To my daughter,
Hi, honey. It’s day 1,000,000 of quarantine as our country is still locked in the grips of a worldwide health crisis with a name that doesn't mean much to you — you just turned 5, so when you and I talk about it together, we just call it “the sickness.” You have dubbed these times The Day of the Sickness, like some kind of old sci-fi movie title. God, I wish it was just one day, but this franchise keeps spinning out sequels that get weirder and more awful as time drags on.
It’s hard to articulate exactly what I want to say to you, so I’ll start with what I feel most strongly: I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry, honey. I’m sorry you missed out on 25% of your last year of preschool. Miss Berntson was your first teacher, yes, but you sure loved her, and all of your classmates. And then one day, boom! — they were gone. That same mix of kids will never return to that particular classroom with that particular teacher you all loved so much. And all of a sudden, you’re a kindergartener.
I’ve been waiting since the day you were born to take your first day of kindergarten picture. I still have mine. Me, with my weird ’80s at-home haircut (sort of a bowl-mullet) and a little plaid dress that looked almost Amish, standing next to my best friend, our backpacks in hand. The brick facade of the school rose up behind us, a temple to our possibilities. It breaks my heart that I don’t know if I’ll get to take that picture in front of your school with your best friends. I don’t know if you’ll even get to step foot in the building this fall.
You ask me every day if you can have a friend over. If we can go to the splash pad. If the pool is open. If the playground is safe to play on. When I say no, you want to know when.
When will all this be over? When can we get back to normal? I hate that I can’t give you an answer. Adults are supposed to be the ones with all the answers, or at least be able to fake it. I’m at the point where I’m running out of excuses and platitudes.
It doesn’t help when you see the neighborhood kids playing together out the window with no masks, wrestling around and running through the sprinkler. After so many times of being told no, you’ve stopped asking if you can join them. I fear that you think that there’s something wrong with you. Even with all the presents that were sent to our door, I worry you think that nobody wanted to come to your birthday party.
I’m really trying to make the most of it. We can read books, work on homework packets your teacher sent home, hike nature trails, and ride our bikes, but in the end, you’re an only child stuck with only your parents to play and be with. We are a poor, poor substitute for other kids. And for that, again, I am sorry.
There are only two things I can say for certain: First, I’m doing all of this because I know it’s the right thing to do. Just because so many people in this country are bored of quarantine, value the economy over human lives, or feel that resuming normal life is OK because everyone else is doing it, I refuse for us to be complicit in endangering ourselves, the people we love, or even perfect strangers. I know you can’t understand now, but I pray that one day you will.
Second, I love you. I love you so much and I always will. And I know that’s enough to get us through this.
Love forever,
Mommy
