My baby’s first mask arrives in the mail on a Tuesday. She was born in the spring of 2020, a time when we wiped down groceries and Zoomed for fun. Nearly two years later, I never imagined I’d be here, trying to convince a toddler to wear a KN-95.
I slip the mask around my daughter’s downy head. The strap pinches around her skull, feathering her hair. I pull it up, a nice, snug fit over her nose and mouth. A muffled giggle escapes her lips and she teeters around, excited to wear a mask like the grown-ups.
It will be hard not to project all of my emotions about masks onto this little girl. It’s impossible not to feel sad when I remember the first part of her life, a newborn and infant phase spent in a bubble. Did we make the right decision? Did we make the wrong decision? Will there be lasting consequences to the choices we made?
My daughter met her grandparents through a window. We missed weddings and funerals and birthday parties. I never learned to use my baby carrier, never realized my fantasy of being one of those moms with a cozy baby sleepily strapped to her chest. I could still try, but she’s nearly two, and I think that would be weird.
Amid the fear and anxiety, there has been elation and gratitude, too. I have been able to work remotely throughout the pandemic. With my 2+ hour daily commute eliminated, I’ve gotten to spend so many extra hours with my daughter. Watching her learn to crawl and walk and talk is pure magic. I recognize this ability, to choose to stay home and spend time together, is a privilege.
Her mask is not a sad, polarizing symbol to her. Since the moment her goopy eyes adjusted to the fluorescent hospital lights, she’s seen masks. Masks at the doctor’s office. Masks to pick up groceries. Masks when meeting up with friends.
Now that she’s old enough to be vaccinated and wear a mask, shouldn’t I feel joy? Can I stop making such a big production of everything and go back to regularly-scheduled programming?
It’s hard for me to feel joy when it seems like we are rushing back to the old normal, the normal that wasn’t very satisfying for anyone. Rushing back to fluorescent-lit offices and soul-crushing commutes. Rushing back to a society that rarely contemplates the needs of disabled or immunocompromised individuals. Rushing back to a normal with gaping health disparities based on what you look like and where you live.
As restrictions lift and mandates drop, we continue to be cautious. It’s easy for us to continue to mask in public places. Though the adults in my family are vaccinated and boosted, we don’t want to spread a potentially serious or fatal illness to a person with a chronic health condition or someone undergoing chemotherapy. We also don’t want to cause further disruption to families with kids too young to be vaccinated.
My daughter rips the mask off her face, already bored. She smiles sweetly at me, probably thinking this is a game. To her it’s a piece of fabric, not a talisman of societal failure. I give in. We can practice keeping the mask on another time, another day. For now I will soak up these precious moments with my child. I will not worry about a return to the office, I will not worry about my e-mails, I will not worry about coughs or sniffles or transmissibility rates. I slip the mask back on and ruffle her hair, kiss her rosy cheek.
The next moment she casts it off again, and it nearly blends into the floral carpet in our guest bedroom. I will probably never look at a mask like this again without all the associations from this time, the intense waves of isolation and failure. But for now, it’s just a crumpled piece of fabric on the floor.
