Parenting in regular times is challenging. Parenting during a pandemic when we’re all isolated and chronically stressed often feels like a never-ending nightmare.

Sometimes, naming the good and bad things in life helps us remember the good, and make the bad seem less threatening.

After a difficult week, Friday rolled around. I was pretty close to nonfunctional, but God kept sending up flares to let me know it was going to be OK.

I was able to gather a few kids together from time to time and read to them, books by authors I remembered from childhood, like William Steig and Bill Pete, and books with art by my favorite illustrators, like Kadir Nelson.

I walked every day, sometimes more than once. (My record was three walks in one day. The combined total was around 5 miles, maybe six. I have a shorts tan AND a sock tan.)

I read my own books as well, and in a rare winning streak, got three really good books in a row, which kept me off my screens and away from the news.

I went into to work on Friday night, feeling raw and vulnerable after hopping between those sunbeams for days on end when the rest of my life felt like Mirkwood Forest.

The Chaplain knew I was struggling, and he prayed over me before I went in to work.

I had a good night with a challenging but doable assignment that kept me busy but provided opportunities for meaningful interactions – both with my patients, a fascinating crew full of personality, and with my coworkers.

I was so tired in the morning after giving report that I hopped into a deep window recess in a hallway after my shift to sit in the morning sunlight and tool around on my phone for long enough to feel a little more alert for the five-minute drive home.

It seems silly to delay such a short commute, but when you are exhausted, sometimes a small thing like sitting in a sunlit window well seems like it might produce another burst of energy before you fall unconscious.

That burst of energy didn’t come, but a couple of coworkers who had stayed a little later than I had walked past and picked me up on their way to their cars. They suggested we take the stairs to help me wake up. We went down the stairs to get out of the hospital, and back up the stairs in the parking garage to get to our cars.

We talked about the insults to daytime sleeping as only night nurses can, and planned to bring in baked goods the next time we work together. It was such a simple thing – the stairs instead of the elevator for a friend, the quiet, post-work conversation, but it gave me the push I needed to get to my car.

Just before I turned onto my street on my drive home, I saw a friend I haven’t seen since before lockdown. We were able to talk for a few minutes and update each other on our lives. While I’m not a hugger, getting a hug from a friend when we’re technically not allowed to touch anyone anymore was very meaningful.

When I got home, I was flying pretty high from a good shift and time spent with friends. I was also overstimulated and exhausted.

The Chaplain often takes the kids out Saturdays when I work so I can sleep. This morning they took forever to leave, and it was never quiet enough and I wasn’t alone enough to wind down. With all the  traffic in the house, my bedroom door kept getting opened and allowing the morning sunlight to stream in.

Whatever my excuse was, instead of reading my book and going to sleep, I took to my phone instead, which rarely helps me to wind down.

It was after 11 a.m., with the house long quiet, before my brain turned to sand and forced me off the phone and to sleep.

When I woke up seven hours later, it was there in full force: Post Work Paranoia.

As far as I can tell it’s not connected to a certain time of the month or a certain type of night shift, but after I sleep off the shift, I often wake up freaking out about something I said or did in the past 24 hours.

This has been happening for a long time. Work isn’t the only trigger, but it’s one of the most reliable ones. While I can’t make it stop, I can identify the malady pretty quickly. Turning a vague sense of doom about all recent social interactions into a diagnosis, Post Work Paranoia, helps me recognize that the skin tightening hyperfixation won’t last.

I’m not the only one in my house who is suffering. I noticed particularly that one of my kids was full of rage this evening. At bedtime, I came into the room to say goodnight and lay down for a conversation in the dark.

I listened to the litany of terrible things that had made the past few days so bad for my kid.

I acknowledged what was said.

Then I talked about that morning. When I’d gotten home from work, after a decontamination shower, I invited two of my kids to come with me and read a couple of books before I went to sleep.

I did that because I know I like reading with you, I said, and I wanted to make sure that I did one thing today that I really enjoyed, because I knew I would be sleeping all day and I wanted it to be A Good Day.

I asked of all the bad things that had happened to my aggrieved kid in the past few days, if anything good had come to pass.

A quiet voice: “Well, we did get ice cream today.” There was a pause. “I got a really big scoop.”

Could that be the thing that made today ok, if when you were feeling bad, you remembered the ice cream? I asked.

Many days it feels like I don’t have the tools to cope with everything that’s going on, let alone help my kids cope. But our little gratitude moment tonight gave me hope that I found a thing that might work again, something that isn’t complicated or labor intensive.

When I was in that dark room, listening, I wasn’t experiencing Post Work Paranoia, but Gratitude.

I left the room after a final goodnight, and the paranoia came creeping back.

But I still feel hopeful. The flares will keep going up, a red streak in the sky with the message, “Girl, it’s going to be OK.” and by teaching my kid how to feel thankful for those good moments each day, I can help both of us find an anchor.