Two months ago, feeling somewhat scared, a bit “coronashamed” and a whole lot annoyed, I hunkered down, forced to accept that this virus could be a real thing and that #staythefuckhome, might have to win the day. Like an entitled two year old, I had mini tantrums over all the things that I would lose; a trip planned with my husband, my tennis season, shopping, lunch with friends, meals at restaurants, the joy of sipping a drink at a bar, and toilet paper. The big stuff; unemployment, no access to medical care, people dying by the tens of thousands had not made it into my consciousness yet.

As the stay at home concept became a reality, a plan began to form; one that would bring my adult kids back home to the otherwise long empty nest. Living on a 50 acre farm, it made perfect sense, at least to me, that this is where we should all gather as our own little community; safe, together and having some fun. The first grenade landed on my dream on about day three of the quarantine when I pitched this idea to my youngest, who was sharing his girlfriend’s apartment.

“Mom, why would I come home? We’re fine here. I brought all my stuff from Hoboken and we’re all set up. I’m working from here all day and there’s no real reason we would need to come to the farm. Plus, you and dad are the people we’re supposed to stay away from.” BOOM. The first shot had been fired over the bow and had landed with a shuddering crash. Devastated that he’s not even slightly onboard with my vision, he’s voiced aloud what I’ve never really owned. Damn, we are actually sort of old. How had this escaped me? Shocking.

The next day, never one to concede early, I decided I’d try my luck with my daughter, who lives with her boyfriend in Charlotte, NC. She said, much to my surprise, as she lives an incredibly independent life, “We were sort of thinking the same thing. Our apartment is small and in the city, so we don’t really have easy access to a place to be outside without a lot of people around. So, if it’s ok with you, we will drive up this weekend.” Gleeful, I told her that she could use the cottage on the property for more privacy if she wanted and then I excitedly started to paint a picture of all of the things we would do together. “Mom, she said, slow down. We are both working all day. Plus when we get there, because of the travel and because of your’s and dad’s ages, we will quarantine for two weeks.” BOOM, shot two exploded sending me to cower below deck. Clearly, my kids have old people for parents and, on top of that reality, the way she’s talking, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of time for the activities I was looking forward to. Opting to cut my losses, I decided that I’d get her here first, then, as my captive, I could roll out my plan in stages.

To be fair, the third call had a pretty solid chance of failing from the beginning. My oldest son, married with a two year old daughter was going to be a tough sell. They lived close already, had a great house in a fantastic neighborhood and plenty of safe, recreational areas to access. But, what kind of mom would I be if I didn’t try? After a few pleasantries, we got to the point of the call and he responded, “Mom, it’s much easier for us to stay home. To move all of our stuff, and for all of us to try to work in one house with a two year old would be crazy. We’re good at home. Plus, you and dad are the demographic we’re supposed to be protecting.” BOOM. Three’s the charm and I guess there’s no denying it. Evidently I’m old, but at least I’m one for three. Weak.

Having no idea what was going to happen with this virus, and thinking that, maybe, as weeks turned into months, my kids might rethink their original positions and all end up here, I began preparations anyway. I started with games, searching through all of the old boxes and cabinets. My efforts paid off when I scored Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, two decks of cards, an amazing poker chip collection, no doubt the youngest’s prize possession in college, Parcheesi, Monopoly, and Yahtzee, although it was missing several dice. I did find some jigsaw puzzles, and Catchphrase was buried in the far reaches of the last cabinet, dead batteries and all. It was a start.

I headed to the garage. Covered in spiderwebs and contained in old plastic garbage cans, I discovered a tangled badminton net, but no poles, several broken racquets, a few intact shuttlecocks, an ancient croquet set and a bunch of deflated volleyballs, soccer balls and basketballs. Every single bike in the garage had flat tires and, despite my best efforts, no pump was to be found for either the bikes or the balls. Instead I found what seemed like 50 pool noodles, 100 nerf guns, 10,000 nerf darts, 20 broken frisbees (how does one break a frisbee?) no less than 3 BB guns, 4 archery sets accompanied by 20 broken arrows, and, I kid you not, 9 inflatable rafts all no longer inflatable. Not to be deterred, I went inside, clicked on Amazon and got busy.

That foray into the garage was 8 weeks ago. Amazon has delivered badminton sets, tire pumps, new balls, racquets, and shuttlecocks. The unopened packages are stored in the very same garage. When the temperature finally made it past 45 degrees and the wind stopped after howling day after day so badly that it knocked all of my umbrellas on the patio over repeatedly, I insisted that my daughter, her boyfriend, and my husband come outside to enjoy some forced, family fun. Despite spending an hour measuring out the correct layout for croquet, I got no takers. Begrudgingly, they all agreed to a round of badminton. Beggars can’t be choosers. And then, Mother’s Day dawned warm and sunny, allowing me to apply some pressure by guilting them into another hour of forced, family fun. To date, we’ve played badminton a total of three times in 10 weeks, zero board games, and croquet has long since been loaded back into the garage. Unacceptable.

Meanwhile, families across the world have gathered around tables to play poker, bingo, dominoes and every board game ever created. Yet, here, on this farm, not one hand of gin, poker, or rummy, not one roll of Yahtzhee dice, or even one loop around the Monopoly board has taken place. Other families; those that are rocking Covid, have literally become the Partridge Family, are belting out “Le Miserables,” like Broadway stars, have danced their way into TikTok fame, or become “Top Chef” culinary wizards, baking six layer cakes, making #$&% bread rise, or growing scallions in glasses on their kitchen counters. I can’t manage to get the whole crew to agree to a weekly Zoom call. You won’t find us gluing and hanging the 10,000 piece puzzle we assembled as a reminder of our time spent together during the Covid-19 on our family room wall. We aren’t set up like a quilting bee at the dining room table sewing masks, we didn’t organize groups and make signs to parade our front line workers, or even ourselves on the various birthdays and holidays we’ve spent staying the *%#@ home! And unlike a family I know, we didn’t set up our own “Survivor” game inclusive of challenges and making fire from the flint we ordered online! Green with envy, I have to wonder how one is to compete with that? When I told my daughter about the “Survivor” family and asked, “Why couldn’t we do this?” She said, “Mom, that literally sounds like my nightmare and remember, it’s most likely these kids in these families you’re describing are all still living at home or haven’t graduated college yet. You think if they had a choice they’d be there?” I consider that this may be an excellent point.

I can definitively say, that as a group, and, although, from our individual homes, we are nailing Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu and Disney+. We order food out spectacularly well, and when I can force the Zoom call, we are all capable of getting our audio and video set up in under three minutes. Still, two months in, we have yet to all be together because, evidently, this virus is still around and, evidently, I haven’t gotten any younger. These kids of mine are all still avoiding me like the plague.

I’ve started to come to terms with the fact that we are epic covid fails; comparable to the fails once sees on social media when someone optimistically attempts to recreate Pinterest cakes. My dream of becoming our own little community on the farm; one that I imagined would be so perfectly “instagramable,” has turned out to be a colossal disappointment. No Von Trapp Family singers, no TikTok stardom, no homemade masks, or meals, no 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzles, no Instagram or Facebook likes. No domino trains, no pickle ball courts. Nada, nothing. And, certainly no “Survivor.” We are a failure of epic proportions.

Yet, I love this family of mine and, although, they did not all leap at the chance to give up their independent lives to come back to the nest as I so hoped they might, perhaps I should see it as a sign that we prepared them to be adults capable of handling all the crap life can throw at them including a pandemic. And, although, I may not love the reality of it, staying clear of us old folk could be an indication that they love us. Or, perhaps, it is just a handy excuse…

In the end, my solace is that we all could have become true epic covid failures by getting sick or infecting others. So, kids, for that, I thank you. You’re old mom and dad are here, safe on the farm. But, feel free to come on over and play anytime. We’ll wear our masks. Pretty please?