Last week, my second daughter received her second shot of Moderna’s COVID vaccine. We are now a fully vaccinated family, a statement that feels surreal committing to words. We waited for an eternity, but our chance to make her appointment came abruptly, and I didn’t hesitate. Unlike so many other chaotic moments from this pandemic, I wasn’t skeptical. I had no difficult options to weigh. As her mother, there were no options, only two-and-a-half years of memories leading to one choice.
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I remember the last normal Friday. Friday the 13th, an omen so bad you had to laugh. We just celebrated Ruby’s first birthday with a small party at home. I was on edge, scanning the room and wondering who was the least safe among us. Less than a week later, Friday, they made us take all of the kids’ belonging home as if the school year was over. I hugged some people and elbow-bumped others. None of it made sense. Our goodbyes felt like Fridays but also like we weren’t sure when the next “hello” would be.
I remember the fever. Ruby spiked a fever and developed a terrible rash during our first 14 days at home. Everyone counted those first 14 days. No doctor would see her, but we FaceTimed with her pediatrician. He didn’t think it was the virus, but there was no way to be sure.
I remember her naps, which informed our business hours. She napped twice a day, which was a reprieve, but we still had one conscious four year old who demanded attention. At least we could take better turns when one of them slept.
I remember her sitter. She’d only been with us for a couple of months when it wasn’t safe to commingle households anymore. But when her nursing program went virtual and we fell so behind on work, we made our first risk-based pandemic decision to have her come back every afternoon. She became the girls’ second mother and my little sister.
I remember when Ruby found her legs. We hardly noticed her transition from the walking toy to an independent waddle until she squealed with success. Every milestone meant our lives were becoming more complicated and difficult to manage. The good moments were beautiful, though. Our neighborhood elementary school has a memorial garden with rainbow-painted stones that the girls loved to play games in.
I remember our mornings. Her big sister returned to school, but we knew Ruby couldn’t distance or mask and had little benefit to being there—another hard pandemic choice. Still, I was relieved that a fraction of our household could find some normalcy, allowing the rest of us to slow the speed of our cruise ship to nowhere, which was still coasting in circles at home. Ruby and I could enjoy a long, peaceful breakfast together. She always ate off my plate even if she had the same food on hers. We took our time.
I remember the first time she put on a mask. She wasn’t afraid and didn’t fight it. They had silly faces on them, so she thought they were costumes. She grew to call them her “happy, happy masks.” I think she liked to hide behind them, afraid of a world she was barely a part of.
I remember the angry woman on her second birthday. All I wanted was for Ruby to experience something normal, like choosing her own cupcake from behind the glass at the bakery. But after a misunderstanding about store capacity and mask requirements, she ripped hers off and coughed in my face.
I remember always needing to explain. The concepts couldn’t have been any simpler, but most people didn’t understand that parents of young children were living an experience all our own.
Yes, I’m aware COVID appears less severe in children.
No, our school doesn’t test to stay, but that’s great you’ve heard of one that does.
Yes, they are home right now, this very instant, watching me take this call.
No, we’re not coming unless you provide more details.
No, you can’t tell them about something fun next month.
No, you can’t hug them if you’re only on Day 5.
I remember camp. Sixteen months after leaving, her school offered a half-day summer camp that was perfect to ease her back in for preschool. At orientation, she hid behind my leg, repeating “No,” and “I said no,” over and over. I sobbed in the parking lot like a first-time parent who had never done this before. This felt worse. Worse than sleep training. Worse than taking her pacifier. Stripping her from me felt like pushing her out of a plane without a parachute.
I remember the tears. Ruby cried a lot, but she smiled when she could. That became a theme for her: loving new things but struggling through transitions. Activities were fun but home was better. I am incredibly grateful for the people who loved on her and gave her what she needed when it couldn’t be us.
I also remember the grocery store. We were at the beach and the numbers had improved. Her sister was vaccinated. We took her grocery shopping—without masks. The look of wonder on her face running up and down the aisles reminded me of all the things we never got to do with her. She was just happy to be there, to be involved, to be a small part of society.
I remember her friend—the first real friend she ever made who was hers. When she connects with someone new, it can bring me to tears. Her heart is beginning to open to new people, which finally puts mine at ease, because I knew she’ll be okay. She’s more okay each day.
*****
As the mom in this family, I’m finding it hard to move on.
Too many moments from my youngest daughter’s little life were framed around COVID. The threat of disease hung low like a cloud, if not directly then indirectly from its impact on how we parented through constant tests of our fortitude. I am grateful I’ve had the combination of privilege and luck to protect my children, but I’m deeply disturbed by how many people wouldn’t even try for us. As if we were such buzzkills, the energy-suckers, another example of Millennials snowflaking their way through adulthood, one “once-in-a-lifetime” challenge at a time.
We longed for normalcy, too. We wanted it to be over, too.
But the pandemic isn’t over. To draw that conclusion is a results-oriented cop out of the kind we, the parents of small children, felt minimized by for the past two-and-a-half years. I was amazed last summer when the Biden Administration declared victory over COVID, digital confetti flying across our phones as mask mandates lifted across the country with little concrete information on when our children would receive their jabs. Did they not matter, because they don’t spend money? The “return to office” narrative—still, with no option to vaccinate our kids—was born from the same effort to prioritize economic incentives over the American family. Both could’ve been accomplished if our schools received the support they needed to operate safely and continuously, but that wasn’t the case.
Truth is, parents often felt like a burden. Like our children were a burden. We felt tolerated instead of supported by leaders, colleagues, and sometimes even our loved ones. It’s hard to rebuild trust from there.
So now that the whole family is invited to the party, is there anything even left to celebrate?
There is. My whole family is vaccinated now. We have a new before and after now, which centers around this fact, this moment, and everything that happens next.
Our behavior is changing. We are letting go. I am not sure what our limits are anymore, but I have to give us every chance I can to expand them. If not, I will hold onto my fear and resentment forever, and even worse, put more of it onto my kids. They’ve lived under these boundaries and rules with only the scant understanding of why we had them for a long time.
Ruby should see the inside of more stores, play at more friends’ houses, ride the train somewhere new. But the shift is bigger than what they can or can’t do. I am trying to give them something back they may not even realize they’ve lost, or in Ruby’s case, she never had: her full childhood.
Now that we are here, I want them to wish, and hope, and believe. Because maybe if they do, I will again, too.
I think (I hope) I’m done writing about COVID forever. Are you ready for a fresh start, too? LMK: averagejoelle3@gmail.com
The little things
Staying hydrated is a persistent life goal of mine. But until this summer, I had no idea how good a dewy, fresh face would feel for my skincare routine. Supergoop’s Glow Screen is an SPF 40 sunscreen with a radiant tint. It’s perfect to use for an afternoon out where you want some protection without looking ghoulish. Glossier's Futuredew is an oil serum hybrid that should be the last step in your regimen. Somehow, it gives off the shine of someone who just had a facial but never looks greasy.
Also
HAPPY BEYONC-DAY!
Your wins
Pip’s five-year-old daughter has suddenly started showering instead of taking baths and is even trying to wash her own hair. This new development is about to make their upcoming vacation a breeze. WTG, Pip and fam!
God help your children. You are a ScienTISM not science follower. Here are real documents about Moderna. The lies they told parents like you https://jessicar.substack.com/p/moderna-safety-document-quick-make