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One year ago, Tony was at a bachelor party in Chamonix (!!). I was very pregnant and on a seven-and-a-half-hour train ride to Vermont to spend a long weekend with one of my cheese heroes, Allison Hooper, the founder of Vermont Creamery.
I’m not the most confident driver, and I figured January in Vermont might be icy. A train ride would be peaceful. I could read, write, and head to the bathroom a million times. There was almost nobody else on the train. Out the window, snow-covered mountains and naked trees.
Allison asked me if I skied. I’ve always wanted to learn, but I figured the third trimester of pregnancy wasn’t the best time to start. So we spent most of our time talking in her big kitchen or by the fireplace, visiting the goats, or reading with big mugs of tea, the sky so grey out the window everything looked as if it was in black and white.
It was one of the last times I remember feeling deeply content. Then, there was a global pandemic. There were rumors the subway might be shutting down. The shelves in the grocery store were half empty. (Plenty of veggies, no pasta or beans or toilet paper.) Tony, who’s office was very old school and believed work didn’t count unless your butt was in the chair at your desk, sent him to work from home. I lost my restaurant reviewing contract (of course.)
Our lives changed, as did everyone else’s lives. A few weeks later, we had a baby girl, Simone.
It’s been a long time since then. Pandemic time feels weird anyway, days endlessly long and yet running together. The baby upended our life in a different way, those early, blurry days of close to zero sleep and excitement and worry. It’s hard for me to know which gigantic life changes were because of the baby and which were because of covid.
Slowly, Simone slept more. After the first time we saw friends, some time in summer, socially distanced on my parents’ porch, I cried. I didn’t realize how deeply I missed the simple human connection. Laughing with someone. Telling a story. Listening.
We have seen friends and family this year, but it’s very, very limited. Making plans involves carefully coordinated walks around Simone’s nap times or testing/quarantining, then testing/quarantining again after.
I know how enormously lucky I am. I have amazing family and friends, the world’s best husband, a cuddly dog, and a baby girl. My love for her feels crushing. We have jobs, a lovely home, and really delicious things to eat and drink.
And yet, these last few weeks have felt so dark. It is winter and some days, even my daily walk feels like too much. Every day is somehow both very hard and very dull.
I miss looking forward to trips and little things, somebody’s birthday or a coffee just to catch up, drinks with friends. Hugs. Spontaneity. Getting off one subway stop early to walk through the West Village just because I had a few extra minutes, and it was a pretty day. Working, reading, and daydreaming in coffee shops. Going to spin class or yoga class. Restaurants. Having people over for dinner. Having people over at all. I thought being a mom was going to be a community thing, but it’s a lonely thing these days. Relentless and exhausting.
It’s beautiful too, but some days it’s hard for me to feel that. I’m holding onto the fact that some of our friends and family have already been vaccinated, and one day in the not-too-distant future we will be, too. Spring is coming. This, too, shall pass.
(But damn, some days are hard.)
Back in July, when Simone was a little peanut.