When I go back and read some of those articles about Chinese divorces, I notice that the wives who are quoted have a recurring complaint: during quarantine, they labored while their husbands watched TV. One woman was trapped in Wuhan caring for her children and in-laws alone, because her husband was working in another city when the quarantine was imposed.
In our circles, problems seem to intensify the younger your children are. Our combined level of patience and taste in movies suddenly represents the limits of our experience. But I can see that my spouse has tired of my limits, too. He now has just two emotional settings with me: irritation and, occasionally, lust. Our recurring family meals are pleasant, but too much of a good thing.
What is the added value? Never mind my hopes for renewed emotional intimacy in our marriage. Because how does it end? Either people get divorced, or somebody is carried out. About five weeks into quarantine, something shifts. Somehow, mid-lockdown, we cease thinking about our absent housecleaner and cancelled vacations, and the fact that our neighborhood park is padlocked. Our kids start waking up and doing their schoolwork, unbidden. And the mental proportions of our lives have shrunk to fit the circumstances.
My pre-lockdown life was privileged, of course. But I see now that my ceaseless work deadlines were their own kind of quarantine, forcing me to spend weeks, sometimes months, unhappily sedentary at my desk. And my growing list of new skills is energizing. Where I used to shop for clothes, now I thrill over copper pot-scrubbers and the satisfaction of cleaning underneath my bed.
And somehow, without ever discussing it, my husband and I have actually learned and grown. Some evenings now, he even initiates conversations. With the weather warming, our whole neighborhood seems to have relaxed into lockdown. Their lunch plates all clang like clockwork at 1 PM. My husband is now busy thinking about what post-pandemic life will be like. When France began easing its quarantine rules this week, I just took my kids to the orthodontist.
Best of The New York Review, plus books, events, and other items of interest. May Read Next. The barrage of newsletters cracked open my claustrophobic anxieties. When I wake with my heart pounding in the middle of the night, my sheets are soaked with sweat that must be full of virus. The virus is my new partner, our third companion in the apartment, wetly draped across my body in the night. I rushed to the supermarkets and pharmacies buying dozens of the last hand-sanitizers, disinfectant sprays and wipes, even a dozen boxes of matzos—if it helped the Jewish people survive three thousand years ago, it will surely help a Palestinian family in St.
Louis, Missouri. Even for those with college education, the graduating class of from universities is going to have a tough time. But minority youngsters with less education are going to be especially hard-hit. Oh Crap! Potty Training Jamie Glowacki. From Defiance to Cooperation John F. Taylor, Ph. Mother and Son Dr. Emerson Eggerichs. Fear No Evil James Patterson. The Becoming Nora Roberts. Mercy David Baldacci. The Judge's List John Grisham.
The Dark Hours Michael Connelly. Envious Lisa Jackson. The Widow K. Flying Angels Danielle Steel. A Little Life Hanya Yanagihara. Montana Christmas Magic Kaylie Newell. Third Girl Agatha Christie.
The Awakening Nora Roberts. The Love Hypothesis Ali Hazelwood.
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