My Pandemic Baby Is Turning Five

Looking back on 2020.

My son is about to turn five this week. If you just did the math, first of all, I’m sorry for making you do math, but second, you’ve probably worked out he was born in May of 2020. Not a great time to have a baby, much less a first baby. While everyone else in the world (it seemed) was learning to bake sourdough bread, taking up new hobbies, and watching Tiger King, I was bringing home a newborn with absolutely no idea what to do and, besides my husband, who was equally clueless about infants, nobody to ask for help.

It used to be when I met another parent of a 2020 baby, we would share a knowing grimace. “Oh, you had one, too?” we’d ask each other and compare notes.

“Mine was born right when everything shut down, so we weren’t allowed to wear masks.”

“Mine was when we had to wear masks but still couldn’t get a Covid test.”

“Mine was when nobody could see the baby unless they got a Covid test.”

But it’s after we compare hospital experiences that things get softer, quieter, a little deeper, and we share the next part. My baby didn’t meet anyone for one month. Two months. Six months.

We were alone.

We were alone.

We were alone.

Now when I meet other parents of five-year-olds, we share those stories less and less. We talk more about normal kid stuff, who is in gymnastics, the best parks, what foods our five-year-olds will actually eat. Those lonely baby days of 2020 seem far away now, like a strange dream.

On the week of my son’s fifth birthday, I want to share this essay I wrote when he was only a few months old. Our lives now are so full and bustling, always on the move, always seeing new places, meeting friends and going to and from soccer practice and preschool events, I can barely imagine that five years ago we spent every day alone inside or wandering around by ourselves with his stroller, at least ten feet apart from everyone else. For months, nobody but me and my husband even knew him, which, ok, he was a baby so there wasn’t much to know, but we didn’t know when they would. When I see him hug his teachers or his grandparents, I don’t think about the fact that for months nobody held him but us. But it’s there. It pumps through my blood the way you become immune to a virus once you’ve had it. My body created a little piece that always remembers. We were alone. We were alone. We were alone. But look at us now.

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The following essay was originally written in 2020.

Every morning when my three-month-old wakes up, he throws his little arms in the air like he’s celebrating the new day. The truth is, it’s a reflex. His arms spring up from his swaddle the same way every morning because my husband and I strap them down tightly by his sides all night (I swear, it’s the recommended way for babies to sleep these days). This is just what they do when they are finally free. But every morning, for just that one second where it looks like he’s cheering on the day like the day is his favorite soccer team and the day just scored a winning goal in overtime, it makes me happy, too.

For a second I forget that this day is going to be the same as yesterday and the same as tomorrow and the day after that and after that and after that on until maybe forever, who knows in quarantine.

We wake up, usually far earlier than I’d like, but you can’t reason with babies. I breastfeed. I dangle toys above his head. I breastfeed. I prop him on his baby pillow, turn his body away from the TV and watch an episode of 90 Day Fiancé. I breastfeed. I put him in his bouncy chair and try to make lunch before he cries. I breastfeed while eating lunch over his head, careful not to drip cheese on the soft brown locks of hair that are slowly filling in. If it’s not too hot, we get ready to go for a walk. I put on clothes and pick out a mask. I lug his stroller down the stairs. I pray that nobody breathes on him. We come home. I breastfeed. I read him Hello, Baby Animals! And tell him about each of the animals.

That’s a dog. You’ll meet one someday. That’s a horse. You’ll meet one of those one day, too. That’s a panda. You probably won’t meet one of those.

I breastfeed. My mom, his grandmother, Facetimes us. She was finally able to come up to meet him a few weeks ago. She drove 16 hours to avoid taking a plane. His grandfather, my dad, has blood clots, so he couldn’t drive that far. He still hasn’t met his grandson. His other grandparents haven’t either. Nobody has held him but us. Nobody has felt his soft weight in their arms, every day a little heavier, every day the onesies friends and family bought for him at my baby shower get shorter. They never got to see him wear them. When I hold him, I feel his weight, twelve pounds of baby. Twelve pounds of learning to smile, learning to grasp his soft muslin blanket in his hands. He laughs when I brush his hand against the cat.

But I also feel the weight of all the things he has missed. Nobody on the street asking how old he is. Nobody staring into his eyes and telling him he looks just like his momma (he does). No mothers’ groups. Some days I’m just so tired. I have to hold him almost all day long. He craves me and my husband’s constant touch, he hates to be alone. Every day the same. I narrate what I’m doing while I empty the dishwasher.

This is where the plates go. This is what a cup feels like. Can you feel the cold from the fridge?

I hope I’m giving him enough. We can only give him what we have. When he was born, I had to pull down my mask so he could see my face. His face was not like I thought it would be at all. A whole different baby from the one I’d imagined. Everything is different from what I imagined. I breastfeed. He falls asleep in my arms and my husband whisks him off to bed, straps his arms down in the swaddle tight against his sides. He wakes up a few minutes later and lets out a cry when he realizes he’s not against my body anymore. He hates to be alone. I know the feeling.