No one told me I’d be raising my kids in a zombie apocalypse. I mean, I planned for a lot of things, but not for this.
I was ready to be a mom. I had the diapers and the car seat and the stroller. I was ready with boogie wipes and butt cream. We discussed discipline and family goals and parenting values. I was even pretty well-prepared with craft supplies and teachable moments. I just didn’t know it would involve doomsday prepping.
Y’all, I make a killer peanut butter and jelly. But I didn’t know I might need to kill my own dinner…and potential intruders.
I didn’t know that common dinner table conversation would include world history, basic survival skills, and how deadly viruses spread.
I had hats and scarves at the ready, sunscreen and rash guards. Rain boots. Extra clothes. Backup binkie. But now I’ve added N95s, extra strength hand sanitizer, and I’ve ordered some hazmat suits with my Amazon Prime.
When my babies were born it was like WWE getting them to take their vitamin drops. Now we throw back elderberry, cod liver oil, desiccated liver capsules, apple cider vinegar, and raw kefir all before breakfast.
I googled a lot of mommy advice earlier on in this parenting gig. Now my Facebook ads are looking like Little House on the Prairie as I search wild herb propagating, organic sourdough starters, and the best natural remedies for radiation poisoning.
As a Kansas girl I was well-prepared in case of fire or a tornado. But no one told me we would also need earthquake safety training, a survival checklist, a stocked root cellar, and a bomb shelter. (Western Kansas is beginning to sound pretty nice right now.)
And that’s just at home! What about when I’m out and about?
We’ve all experienced empty shelves, understaffed businesses, and supply-chain problems. Now there’s crowded gas stations and inflated grocery prices. Not to mention err’ybody in the garden section!
When I’m at the store I keep an eye out for sales and stranger danger and the like. But now I also find myself considering alternative routes home or family emergency meeting points in case of an EMP (electro magnetic pulse) attack.
In fact, today my kid wanted to go to the park. I added up the gas prices and the cov*d exposure risk and the nuclear threat. Eventually I just walked him down the driveway. When we got back up to the swing set I threw my hands in the air and cried out, “Here we are!”
Call me crazy, but I just want to raise my kids in peace.
I thought my eighty years (God willing) would be relatively uneventful. And I always figured that raising kids in “a world like this” just meant limiting screen time. I never dreamed I would have to consider the things I have considered in the past three years.
But here’s the good thing about raising children in a zombie apocalypse.
Every. Moment. Matters.
Babies don’t keep. And apparently neither do grown-ups. Or families. Or nations. So whether this life we know has five minutes left or five decades, the only thing we truly have is what is right in front of us. Right now. Today.
So stop reading. Look up. Look around. Smile at your spouse. Blow a kiss to your toddler. Squeeze the knee of your teen. Heck, earlier this week I found myself saying, “Thank you, God!” as I pushed the button on my dishwasher.
None of this is going to last. Our generation has never seen that more clearly.
