A Coronavirus Letter to My Daughter
My darling daughter,
I’m struggling. Not something you expect to hear from your mother, but it’s true. The world is different, a seismic shift over the course of four weeks that’s almost too overwhelming to believe and yet persists. You are only mildly aware of its impact as your father and I shelter-you-in-place in what we’ve been told is the best way to protect you. For now, you are little and happy and safe. Those closest to us are also heeding the warnings and are therefore safe too. There is no immediate explanation for the panic and anxiety I’ve been wrestling with, and still, I struggle.
I’m writing because I want you to understand. This is a moment in history you’ve lived through and yet cannot feel or process or connect to, and I fear that when the virus has been fully contained and the restrictions lifted, this will become a dream-like memory we will all try to forget.
There is a virus, Baby Bit. It’s like the flu, except it’s far more contagious, and there is a chance (debatable what that chance is) if you get it, you will die. So far, over 14,000 people have died in our country alone. The best way to prevent yourself from getting the virus is to stay at home and avoid other people. People aren’t the enemy, but you wouldn’t know it as we cross the street to avoid getting too close but wave as we do it. It’s a friendly avoidance. It’s weird.
We sing “Happy Birthday” (twice) while we wash our hands and practically bathe in hand sanitizer any time we go outside. I’ve started ordering all of our groceries for pick up so I don’t have to be in a place where someone with the virus could cough, sneeze, or breath. Except, some excessive people have bought out all of the rice, potatoes, beans, frozen vegetables, and meat, so we end up going inside anyway. We wait in lines to get in to the store so we can dash over to the aisle for the product we need most and pray they restocked overnight. Finding toilet paper feels like winning the lottery. It’s like Supermarket Sweep (look it up on YouTube) except we’re paying for the groceries. We do not go to restaurants, bars, Gymboree, the bounce place, your preschool, any school. We can go for a walk or a run, but not at a state park. We can be together. We are together, the three of us, but alone.
Your father and I have gotten better at entertaining you. We spend a lot of time on garage games, and you’ve learned to jump and play with sticks. We take a lot of walks with the pups and pray for rain-free days as keeping you inside and occupied for 13 hours a day is painful, for everyone. Going to the gas station or to pick up food is a family outing, one where we find ourselves grateful to simply stare out a different window than those inside our house.
And yet, there is little to complain about. We are the fortunate ones. Your father’s job is secure. We have a car and the ability to put gas in it. We have the internet and the means to order food for a week, and the creativity to create meals that don’t involve rice or beans. We already get our meat from a local farmer who, go figure, hasn’t run out of cows. Neither of us are physicians or nurses and therefore don’t have to be exposed to the virus at work. Your daycare is closed, but we’ve been running a makeshift preschool with Home Safari from the Cincinnati Zoo and YouTube videos of story time with your teachers. We are safe. We are healthy. We are well.
The gratitude I feel for the above is vast, but that is high tide. At low tide, I’m sucked in by anxiety, fear, and irritation. Your father and I rarely worry about getting sick ourselves, but you Bit, you. Any time I even think about you contracting the coronavirus, my gut aches. I know that you would likely fair fine as you are hardy and healthy. We live close to one of the finest hospitals in the country, and I would call in every favor I’ve ever earned in healthcare if necessary, but what if that still failed? So, the fear? The fear I get. That is palpable and visceral and entirely related to you. I don’t get the anxiety. My skin itches. The restlessness, the irrational urge to DO SOMETHING but without any rational notion of what is paralytic. I don’t want to clean, I don’t want to pack, I don’t want to organize my closet or work out or take up a new hobby or teach you Spanish. I want to DO SOMETHING. And then there’s the irritability. This is the one your father enjoys most. Bit, we are resilient people, your father and I. And you, little one, already an alumnus of several shit sandwiches, demonstrate the heritability of that trait. I’ve never said this before, but I feel like I’ve outrun my resiliency. I just cannot get my shit together. I am grumpy, negative, snippy, and short tempered. And I’m sorry, my sweet girl, because it is not you, it is entirely and utterly me.
But, then the tide comes in, and I’m bathed in the warmth of appreciation, humor, and friendship. The bears in the windows as we walk through the neighborhood, your sitter’s boyfriend hunting us down some toilet paper, your laugh as you run wildly up and down the driveway chasing your Kramer-esque father. I’ve never missed my friend’s faces so much, the contours of life that line their features and the smiles that light their eyes. I’ve never been so grateful for Google Hangouts and Zoom and the internet. And books, like the hardback ones you will probably never read. They’re like chocolate to me now. Speaking of chocolate, I’ve eaten a metric fuck ton of chocolate since this started. One piece of advice kiddo, chocolate still has calories, even in the middle of a pandemic. Consume at your own peril.
I’m starting to ramble, and I can feel your little face staring at me, usually a precursor to you trying to stick your finger up my nose, so I’ll move on. What I want you to know about this time, Bit, is that we survived. It wasn’t some lovely tragedy. It was a shit show. People died, a lot of people, many, I would argue, unnecessarily. More poor people and people of color died than white people. That’s a lesson for another day, little Bit, but an important reminder that we are white and we are privileged and that truth pervades every aspect of life, even though it is obscene and wholly unfair. I want you to know that physical presence matters. Faces are beautiful, and seeing them on a screen isn’t enough. I want you to know that your mother was not called to be a teacher, and you should thank every single one you have from here on out that they saved you from home school. I want you to know that all the feels are okay. They don’t have to make sense. They can be like the ocean, an ebb and flow of happy and sad, strong and weak. Don’t apologize for those feelings. There is no ranking system for suffering. I thought this was bullshit, but it is true. In a time like this, you must be gentle with yourself. And forgiving. You can ask for grace, but be prepared to give it. People act like assholes in a crisis, Bit, your Mom included.
I want you to know that this will happen again. There will be another global crisis, another pandemic, another event that will ask more of you than you knew you had and take more from you than you wanted to give. This is unpreventable. Please know, lovely little, that you, too, are resilient.
I love you, my baby girl. I will do everything in my power to protect you. And yet, I know that the world is vast and you are an adventurer. The call to the end of the driveway will one day take you beyond the reach of my protective powers. So, I packed you a bag. It’s light as I know you will travel far. In it is this letter, hand sanitizer with a sticky note reminding you to wash your hands, a recording of the Happy Birthday song (twice), an iPhone with a prepaid data plan so you can FaceTime, a portable ventilator, and a roll of toilet paper. One day, you’ll get it. Until then, just be grateful.
