There was a meeting to strategize about ways to support young mothers this winter. Parenting a passel of little kids is taxing in warm weather with no global emergency. Pile on the circumstances we find ourselves in and there is material for depression. 

 

For a string of years the pastoral staff offered Moms Morning Out, and Parents Night out. A crew of volunteers offered basketballs and spaghetti to a gymnasium full of children, so that their overworked mothers could enjoy three hours without interruptions. To tell the truth some admitted to going home to tackle laundry. Mostly they indulged in a dinner out with another couple. 

 

But such escapades have drifted out of reach, given the restrictions on gathering in groups. During the meeting I kept concocting scenarios where we made the playground available to rotating pods of children, or offered storytelling outside to a flock of kids spread out like migrating geese. Still, weather has the last word, and toddlers have an innate tendency to huddle. 

 

I have often dreamed of a symbiotic system where older women appear a few times after a baby is born, and tackle the dishes. Those of us with empty arms could find satisfaction in unearthing the buried counter for a tired new mother. There are already meal trains that bring warm food for a week or two, though the reward of holding a newborn no longer applies. 

 

It is a conundrum. Most of us are lonely, though the cure eludes us. I have heard of grandmas who read to their grandchildren on Facetime. I have sung to my own when she is finishing supper. We even text, with a parade of emojis and letters.

 

But how can a generation of bone weary women hold it together? 

 

One idea we will implement is to put luminaria along our sidewalks, and invite neighbors to stroll or drive the streets on Christmas Eve. Even if we are too far away to hug, hearing voices and seeing shadowy faces will be precious proof that we are not actually alone.