Children of the pandemic are hardening for what comes next Mary Grace Gallagher

Veteran gardeners passing by our backyard plot are taking new interest in our small garden, which until this spring, was a weed-filled wasteland that annually produced a handful of tomatoes, a boom-and-bust provision of strawberries and, always, some volunteer gourds that never turned out to be the pumpkins we hoped they were.

This year, however, the land is tilled, weeded, fertilized, and in some spots, already planted. Last week, we took our pampered seedlings out of their sunny window spot and started gradually exposing them to an increasing number of hours outside in the cold and rain in a process farmers refer to as "hardening off."

It's an expression so unvarnished and evocative that every morning when I move their little peat pots outside, I find myself thinking of how it can be applied to the experience we are having right now at home with our teenage sons.

Anyone with kids might observe these reedy tendrils of tomatoes and beanpoles and think of their own young sprouts, sequestered inside for these weeks, maybe months, outgrowing all their school clothes as they build up their strength and eat all the nutritious foods that their parents have worked hard to provision as well as all of the crackers, pretzels and the hidden chocolate stash.

This crop of teenagers and young adults is not getting the world they expected, with the proms and parties and spring breaks and graduations. Instead, they are getting this time at home with parents who are, in many cases, preparing them for challenging times.

I know there are parents and mentors out there who are teaching their kids woodworking skills, sewing and car repair. An old colleague helped her children open Ameritrade accounts with $50 each and is talking them through the buying and selling of micro-stock.

One girlfriend posted pictures of her sons helping to build a concrete deck. My own brother-in-law is having his kids write essays each day about philosophical readings he has assigned. I am in awe of the creativity and care these amazing people are investing in their children. But there are more nuanced moments between us that are also preparatory.

We've started taking walks together after dinner, the brothers kicking a soccer ball along the way. We've been checking in periodically with a neighbor, asking about his elderly mother, who was among the many residents of a local nursing home diagnosed recently with coronavirus.

"She's just got to test negative," our neighbor said on Tuesday, his voice hopeful. "Then we can bring her home with us."

We were all left wondering how an octagenarian would recover from the illness, when Hugh, 19, let out a long sigh. He's just taking his first year of classes in a college nursing program and he is following news about the disease pretty closely.

"That's hard," he said.

This week, he scheduled his fall classes, which, he was excited to tell me, may include pathology. Then he asked what I think the chances are that he will get to go back to school.

I tell him I'm not holding my breath.

Then he says something I know is true: "Well, I can't stay here." And the conversation is over.

In the past, our lives were a whirlwind of soccer games and business travel, community meetings and extended family commitments all taking us in different directions. We would rarely see the same neighbors two weeks in a row, let alone every single night.

We joke about Groundhog Day as we pass the same people, walking the same dogs, sharing the mostly unchanging news, but it's not a joke that my mother's heart is at its most content when I have my children close. This forced nuclear family time fills a craving for me, though I know that for so many others, it means daily confrontations with serious dysfunction and abuse.

But Hugh is right. He can't stay cosseted with us forever. None of them can. It could be three years before a vaccine reaches the masses and they will need my compassionate son in the healthcare field as much as he will need to be learning the ropes.

We don't yet know how. The newsletter Inside Higher Education offered a list called "15 Fall Scenarios" that range from a delayed fall start to a model that features low-housing residency.

And then there's the issue of tuition. No one knows what to expect next week, let alone September, when even the most optimistic predictions are looking at enormous job loss and economic strain.

I know our kids are taking in parts of the big picture, daunting as it is. These aren't children of the eighties, like I was, haunted by a Cold War that remained theoretical. And these aren't children of the '90s or early 2000s, worried about distant terrorism.

These are children whose first days of elementary school featured an earthquake and who grew up knowing that the very earth under their feet was unsteady; they're the classmates who always wondered if the kid next to them in the hallway was going to be their classes' school shooter.

In some ways, they have been hardening off for years.

For now, they're safe under our protection, but every day new questions about the future emerge, like new seedlings rising from the damp soil. As I see it, it's our job to expose their tender young selves to whatever elements each new day provides, pushing their capacity to adapt and cooperate and build on their compassion for their neighbors.

These are the roots that they will need to make a real difference in the world and will determine how they weather the future.

Caption: Anyone with kids might see these seedlings and think of their own young sprouts, who are not getting the world they expected with the proms and graduations. Instead, they are getting this time at home with parents who are, in many cases, preparing them for challenging times.

Mary Gallagher/Captial Gazette