Calendar Time with Hank (Day 15)

We start each morning with the calendar I put up in my son Hank's bedroom when he cried about missing morning circle time at preschool. He repositions a Velcro-backed arrow onto weather squares according to his view of the sky when we pull the curtains back from the window. Why is it always cloudy, Mama? He pulls out the next square from a little orange pouch to place in the next slot, then takes his pointer and counts all of the days we've lived in March. I always know the month and date. Time does not ebb and flow at Christmas-break speed during quarantine for me. The hours go quickly and I am never bored. Somehow, I have less time than usual. Now that Hank's birthday is over, the countdown begins to the birth of his sister. On Sunday, there will be 11 days left. Appointments are canceled, rescheduled. All plans change but life continues, regardless.
Hank's understanding of the virus is limited to what a four-year-old can grasp, which is more than what I expect sometimes. When he plays, his dinosaur villain is Coronavirus, who lives at his daycare, the grocery store and now: the hospital.
But it's spring break so I try to make fun out of what we have now. His interest has deepened in the backyard bird feeder after it was visited by a fat pheasant for a few hours last Sunday, a sign of good luck, according to my parents. We watch for favorite birds at certain times of day: mourning doves, goldfinches, cardinals, and chickadees. I watch too much news. I read too much news. I make Paw Patrol Macaroni & Cheese three days in a row. On his fourth birthday, he misses out on the crown he'd wear at preschool, the treats he'd bring to class, and the games he'd play outside with friends. But we video chat with our family and friends as he blows out the candles on the cake that the two of us make out of a box and top with canned frosting. His dad assembles the big kid bike that we ordered for Hank's birthday present weeks before we confined ourselves to the house on the evening of March 13th. The pedals make it trickier than his old balance bike, but Hank doesn't give up, even though he's clearly frustrated. I watch from the sliver of our front porch, standing in the puddle of light that leaks outside from the entry window. He practices pedaling with his dad jogging next to him for balance, back and forth across the uneven asphalt until you can no longer see the sidewalk clearly in the dark.