I’m not going to sugarcoat it. This has been hard. We survived a week of adjustments and togetherness (so much togetherness) and that sinking feeling, for this extrovert, of deleting her entire color-coded Google calendar for the foreseeable future.

After an intense family vote, we’ve officially named our homeschool, “The Diamond Nature School of America.” My nine-year-old, Zeke, created a logo and I promised we would make tee shirts at some point. The name is fitting, as we’ve done most of our “schooling” this past week outdoors.

While properly practicing social distancing, we visited the Daniels Area at Patapsco Valley State Park, NCR Trail, Gunpowder Falls South Trail, Beverly Triton Beach Park, Cromwell Valley Park, and Historic Jerusalem Mill Village. Even on the rainy days I make my kids put on their raincoats and take a walk around the block. (“Don’t go near anyone. Don’t touch anything,” I reiterate to them.) Fresh air cures all, for them and for me. A walk in the woods is my Xanax.

But I know there also needs to be some semblance of school. “This isn’t a vacation,” I keep reminding my oldest. (And myself.) But I’m struggling. Four kids, three grades, and one family laptop. (I may have had my 13-year-old write a persuasive essay last week about why he needed Xbox Live.)

So, I reached out to two friends—Jennifer Solomon and Miranda Altschuler—who homeschool by choice to see if they could offer some suggestions to those of us who are homeschooling by being thrown off a cliff.

Solomon and Altschuler both homeschool a gaggle of girls. Solomon’s are 4, 7, and 10, and Altschuler, in addition to a brand-new baby, has an 11, 8, and 5 year old.

“We began homeschooling a few years ago and have never looked back,” Solomon says. “During one particularly enthusiastic moment, I may have even said that homeschooling is just so wonderful, everyone should do it—but I didn’t actually mean it, you guys,” she jokes.

Altschuler adds that, as longtime homeschoolers, her family’s adjustment hasn’t been quite so drastic. But for parents who are finding themselves suddenly homeschooling, she hopes that the following tips help “provide a bit of clarity amidst the chaos.”

1. Our “best” is going to look different every day, and that is just fine.

JS: Some days, everything will fall into place beautifully and your little angels will engage and learn and you’ll Instagram it all (#coronavirusschooling!) and wonder why you haven’t been doing this all along. Other days will be a struggle. They’ll bicker and you’ll snap, and you’ll find yourself rationalizing any and everything as a learning opportunity just so you can be over-and-done-with-it for the day. So we’re just going to try to get through this the best we can.

2. Go easy on yourself!

JS: Lower your self-expectations and demands. You’ve been thrown into a situation that is new and somewhat scary. That friend of yours posting an hour-by-hour recap of “Mommy-Camp Homeschool” may be well-intentioned, but posts like those can really trigger feelings of inadequacy. Right now we are all feeling vulnerable and, frankly, pretty clueless. None of us knows what we’re doing because, well, none of us has ever faced a GLOBAL PANDEMIC before. Now isn’t the time for competitive parenting.

3. Don’t worry about academic regression.

JS: Your kids are not going to fall behind. I repeat: your kids are not going to fall behind. As a global community, we are all in the same boat—albeit a really terrible, careening, lurching boat (definitely getting a one-star Yelp review from me)—together right now. Your child’s emotional and mental health is more important than their academic progress during this time.

4. Don’t try to recreate school at home.

MA: Schooling at home is less formal and takes less time because there are fewer students. Homeschooling should be made to meet the needs and preferences of your family and individual children. Have your students’ list of goals in front of you while you determine how lesson time should be allocated in your home during this unusual stretch of time.

5. You can be flexible with your schooling when that’s what the mood dictates.

JS: Did your kid read a comic book today? BOOM. Reading. Right there. Did you bake a double batch of cookies together to stress-eat later? Nice! Measuring equals math skills. Play a board game? Logic and reasoning! Spend all day outside? Recess! Nature! Tackle chores and laundry? Life skills. Your kids aren’t going to fall behind; they’re just going to learn a little differently for a while.

6. Consider the whole child.

MA: What are your child’s physical, emotional, and academic needs? Younger students need plenty of free play and new math and phonics skills reinforced. Older students may need to study for the SATs and develop life skills they’ll take with them to college. Every child needs responsibilities around the house and time outside.

7. Don’t try to do ALL the things.

JS: One silver lining to this awful situation has been the outpouring of online resources to help teach and occupy our kids. From art tutorials to virtual field trips to read-alouds to yoga classes, we have an unprecedented wealth of resources at our fingertips. Authors, educators, artists, and musicians are showing their true colors and offering countless activities and videos. And that is amazing, and helpful, and generous, but it is also A LOT.

You don’t have to do all the things. You don’t even have to do five of the things. If you happen to do ONE of the things and your kids enjoy it, that’s great, but there is no pressure to do all the fun things, all the time. It’s exhausting.

8. Seek out great materials and resources.

MA: Explore book lists provided by teachers or found online. Take a look at your own bookshelf. Check out ebooks and audiobooks available through your library. Find books that will naturally pique your child’s interest through engaging narratives, not just text books.

9. Involve your children in the planning.

JS: Kids respond really well when we give them a sense of ownership and treat them as though they are actually our fellow human beings (a difficult concept to grasp sometimes, I know). When children and teens feel respected and included, they are less likely to push back. With ownership comes accountability.

10. Follow through, but ease in.

MA: We don’t want to recreate school at home, but we also don’t want a disorienting free-for-all. For the first few days of your plan, just do skill work. Then, every day or two, add a subject. Do one thing well, then try another. These are not normal times, so take it slow and be gentle with yourselves and each other.

11. Prioritize relationships.

MA: Children need structure and freedom, expectations and acceptance. Whether we homeschool or not, our children rely on us to cultivate an atmosphere where they can learn and grow, secure in our commitment to who they are and who they can become. Perhaps this awful situation is also an opportunity, and our families can come out the other side of this experience even stronger.

12. Remember we are in the middle of a public health crisis. We are not in the middle of an academic crisis.

JS: Be gentle with your children and yourself. Stressed adults cannot teach stressed kids. When things get frustrating, walk away. As parents, we are the heart of our family. We set the tone—we’re the family thermostat, if you will. Our kids look to us for safety, security, and love. No one knows how things are going to play out during these uncertain times. As parents, it is our job to cultivate beauty where we can and provide a calm, stable home. A haven. But make no mistake, in the coming months, there will be bickering. Eye rolling. Opposition. Tantrums. Meltdowns. (And that’s just the parents!)

I ripped open the mustard-colored, legal-size envelope. I could tell by the handwriting, it was from my father. The only other time he had sent me a letter was when I was a child at sleep-away camp. A note, paper-clipped to a handful of legal documents, read, “put these in a safe place.” There were: Health Care Directives, Living Wills, Durable Powers of Attorney, and Trust Agreements—reminders of my parents’ mortality. One by one, I skimmed the legalese. When I saw my name, I paused. My parents had appointed me their Power of Attorney, to make their life and death decisions. It made sense, I am the eldest child and an attorney. Even so, I felt anointed. Now, a decade later, the power is paralyzing.

My father passed away from a heart attack three years ago. He and my mother had been married for 63 years. My mother crumbled. She spent most of the following year in bed and her muscles atrophied. She developed Parkinson’s disease and dementia. Now, at age 85, she wears a diaper underneath her black pull-up slacks and she’s confined to a wheelchair. She cannot wipe her runny nose, plop a piece of chocolate into her mouth, nor wrap a shawl around her cold shoulders. She lives in a senior living community in South Florida, near my brother and sister. A team of caretakers provides her with round-the-clock care.

Late in the summer, my sister came to visit me in Baltimore. We were at dinner and had just ordered wine, when my cell phone rang.

“Mrs. Black?”

“Yes”

“This is your mother’s aide. Please don’t worry. But your mother’s been lethargic and has stopped eating—I erred on caution and called her doctor. He said to call an ambulance. We’re at the hospital now. I will keep you posted.”

Soon after, my mother’s doctor called me. He had conferred with the emergency room physician. They suspected that my mother had a bowel blockage and admitted her for testing and observation. If their suspicions were confirmed, she’d have surgery in the morning. Between tears and fears, my sister and I spent the rest of dinner searching for flights to Miami. There weren’t any flights that night, so we booked the first plane out the next morning.

When we arrived at the hospital, my mother was out of surgery and stable. But our relief was short-lived. Mom developed multiple infections and complications—her kidneys began to shut down. Each morning, I would drive from my hotel to the hospital, hoping that my mother’s kidneys had reversed their decline. Creatinine, a word I’d never heard of before her hospitalization, became a part of my daily vocabulary. It is an indicator of kidney function. My mother’s normal level was 0.5; it was now 3.6

A parade of “ologists” consulted on her case: urologists, cardiologists, nephrologists, neurologists, and others. None of them were optimistic. Eventually, her doctor took me aside and said, “We need to talk.” He ushered me down the hall and into a legal-pad colored room, just big enough to hold a two-seat sofa, an arm chair, and a wooden table. It smelled like antiseptics. I sat on the sofa, he sat across from me in the arm chair.

In a matter-of-fact voice he said, “Are you her power of attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can’t find a DNR, (do not resuscitate). You need to sign one. I’m sorry, but there is not much more we can do for your mother. Her kidneys are failing—it doesn’t look good.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“She’s 85 years old. She is not a candidate for dialysis. If she shuts down, it would be cruel to insert a feeding tube or keep her alive with artificial means.”

He handed me a yellow paper to sign, in large caps it read, “DO NOT RESUSCITATE.” I held it away from me, as if it were my dog’s newly filled poop bag.

“Okay, let me talk with my family. I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

“I understand. And, if it’s alright, I’ll have someone from hospice get in touch with you.”

I am not good at making irreversible decisions—I struggled with neutering my dog. I didn’t want to sign the DNR, nor agree to hospice. I did not want to play a role in my mother’s death.

I went back to her hospital room. I kissed her and said, “I love you. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Then, I drove to my hotel room to reread those documents from that mustard colored envelope that my father had sent years ago. They were now downloaded onto my iPhone. This time, I read them as if my mother’s life was at stake. The boilerplate language said:

“If at any time I am incapacitated, and I have an end-stage condition . . . and no reasonable medical probability of recovery . . . I direct that life prolonging procedures be withheld . . . ”

Initially, I thought I was off the hook—her directives were clear. It was my job to execute, not to decide. But then, in less time than it takes for my nail polish to dry, I thought back to all the papers my businessman father had asked my mother to sign over the years. She never read them. He said, “Sign.” She said, “Where?”

I also thought about my mother’s fear of dying: If she sneezed in the morning, she called her doctor by afternoon. She made an appointment for her flu shot, before the vaccine was released. She wouldn’t allow us to visit her if we had a cold. A headache was indicative of a brain tumor. Her favorite hand lotion was Purell.

Would she want to fight now?

In the past, I had tried to talk to my mother about her wishes. She never said, “Let me die, naturally.” I pushed her, trying to avoid this very situation, “Mom, if the only way to live is with a feeding tube down your nose or in your stomach, do you want that?”

“Okay, fine. Do whatever you want. I’m not talking about it anymore.”

Knowing that I had to get back to the doctor by morning, I stayed up most of that night talking with my family. Everyone agreed that Mom no longer had quality of life. Artificial interventions were more for us than for her. It was selfish to cause her more pain. If she died, who were we to play God and revive her? Fear of dying is not the same as choosing life.

The next morning, I went to the hospital with the signed, yellow DNR. But the decision was no longer in my hands. Mom’s creatinine levels had dropped—her kidneys were improving. The potent antibiotics prescribed for her infections may have harmed her kidneys. The nephrologist changed medicines and she responded. Mom continued to progress and by the end of the week, after a month of hospitalization, they sent her home.

My siblings and I met with the hospice people before her discharge. They educated us and made us question whether, given my mother’s age and condition, it was fair to put her through any more hospitalizations. They could help enhance her quality of life. If we changed our minds, we could withdraw their services.

That was five months ago. Mom’s kidneys have stabilized, though her Parkinson’s has progressed. While oftentimes she’s miserable, there are still sparkles of joy. She enjoys TV shows like America’s Got Talent and Dancing with the Stars. She smiles when I visit—especially when I bring sesame-covered bagels. She insists that her jewelry matches her outfits. And she loves to sing.

I’ve played and replayed a video that my sister texted me last week. It’s of a hospice volunteer, strumming her guitar while singing to my mother, “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day.” Mom cocks her head to listen. Her eyes twinkle with recognition. She joins in, “I got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way.”

If I look at the video too closely, I can’t help but spot the emergency notebook lying on her kitchen counter. It holds that yellow DNR. My signature is at the bottom.