On a recent pediatrician’s visit, the doctor we’ve had since birth came into the room, looked startled behind his face shield, and said, “I don’t think we’ve met before.”
We have, I told him, my breath beneath my mask fogging up my glasses. He flipped through his papers and caught himself, saying he’d been expecting a different Julia. He was horribly embarrassed, and I, who would rather set myself on fire than allow anyone to endure a bad feeling in my presence, reassured him it was fine and tried to jog his memory by nearly screaming:
Remember, Julia with the two buttholes???
Now, let’s pause.
When Julia was born, she had a divot at the base of her spine. Having never been around babies that young until I had one, I presumed someone would tell me if it was out of the ordinary and went about my diaper-changing ways.
Sure enough, on one of her first visits with the pediatrician, he said it was worth looking into. Probably nothing. “It’s called a sacral dimple,” he said. “DON’T look it up.”
The ultrasound we scheduled for her showed everything was fine. The next time we saw him, he mused how he had a Post-it with Julia Bulka taped to his laptop and couldn’t remember why. Probably the second butthole, I ventured. Ah yes, he replied. We made jokes about two butts from Brooklyn 911 and Silicon Valley and eventually my daughter got so plump that no one could see the dimple anymore.
Didn’t he remember?
But in those days, none of us had been wearing masks. It was so much easier to put faces to names, to read expressions, to crack jokes.
When we can’t see each other, what do we miss?
A friend of mine recently lamented how wonderful her baby is, and how she’s the only one who gets to know. How the joy of knowing him has been robbed from others, and from her as his mother.
I felt for her, but also thought: Would any of us new moms be going out much anyway? Getting out of the house can be a chore, between timing visits around naps and packing diaper bags, that it often feels easier to stay home where the corners are soft.
In my more jealous moments, I’ve even felt vindicated no one else gets to go out either, while I’m confined after 7 p.m., watching my baby sleep on the night-vision monitor in a scene out of Paranormal Activity. At least I don’t have to confront the added identity crisis of my circle casually going out to bars and restaurants. The pandemic killed FOMO.
But these small upsides might only serve to obscure the grief I feel about beloved friends who didn’t get to see her grow.
Right after lockdown when, with some trepidation, I strapped my daughter to my chest in a carrier to squire her around the grocery store, people reacted with enthusiasm instead of judgement.
How long had it been since anyone got to see a baby, I thought. Since grandparents got to hold one. Proof that life does go on.
These days, especially when I find out about women who are expecting, I can barely restrain myself from trying to bond. And since Julia, I’ve gotten a lot more brave. I write the note. I send the gift.
I no longer worry about seeming like a try-hard. I go for the connection full speed — no ifs, ands, or butts.