Fifteen months in, this lockdown just might be the hardest part of the pandemic so far.

We’re exhausted, we’re tired of following the rules, and it feels like life will never go back to normal — even though we know we’re so close to the finish line.

And while this is a rough time for everyone, it’s a special kind of gut-punch for those of us with children.

They need more love, more kindness, more patience than ever before, and sometimes scrounging up what they need every day is bleeding us dry.

Because the kids? They are OK mostly, but also not OK at all — it depends on the week, the hour, the second.

They’re “so adaptable,” but they’re only human. They grudgingly attend their online learning meets because they’re better than no school at all, but they’re lonely for their classmates and teachers. 

Will online learning end abruptly at the beginning of June again, keeping kids out of the classroom from April through September? Almost definitely. The “me” of last spring was desperately optimistic, but the “me” of this spring is weary, jaded. 

I have learned, over the last 15 months, not to get my hopes up. My “first dose summer” is probably going to be identical to my unvaccinated last summer — a frustrating fight to work full-time from home while also caring for two children who don’t have anywhere else to be. Give me day camp, or give me … day camp. Please! I beg you!

Their moods are all over the place. A video call with a friend might make them feel better, or it could leave them crying because they miss them so much. I cringe when one of them remembers they’ve had two cancelled birthdays in a row because there’s nothing I can do about it.

Just when I think they’re adjusting pretty well, an epic meltdown — or, worse, quiet heartbrokenness — slams us out of nowhere.

Sometimes I cry, too, thinking about how this pandemic is scarring their childhoods. They can’t play tag (no touching!) or run a lemonade stand (germs!) or crowd together in a tree fort (social distancing!). 

When our kids go on walks with the neighbours, they automatically form a single-file line, six feet apart. It’s more of a march than a pleasant stroll, and the saddest part is that no one told them to walk that way — they just know, 15 months in, that this is how it has to be.

In a desperate attempt to make the kids feel better during this second lockdown, we bought a huge backyard trampoline. The “me” of last spring claimed trampolines were dangerous and I’d never own one (I take the same stance on swimming pools), but the “me” of this spring practically pushed my husband into Canadian Tire to buy it. Anything to get the kids outside for fresh air and exercise. Anything to make them smile, while they’re stuck here at home. Again.

I knew they’d love the trampoline, but I didn’t realize how hopeful I’d feel watching them use it. When they’re jumping and twirling and trying to do tricks, they’re enjoying it for what it is. They’re happy, laughing, bouncing children who aren’t worrying about face masks or social distancing or the fact that most “fun” is cancelled. Sure, they can’t bounce on it with the neighbours — sibling bubbles only — but they can still enjoy it in a way that the pandemic can’t touch.

As hard as it is, slogging through this final stretch, I’m trying to focus on the signs that we’re getting close to getting through it. 

My aviation husband, who has gone through two layoffs over the last 15 months, is about to return to work. We’re both booked for our first COVID vaccines, and we’re counting the hours until those sweet, sweet jabs. All around the world, people are hugging and eating in restaurants and going to concerts and returning to what real life used to be — and we can almost taste the simple freedoms we hardly remember. 

It’s always darkest before dawn, so we have to keep trudging ahead until we can see the light again. We’re so close. We just have to hang on a little longer.