Mount Maunganui streets were all but empty on day one of the lockdown.
The nationwide lockdown has begun. Former Bay of Plenty Times and New Zealand Herald journalist Juliet Rowan reflects on the first few days in lockdown in her Mount Maunganui home.
We are a bubble of three: my son, my daughter and me.
We live at the Mount and on Monday, after the lockdown announcement, I almost panic buy two puppies we have been eyeing in Whakātane.
You see, part of our bubble is missing – our beloved pooch Charlie – and for us, life has not been the same since he died in September.
But pragmatism takes over when I realise that if I get Covid-19 or otherwise ill, figuring out care for my children, let alone two 5-week-old unvaccinated bundles of fluff, is going to present a major hurdle.
Instead, I race to Harvey Norman and buy their last two iPads. The kids stay in the car and see other parents they know scooting inside to grab devices for their children too.
Tuesday passes in a blur as friends and family message back and forth, and I try to deal with what feels like a million emails from the kids' schools and my university.
"Too soon," I want to scream. "The world needs to stand still. We are living a nightmare for humanity."
My friend texts from Sydney, joking about her and her husband's failure to cope with their 13-year-old son's transition to virtual learning.
"High school student's online resources are so complicated and involved, it takes hours to work through. Parents look at the wine bottle in the fridge at 11am but decide it's too early."
She tells me she sees another parent she knows still in her pyjamas at 5pm.
As a single mum and full-time student, I realise my goal of finishing my law degree this year is quickly slipping away.
I have two 10,000 word research essays due at the beginning of June plus a load of other lectures, tests and assignments but study is the last thing on my mind right now.
My kids are my priority, particularly as their Dad is in isolation on the other side of the North Island and unwell with what he hopes is just a flu.
I tell my 9-year-old and 11-year-old they are unlikely to see him now until the lockdown ends – a situation that must be facing many other children with divided homes.
On Wednesday, I hang my son's school uniform in his wardrobe and try not to cry when I wonder when it will next be worn.
Everything has ended for the kids, a schedule written on our splashback in the kitchen a reminder of what they're missing. No more hip-hop, tennis or surfing.
The kids organise desks for themselves, my daughter at the dining table and my son in the lounge.
I bite my tongue when my son comes downstairs clutching a whole load of stuff. Much as I don't want extra mess, I realise he needs to create his own sense of order in this chaotic new world.
A friend texts to say our local grocer has been ordered to close. The owner had replenished stock believing he could stay open and now has to clear piles of produce.
The community rallies and there is a growing queue when I arrive about 4pm. Everyone is silent and keeping their distance. The woman in front of me says aloud, "This is like something out of The Handmaid's Tale."
I make two aborted attempts at buying potting mix at Bunnings because I think we might try some vege gardening in lockdown.
The first time I walk in, get freaked by the crowds and flee back to the kids in the car.
The second is at 4.55pm. A staff member standing at the car park entrance says 7pm closing has been brought forward two hours.
We begin the first official day of lockdown with a bike ride through empty streets. I write about the experience of seeing our beautiful town devoid of people and proceed to get slammed online for going outside.
I hate on the haters in my mind, knowing exercise is permitted and we did not once break the social distancing rule.
We also felt safer on our bikes than walking – easier to avoid people and get past them faster. We saw several people we knew but all anyone was doing was shouting out hurried hellos.
One of my sisters is an ED nurse and the other a gastroenterologist who is being redeployed to the front lines. My 73-year-old mother, also a doctor, stands to be pulled out of semi-retirement if things spiral out of control, so I'm the last person who wants to endanger anyone. I might be killing my own family.
I already know the devastating fear of thinking my family may have infected others with Covid-19 because my daughter needed testing for the virus, an experience I wrote about for the Weekend Herald.
So be kind, keyboard warriors, because kids need exercise for as long as we're allowed outside.
They also need to talk to their friends – the iPads are proving their weight in gold for that – and laughter is crucial for all of us.
My kids show me "Donald Trump Sings Dance Monkey" and "Donald Trump Singing Baby Shark" and I welcome the break from the scary coronavirus news.
We now have well over 300 cases and it's starting to feel apocalyptic.
I try to maintain a feeling of safety and security for my babies in our home cocoon, telling them everything will be okay, but fear grips my son Thursday night and I message my friend in Italy for support.
She is on the third week of lockdown with her husband and two kids the same age as mine. Her words reassure me: "We have found a balance among streaming lessons for the girls, homework [and] cooking ... Stay strong, it will pass and everything will be OK. Different but fine."
I'm also following the words of a principal doing the rounds on Facebook. "Don't scream at your kids for not following the schedule. Don't mandate two hours of learning time if they are resisting it," he writes.
"At the end of all of this, your kids' mental health will be more important than their academic skills. And how they felt during this time will stay with them long after the memory of what they did during those weeks is long gone. So keep that in mind, every single day."
Yesterday morning , one of our teachers messages to say her father-in-law has died in Auckland. He had been ill - with an illness not related to Covid-19 - but there was no chance for final goodbyes.
That is the dark reality of Week One of lockdown.
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