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Jeff, Henry and I have been locked down on our boarding school campus since Monday, March 16. Today is the 20th day that I have not stepped out, ridden my motorbike down to the road, turned left through the village, right toward the city, stopped at our floating shack, Sharpey's, for an icy cold beer. It's a route I know in my mind's eye, a commute I have done five times a week for years.

"How are you?" our families ask. We are fine. We are hanging in. We're good. Physically, with the exception of a common cold and Henry constantly toppling over in his quest to walk on gravel, grass and mango-strewn pavement, we are good. Healthy. Strong. We know we are among the lucky ones.

Routine-wise, we are still working on developing a new normal. The first two weeks we were living here, nearly 95 students and several other staff members were all "locked in" for a 14-day self-imposed quarantine. The days flew by, but the weeks stretched. I was busy. Supporting staff and organizing remote learning for 50 graduating Seniors who are now at home across multiple provinces with limited wifi access. Last week was the first that we started kibbutz life, as we've come to call it, rather unironically. We have free reign of the expansive grounds, from the two empty teacher apartments in front, which have turned into our game room and our cinema, to the sports field for Cara + Janet's morning workouts. The pool is where we have dusted off our beer pong skills from college, where we listen to reggae and "Mood Booster" from 4-5pm as Henry plays with the ice in the cooler and splashes. 

Henry can run all over the basketball court, only steps from the apartment we moved into. There he becomes absorbed with balls of all kinds: soccer, football, basketball, dodgeball, not to mention bike pumps and frisbees. He has become a dirtier version of himself, sitting in the sand, walking barefoot down the path, often pantsless. He sings to himself, echoing refrains of "mama, dada, hen-dee" over and over. He can point out a bird or "hah-wee" the dog, and looks on with a concerned face when he hears the nearby construction vehicles pushing mounds of dirt our way. He sits in the sink to help wash dishes, yesterday earning a stern talking to when he dumped two bowlfuls of water directly onto the floor. Oh he knew exactly what he was doing.

We are the lucky ones, who have great company in our isolation. Cara and Janet and Richard make us six. Cara, from North Carolina, has been teaching the Seniors for three years. Her warm smile, genuine spirit, easy laugh and camaraderie make me feel at home. She gets me. Cara is positive and easy going, but wants to talk about the things that matter -- to me, just the right personality to get through a global pandemic with. Janet, from Wales, has only been at Liger a year, but fit into the fabric of our community almost immediately. She is the self-proclaimed and much acclaimed mother of our tribe. She cooks us healthy, delicious dinners each night, makes sure our wine glasses are never empty, takes Henry for an hour a day to give us a break, and keeps our minds fresh trying to decode what the hell she is talking about in her Welsh accent (ha!). Richard, or "ree-chart" as the students pronounce it, is a brand new addition, funnily enough a substitute teacher covering a staff maternity leave. He arrived in January and was supposed to be making his exit around this time in April. Little did he know when he moved onto campus that he would be rounding out our little lockdown family.

"What are you up to?" my friends ask. "What does your day to day look like?" Well, today Henry discovered four white ceramic plates in a drawer he can now reach. He moved them from table top to slate floor carefully, finally giving them a new home under the couch. We co-opted an old, discolored Rubik's Cube from one of the student apartments, and when it promptly fell apart in Jeff's hands (interesting innards, in case you didn't know), the 100-odd pieces became sharp teeth blending into the carpet, a little shock to step on, or in Henry's case, to chomp on with his newly toothy mouth. 

I mean...what are you up to?

Balls. Swimming. Tupperware. Walks. Showers. Using the blender, Henry's ultimate favorite pastime. Even pretending to use the blender is a win. A new set of blocks, a gift from a fellow kibbutz-er. A 1,000-piece puzzle. Putting Henry in hats, a new thing for him to allow something to stay on his head longer than 30 seconds. A tear-inducing Pixar movie. Tiger King.

"How are you staying busy?" By identifying and tabulating small wounds. An ankle scratch Henry points out woefully. Freckles he wishes didn't adorn his pale skin. Two old mosquito bites on his right knee. A large, fresh one on his left arm. That one needs some attention, a kiss, perhaps even some cream.

Yesterday, out of the blue, Henry pretended to pluck out Jeff's eye and put it in his mouth. Our shrieks of delight cemented this spontaneous action as his best new trick. Making us smell his "stinky" feet recedes to a distant second place.

In our two-bedroom apartment, one room is for tussle time, where the bed is big and soft, perfect for pillow fights and tickles. The other is where he naps during the day and is read to by night, board books littering the floor. (Who are we kidding? I stack all his books on the desk neatly AF.)

We are filling the time with old things, like answering emails, listening to podcasts, rediscovering 90s acoustic music and reading (may I recommend Circe), as well as new things, like giving a toddler a haircut, making an Americano, or leaning in to a game of volleyball for the first time. We know we are lucky to have our space, our people, our basic needs met.

But "what do you worry about?" I ask myself. Small things, like the fact that we're paying a nanny who isn't working, and rent for an apartment we no longer stay in. Medium things, like whether Henry is getting enough socialization, whether he is missing out on playing with kids his own age. Big things, like when this will end. If we will get to see our families this summer. How my 88-year-old grandmother will fare. And whether that was it. 

Was that it when we saw the last student leave campus with a wave and a "stay in touch?" Was it the last time we will ever be together as a whole group again? Has this eight-year experiment, which began as an adventure, a risk, a whim, a why not, and turned into us building our lives, our careers and our family here... was that it?

Humans don't like uncertainty. They don't like the unprecedented when it applies to a global pandemic and not the ratings for a new reality TV show. To not be able to plan for when you can reschedule your wedding, when you'll be able to tap back into the interview process for a new job, when you'll see that cross-country best friend, or even share a meal with a grandparent again. The might or could or probably doesn't feel like enough to stabilize the thoughts whirling through our minds, keeping us up at night, creeping into our dreams.

So all I can do is remember that I am one of the lucky ones.

Here goes nothing...