Dear Baby Girl,
As I sit here writing you this letter, you are fast asleep in your crib. You are lucky to be so blissfully unaware of what is happening in the world outside these last few weeks. I know I can't always protect you, and keep you from knowing what dangers lurk in the world. As you age, there may be other dangers, worse, maybe, than those we face today.
This morning, you and I went on our daily neighborhood walk. A few weeks ago, we might have been going to library story hour with other toddlers, to a play date where you would be sharing toys with friends, or going to the grocery store to shop together, and speak to strangers doing their shopping, too, who might have reached out to give you a high five or gently patted your leg, and told you what a friendly little girl you are. Not today. Not this week. Not for the past two weeks.
Today, you were laying back, sucking your paci, holding your baby, and I was walking and watching. Watching for big cracks in the sidewalk that we needed to avoid. Watching for animals to point out to you. Watching for other people. I saw a woman and her dog up ahead. I watched, slowing to see where she might go. They would make a turn at the next cross street. Then a couple and their two dogs. A few weeks ago, we would have walked right up to say, "Hello." I'd ask if the dogs were friendly. The dogs would kiss your hand. Today, I crossed the street to avoid getting too close.
Today is March 26, 2020, and for two weeks, you haven't left the house, except to take our daily walk. You watch for birds, squirrels, and dogs, and I watch for people. We still say hello and wave, but we do it from at least six feet away, and we don't linger.
I still go on grocery trips, but you don't come with me. While you're still fast asleep, I get up at 5:30 in the morning to get to the grocery when they open, hoping maybe it won't be busy (it still is). My goal is to get in and out of the store as quickly as I can. I wear gloves while I shop. My chest gets tight when someone gets to close at the deli counter while I wait for them to slice our cheese. I use hand sanitizer when I get back in our car. I sanitize the steering wheel before I drive home. I ask your dad to keep you away until I sanitize the groceries, throw away the remnants of the store, and wash my own hands. I planned our meals ahead and bought enough groceries to make sure I wouldn't have to go back for two weeks.
We haven't been able to hug Mamaw and Papaw, Grandma and Grandpa, Nana and Pop-pop, Uncle Caleb, Aunt Hannah, or Tate, Aunt Jes, Uncle Noah, or Macie and Kelbie, for almost two months. We didn't know the last time we went to Indiana would be the last time that we visited for so long. We can't travel to see them, and even if we could travel, we wouldn't be able to see them up close in person and hug and kiss them. So, instead, we have "family dinners" through dad's laptop. We see them through a screen, and we talk about how we miss them and can't wait to be with them again.
One day (hopefully soon) things will get back to normal, and this will be a story we share with you when you get old enough to understand. I hear you crying as you wake up from your nap, so I will wrap this up. I'm going to go get you out of your crib and give you a big hug and kiss. Love you, baby girl.
Love,
Mama
