I wake up each morning and think about pissing and coffee and nothing else. A few hours of darkness have reset my mind, and the madness is suspended for a few moments. I walk into the kitchen, say hello to my husband who has been up working since 5 a.m.. And then, it comes: a subtle wave. Today will not be a normal day.
I pull out my phone and I’m swept under.
As I read the New York Times before the sun rises, the headlines unleash so many, too many worries about my parents, my baby. Each morning is a lucid dream where it takes a second to determine what is real and what is not. Covid feels like a movie. Like a nightmare. But, alas, it is reality.
A thought that persistently pops up is one of optimism, denial, survival. Briefly: It might not turn out as bad as they’re saying. But then: what if it does.
On Tuesday, after a day of trying to work while the world crashed down around us, my husband and I took a walk with baby around our neighborhood. Unlike our typical afternoon strolls, we passed so many families doing the same thing. Everybody waved and said hello from the other side of the street. People were out in their yards, gardening and pulling weeds. It was like the 1950s and I have to say, after an anxious day in a huge office building, it made me feel a little warm inside. I told my husband, isn’t it amazing that every single person on the planet is experiencing the same thing right now?
Later, I think every person except for the babies.
The little babies have no idea. They eat, shit, cry, and light up our lives just the same as always. “If he was much older, we’d have to explain all of this to him,” I told my husband one day. But instead, I get to watch him smile at our cat and laugh when I sing silly songs. Meanwhile my husband is struggling and I’m trying to keep it together. As parents of a baby we were already constantly worried about him getting sick. Right now he has a cough and a goopy eye, but no temperature, so we get through another day, facing the possibility that, if he did get sick, he might not be able to access care in an overwhelmed system. We check constantly for updates on covid and infants and it doesn’t seem terrible but it doesn’t seem good and it mostly seems unknown. But there he goes laughing again, letting me momentarily forget it all. If we can just keep him healthy, I’ll get through this with whiskey and the joy he brings.
We also will continue to need food. Nursing a big baby makes me ravenous. What was once easy now takes planning and, I hesitate to say, prepping. For now, at least, we’re too concerned to go to the store or order much takeout, so we fill out a cart on four different grocery delivery websites every few days and try to find available delivery slots. When there’s nothing available, we check at night and again when we wake up in the morning. We’ve always eventually managed to find something, so far, even if we have to wait two weeks.
The other night, my husband and I sat in our backyard and drank tequila just like we used to do before I got pregnant. We talked and joked and listened to the bugs. With both of us working full time while also caring for a baby, this hour before bed is all we have to remember each other. We looked at the trees and breathed deep as if, for an instant, existence weighed just an ounce: Austin in the spring, the warm air whispering simple things of youth and happiness and promise.
This whole thing has its multiple personalities doesn’t it.
One of my friends setup a google hangout Friday night. We got to see each other and the palpable anxiety we are all carrying. The women in my life have been constant through this, texting me and responding to my many messages. Sharing stories and stresses. It’s not the same as being together but where would I be without it.
Which brings me to the boomers, our parents. What makes them so stubborn. Why can’t they just stay at home and do nothing like the rest of us. I try not to imagine them getting sick but the images inevitably come. I think of Italy where so many old people are dying that they can’t bury them fast enough. I think of the bodies piling in churches.
The other night, on the phone with my dad, I felt silly once I realized I was going to cry to him. But I had to convince him to close his office and the tears were coming anyway. They see that we’re trying to be the parents and resist it. But it’s not about being right or wrong and it’s not about control. My dad says it’s about fear. Maybe so. But also, I think, as we were off building our own lives, they forgot how much we still love them.