Pregnant in a Pandemic - A letter to you, baby boy.

On a sunny day in late June, you arrived.

I’ll never forget the moment the nurse laid you on my chest, and the immense sense of relief I felt. I looked at your dad, tears filling my eyes, and I looked back at you.

I’m so glad you’re here, baby boy.

There some things you’ll only know through stories we share with you, about the nine months you lived inside me and the worry that the world caused us.

From the moment the pregnancy test told us you existed, we worried. It was all normal stuff at that point, hoping you’d be healthy and that we’d get to meet you one day. And then in February, the worry amplified.

People started hoarding toilet paper, hand sanitizer and Clorex wipes. You couldn’t find them in stores. Covid-19 took over the headlines. We were preparing our own emergency kits and I started shopping lists that were full of medicines to stock the cabinets, canned food for just in case the world went even more wild and we were filling the garage freezer with meats and bread and anything that would keep. We filled the motorhome with fuel and propane, just in case we needed it and then we watched the news, which the 24 hour news cycle we live with was enough to make everyone feel even more crazy.

People were dying. With the virus being novel, we, as a country and a world, had to watch to learn how it acted and reacted. Controversy over face-coverings were the norm. For awhile, we were disinfecting groceries and delivery packages before they were allowed in our house. UPS would deliver things, and we’d leave them outside for 48 hours worrying that a virus could live on cardboard that long.

Then, hospitals became overrun. There weren’t enough beds for patients and enough ventilators for those who needed them. Tents popped up in cities to house the sick.

And then we worried more.

Would there be a hospital bed for us?

We half-joked with a friend who is a skilled nurse through “what if” scenarios.

I started going to our doctor appointments alone, because guests weren’t allowed. I had ultrasounds without your dad being there to see you dancing around my belly.

Would your dad be able to be in the delivery room with me? Could I do this alone?

I kept working, but so many of my friends lost their jobs. The economy tanked, and companies struggled to recover and stay viable. I felt so isolated. We were quarantining, in effort to mitigate the virus. I didn’t see your grandparents for weeks. Schools went all virtual, and daycares closed, leaving your dad and I to balance caring for your sister and working full time. It wasn’t all bad and the silver linings were thick. We got to spend so much time just the three of us, we worked on projects around our house and property and we were forced to truly slow down. I’ll always be thankful for that.

And then, in May, George Floyd was murdered on camera by police officers in Minneapolis and everything started to feel just so, hopeless and crushing. Beautiful peaceful protests took over our city, but headlines focused on small but dangerous riots. Messages were getting lost but people kept fighting for the right voices to be heard.

Oh, and just general being pregnant with you things - complications, which I’ll tell you about another time.

But then you were here, happy healthy and whole (which was my mantra the whole time). Your dad drove me to the hosptial. There was a place for us. He was there the entire time. We had to send photos and videos and Facetime family members, because they weren’t allowed to meet you in the hospital. I’m sad we don’t have those iconic family pictures other people have with your big sister joining us in the hopsital bed, meeting you for the first time. But we have other things that are just as sweet.

I like to end these peices with a lesson learned. But I don’t know if I can do that right now. I think whatever lesson is to be learned in all this might still be in process. But I’ll tell you these two things I know for sure -

We can do hard things.

I’ll work my hardest to make the world a better place for you and your sister. Always.