It's been ten days since Spain's children were first allowed out
of their homes.
"Do
you want to go outside?" We ask our toddler every afternoon.
"No,"
she says.
"We
could go to the beach! Don't you want to go to the
beach?"
"No."
"We
could go to the grassy bit and say hello to the Guau-guaus!"
Say
hello as they poop all over the grassy bit, I think.
"No,"
she says, focused on her building blocks.
Once
we get outside though, she is happy. She points out the colours of the
cars. Blue! Blanco! Blue! If the stray cats aren't around
she miaows at a tree for a while. She loves the sea
and doesn't seem to feel the cold.
But
before she steps outside the door, there is a hesitation. I'm not sure if it was
there before lockdown.
A
few other Mum's in my whatsapp group have observed a fearfulness in their
children about leaving the house too. Some have become clingy and want to stay
in their parents' arms. I came across a piece about this side effect in the local newspaper. About how adults and children can become anxious about leaving an environment
in which they've been confined in for a long time, even when it's
imperfect.
The truth is, even I have felt apprehensive about going outside. Although I
expressed relief in my Liberation Day post, I wrote it before I went out that
evening.
After I published it, my husband and I crept out while Sol slept, taking the monitor with
us, and leaving a neighbour in charge, just so we could walk around the block together. There
was so many people along the main promenade. I felt quite overwhelmed. 49 days in
lockdown and I wanted to go back home.
The
next day, when the allocated exercise time arrived, I went outside by
myself.
I
walked away from the main streets, choosing the quiet roads behind my house.
The first thing I noticed was a wonderful smell of
jasmine. As I walked, a lump grew in my throat.
There
were individual and couples out and about too. As people approached each other
on the same pavement, they would step onto the road or cross to the other side to observe the recommended social distancing space. I wanted to cry so much, but the tears wouldn't come.
I
told myself to slow down. After so long closely investigating every detail in
our apartment block - dried up woodlice, decapitated millipedes, petals,
leaves, sticks - I didn't want to suddenly return to old ways and rush past all
these things.
I
stopped. I looked at the moon. I said hello to a stray cat. I observed a fleshy
cactus. I wanted to cry, but I didn't know how.
Today
was a special day. Today my friend and I agreed to meet on the beach below the
house. Her son is Sol's best friend, who she has asked after nearly every one
of these lockdown days. Worried the mum would expect Sol to wear a mask, I told
her that I would be happy if they played as normal, because if they couldn't
touch each other it was more stress than it was worth. She agreed.
My
stomach ached with anticipation that morning. I didn't tell Sol who we were
going to see until we were preparing to leave. She became so excited.
There was no hugs or kisses, only big smiles. The smiles were mainly between us adults! After pining for her little
boyfriend all through lockdown, in the end Sol was so totally absorbed building a "grande grande" sandcastle that she barely acknowledged him. Meanwhile her enthusiastic little friend went to
a lot of trouble trying to find her the very best shell on the beach.
It
was a really wonderful encounter. It wasn't just any old day at the
beach.
In fact. It was. And that
was why it was perfect.
For
the first time in a long time, life felt normal. I realised I
wasn't holding my breath and I didn't feel like crying. Instead, I
felt full of hope.
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