of surprises. In each relationship, the game of gift-giving is a personal and delicate balance. Groceries in the truck and a child stirring, I headed home. Jenny Street employees came out of the store wearing gloves and masks, one of the few times I’ve seen a greatly coordinated effort to protect customers and employees alike. For those who stepped inside, they filled in an orderly line, six feet apart, masks on. ![]() Waiting for the groceries in the parking lot with my trunk open, I noticed so many others pulling into the lot and doing the same. Driving down East Wash on the way to Jenifer Street Market, I trusted an awesomely helpful clerk named Lilly with the ingredients for the next morning’s surprise, and debated the correct variety of goat cheese. Like our grandparents before us, I called in an order of groceries. ![]() On this drive, I did something that I had never done before. In the age of social distancing, even a quick jaunt around the neighborhood can make the heart grow fonder. We are learning to ask for what we need and Saturday, my wife needed to be by herself for a bit. Saturday was particularly difficult as the little guy didn’t sleep well the night before. In these hour-long stretches of time, I find myself listening to new music, catching up on podcasts, or just finding a nice park to stop at. Is he wearing socks? Come on, little guy, put your socks on, just once, please. Is it cold outside? Whoops, need a blanket. Saturday I found myself going through the difficult song and dance of taking a step outside of our house. Starting the gift-giving early, I continued another newfound tradition of driving around Madison aimlessly with my son in the backseat. I would surprise my wife by making delicate, fruit-topped Swedish pancakes at home. When I realized that we’d have to postpone our summer plans of ingesting massive amounts of breakfast foods and staring at goats at the famed Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Door County, my stay-at-home Mother’s Day plan began to take shape. How do you show proper appreciation to the person you love the most, on such a new and important holiday, when you are stuck at home? I wanted to honor our mutual love of Wisconsin sight-seeing, but a prolonged trip to another part of the state is not worth putting ourselves and those in our community at risk. I wanted to drive to Target to pick out a card, but have not physically been inside a store in weeks, electing to focus on delivery or curbside pickup. Trying to navigate a holiday while the world faces a terrible health crisis is cumbersome. The one-on-one time spent with our son is not too shabby either. It’s an exercise in trust and a mental reset for the night’s chef. Come dinner, we have started a new strategy of alternating who is in charge of the night’s meal. We struggle to get through the day, but we find solace in the kitchen. The cabin fever has set in and our eight-month-old has grown exponentially. In the last two months, like most parents, we have often found ourselves needing a break. Before we needed to shelter at home, our joys in life came traveling around Wisconsin to explore state parks and other sights, and seeking out perfectly decadent breakfast food. My wife and I both deal with bouts of depression and anxiety, and welcoming our first child has only amplified their frequency. Trying to navigate the waters of raising our first child has been complex enough, now we’re figuring out the same worries while coping with the blanket of fear that has descended upon everyone during the pandemic. We are new parents to a funny, active, and loving son. The love language of food perseveres in a crisis.įor the past eight months, my wife and I have had our lives turned upside down. ![]()
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