Scary times return as fall approaches

As a shadow rose over me, I tried to scream but croaked out only a faint “Go away!”

I awoke suddenly. It was still dark outside, and I was in my bed, not on a sleeping bag on the beach, not getting attacked by a stranger. The vivid anxiety dreams are back. Remember them from April, in the initial depths of sheltering in place? Maybe for some of you, they never went away.

Though I worried in my every waking hour, over the summer my subconscious settled back to its regular programming, with dreams that faded as soon as I opened my eyes. It helped that we had reliable child care through a morning day camp, and that we went on local adventures that hearkened to the “before times”: climbing Indian Rock and careening down the concrete slides in Codornices Park in Berkeley; exploring the Mad Max aesthetic of the Albany Bulb; and supporting Blackowned restaurants and other local businesses.

In recent weeks, as my family and many others agonized over the prospect of distance learning, the cheery backtoschool commercials felt like repeated jabs. In an advertisement for a discount superstore, a mom waits in her car for contactless pickup, sorts through supplies with her children at home and, in the final scene, oversees a backyard baking soda volcano.

I looked at my husband and we both asked at the same time, “Where’s the dad?”

In another commercial, a little girl on a classroom videoconference boasts that her mother can see into the future, time traveling to help people. Her mom pops in to explain that she’s a financial adviser.

I’m sure she was thrilled that she had to interrupt a call with a client, and that she’d probably been up past midnight, or awake before dawn, to finish work — a measure taken by mothers who lack affordable child care options.

My husband has tried reassuring me, but the stress is getting to him, too. In his dream, we were climbing boulders, when all at once he realized they were about to topple.

Thanks to the botched federal response to the pandemic, that about sums up the state of the country right now: the brunt of the coronavirus has been borne by Black and Latino people working in dangerous conditions; federal unemployment benefits that expired in July remain up in the air; the U.S. census count is getting abruptly cut short despite the process providing vital data; and a Republican appointee is undermining the Postal Service ahead of the upcoming election.

In her new podcast, former first lady Michelle Obama revealed that she’s been having trouble sleeping and dealing with a “lowgrade depression” due to the quarantine, racial strife and the Trump administration’s “hypocrisy … day in and day out.”

I wonder if she’s been having bad dreams, too.

On a hike over the weekend, I explained the purpose of dreams to the boys.

“Your mind is working things out when you’re dreaming,” I said.

“Your mind can lift weights!” Gege said with a giggle.

He and his brother had hoped the pandemic would end by the time their birthday arrived. It didn’t. As of this week, they’re 9 years old. No party with their friends, to their great disappointment, though we sprang for a Super Mariothemed pinata in an attempt at festivity.

As they get excited for Halloween, we’ve had to break it to them as gently as we can that it’s unlikely that trickortreating will take place this year, or that we’ll allow them to go out on a night where many hands press doorbells and reach into many bowls.

“We can still get costumes,” my husband said.

“How about a family costume?” I asked. “Harry Potter? SpongeBob?”

It’s less than 100 days until Halloween, less than 100 days until election day.

Maybe then our national nightmare will end.

As my family and many others agonized over the prospect of distance learning, the cheery backtoschool commercials felt like repeated jabs.

Vanessa Hua is the author of “A River of Stars.” Her column appears Fridays in Datebook. Email: datebook@ sfchronicle.com