I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve worried since the moment I found out you existed. I worried if you would stick around. I worried about being a terrible mother. I worried if you would be okay. I worried if I was feeding you enough, if I picked the safest stuff for you, if you would grow enough.
I’ve been told that’s what Mamas do: they worry. Which is good because as you can see, I have that down pat.
You’re going to be here soon. I don’t know if it’ll be days, weeks or a month before we meet you. But for the record, you may document this moment because this is the one and only time I will tolerate you being late, but you have special permission to be late.
Why? Because I’m worried.
The world has been a weird place for the last year and a half. We’re in the middle of something called a pandemic. It’s…strange, to say the least. It started back in March of 2020 and people truly panicked, buying up all the paper towels and toilet paper the world had to offer. I’m serious. There was a good long while where finding a roll of toilet paper was like winning the lottery. I think back to that season of the pandemic, and I actually kind of miss it. We were all in it together: learning about this novel virus: The Coronavirus: Covid-19.
We didn’t know much about it at all. We wiped down groceries before bringing them into the house with antibacterial cleansing wipes. The world shut down and we were all ordered to stay home for at least two weeks to flatten the curve. And we did. Everyone did what they could to keep each other safe because we were all scared. Worried.
Little by little, the world started to open back up, but it didn’t look the same. We wear masks now. We’re told to social distance and wash our hands. A vaccine became available earlier this year, and your daddy and I got it as soon as we could. You were just a little peanut then, and let me tell you, we got very, very sick after the second shot, you and me. We were knocked down for a full 24 hours, but it was worth it to keep you safe because I worry.
Yesterday, you and I sat in a drive thru line for three hours. Don’t worry, I brought snacks — right now you really like plums and Colby jack cheese with Italian herb crackers, so that’s what we had. I drove under a tent and a woman in PPE stuck a swab so far up my nose it made my eyes water. She asked if I had any underlying conditions that would make me more susceptible to the virus, and I told her about you. Then she asked why I was there, and I had to tell her.
Exposure.
We’re 19 months into this pandemic, but it finally happened. The virus infiltrated our home. Your daddy hasn’t felt very well for a couple of days. Boom: positive. He’s been staying in our guest room, the one across the hall from your room. And you might find this a little funny, but I have to leave food outside his door. “Food drop,” I shout and scurry away. I hear the door open and swoosh. We do what we have to, right?
If this were a few months ago, it would just plain stink. Unideal, sure. But ultimately probably okay. But like I said, you will be here soon. I don’t know if it’ll be days, weeks or a month before we get to meet you: but please take your dear sweet time, little one.
I want your daddy there with us. And right now, there are pretty serious rules about who can and cannot be in a delivery room, and I can tell you this much: a person who has tested positive for Covid-19 is not welcome.
The nice lady in the PPE told me yesterday that I was negative, so that’s good. You and I are still safe; healthy. But there is still the worry that we could get sick, too.
Worry.
Thankfully, little one, your daddy and I believe in God. And while it might be hard to believe, we can actually find some blessings in this whole mess. So for right now, we’re choosing to believe this is precisely the protection we needed. And in the meantime, we continue to pray that you stay nice and cozy until October.
Please, little one. Because I worry.
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