I have the most beautiful son that came into the world two weeks ago and I have the most vibrant daughter that’s been with us for over three years. Our family couldn’t be more complete and yet my heart feels heavy. Bringing a baby into the world during a pandemic isn’t what I imagined. I pictured bringing him home to fanfare and family. I pictured adventure. I pictured being with people and people being with us. And instead, I’m sitting alone in my car, taking a minute to write because I don’t have anywhere that I can go where I feel safe.
Yesterday I took our son to the doctor for his two week check-up and the recommendation given was that we continue to quarantine because it simply isn’t safe to have a newborn around anyone that has potentially been exposed to COVID. It wasn’t a surprise to hear, but my heart still broke. I walked into that office hoping to hear that things weren’t as bad as we had previously imagined, that we shouldn’t be afraid and could instead start safely venturing out.
But because that wasn’t the case, I’m now sitting in the gap between what I expected and what I was given. Hope deferred really does make the heart sick...
Being cocooned with my husband, my daughter and my son has in many ways, been a gift I couldn’t have ever anticipated. The constant-ness of living in small quarters, 24/7 forces you to grapple with things you may not have touched had you been given the space of normal living. And those things are often game changers in the best way.
I’ve watched my daughter dance for hours, create elaborate and intricate stories from the depths of her imagination and laugh from her gut with abandon. I’ve sat in adoration of her snuggles and smiles and crazy sense of humor. And I’ve also cried as I’ve watched her encounter the hard realities of being a part of this human race. I’ve sat in silence as I’ve wondered how to answer the innocent questions of why from a three year old... Why can’t we see family? Why can’t we go in the store? Why can’t I see my friends? My heart aches when I heart her softly whisper that she wishes we could go to the playground or that we could go swimming at Mimi’s. I know with all of my reason that she will not only be okay, but that all of this will be a part of what shapes her into the incredible human she is and will continue to be; but yet my heart still breaks because I wish it was different.
I wish it wasn’t hard.
I wish we didn’t have to make impossible decisions.
I wish we weren’t alone.
But wishes are fantasy. And while fantasy has its place, it doesn’t determine reality. Instead, that is up to us. So here we are - joys and terrors intricately entwined before us. What will we do? Who will we become?
There has never been a moment in my life, not one, when the hard hasn’t been radically transformed into the most awe-inspiring beauty. And so I for one will stand in this ache and will know, in the depths of my soul, that this too will be beautiful - that the streaks of color will only add to the landscape and that grief is an important stroke on the canvas.
Hope is never truly lost. It only hides right before the bloom.