On not knowing, together

Dear Emilia, Grace, Phoebe, George, 

While I’ve written about you a lot over the years, rarely have I written to you. I figure a pandemic deserves a letter, but I’m not sure where to start.

My message is a moving target. Evolving and erasing with every news update, every new report from friends on the front lines and the far coasts. Three weeks ago, I would’ve told you to bear with me. This will all pass soon. In the meantime, laugh at my mangled attempt at teaching, enjoy this instructional drawing video, go outside to play. Blink and you’ll be back with your friends.

Let’s make a schedule. Let’s make this fun.

Two weeks ago, I would’ve apologized for seeming distant. For snapping at you during math and shooing you to the backyard for lunch. I would’ve had a moment of clarity and taken you somewhere outdoors and exciting. Stay six feet away. Soak in this day.

Last week, if I were being too honest, I would’ve told you I’m scared. For our friends and family who are taking care of the sick, for Jerry and Elliot at the grocery store — the best checker and bagger duo I’ve ever known, for our loved ones who seem so fragile. For you and for me. I would’ve told you I’m trying to work through it.

When you’ve experienced sudden, out-of-order loss before, one of the parting gifts you get is a monkey who rides around on your back. The monkey waits until you’re comfortable and then whispers a rude reminder: this could all turn terrible in a split second. Those whispers leave you waiting.

Your dad stockpiles soup while I hoard horrible stories.

Today I want to tell you I am sorry, for the distracted bedtime stories and hissed explanations of germination and time. And I love you.

I’m no longer certain of much except for one thing: for the first time, as a parent, I really don’t know what I’m doing.

In those early days of newly minted motherhood, all ice packs and heart eyes, you don’t know from experience, but you know. You know from stories, from mercifully honest friends, from the communion of all the mothers who came before you.

In times of fear and frustration and grief, when you feel hobbled and held down, you have people— friends, family, anonymous message boards to guide you forward. “I’ve been there. I know.”

But this is new. This is different. No one really knows exactly where we go from here, as we hunker down at home, feeling like pioneers with Prime accounts. Privileged, grateful, but still fearful.

So for the first time, I am fully and completely uncertain. No advice behind me. No one who was there last year, or last month, who knows the way forward. And for the first time, when I imagine my journey as a mother, I am no longer leading the way, with you trailing behind me— pulling at shoelaces and picking the neighbors’ flowers. This time, you are right beside me.

Before now, this leveling of our playing field would make me nervous. I would grapple for my intuition, anxious to assume the lead. This is the thing. This is what will happen. This is what you need to understand. This is what you need to do.

Today, in the absence of certainty, I am comforted by your companionship. This isn’t something we can solve. We have to just be, together. And as the world creaks and groans, as we hunker down and hope, I am honored to have you by my side. You and you and you and you and Dad.

No one ahead. No one behind.