If someone were to ask me what I am doing this weekend, the most truthful answer would be: I am waiting for Covid.

We have been extraordinarily lucky thus far. Despite the four of us attending five different schools (my daughter goes to both preschool and daycare) and having had at least four known exposures and what must be exponentially more unknown exposures, we have so far remained Covid-free. Or, to be more accurate, symptom-free. But it feels as though our time must surely come.

On Friday evening, I congratulated myself (out loud!) for having gotten through a full week of school without anyone getting sick or contact-traced, and without our schools shutting down or going remote. Ah, the foolishness! The very next morning, I got a text from my daughter’s daycare with the news that two children there had tested positive. One had been there the entire day on Friday, with my daughter.

And so we are staying home and keeping watch, and my heart rate rises every time one of us sneezes.

We are all vaccinated, and those of us who can be boosted are boosted, including all of the grandparents, who are practically part of the household. Maybe it will pass us by. Maybe the masks and the vaccines will hold. But I’ve seen too much of this variant up close to be very hopeful. I feel as though I’m staring in the face of a typhoon, waiting for the wave to crash over me.

It’s bad timing. I have two concerts to conduct in the next two weeks. I’ve put so much work into them, and the idea that they might be cancelled– or that someone else would get to conduct my band kids– is heartbreaking.

But there’s nothing I can do, and no value in obsessing. So I play with the kids, and read, and write, and make chicken soup, as if we are not waiting for Covid.

And, as in “Waiting for Godot,” nothing– so far– has happened.