Shelter from the Storm

Dear Conor,

We named you for an ancient king from a heritage that I love and for a beloved brother. In the hope that you are wise and strong, and that you inherit your uncle’s excellent taste in music.

There is a jar full of shells in your nursery. It’s from a walk on the most beautiful beach on the Isle of Skye. I didn’t know it when I walked hand in hand with your dad, picking up the shells and putting them in our pockets, that you were there. But you were. A little stowaway that would make that week one of the most magical of my life. 

That’s how the story of you started. With your dad and I in the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, hiking with fairies, staying out late listening to the songwriters in Inverness, you were there for all of that beauty and love. That’s in you.

On the way back home, so excited to pick up your big sister from Grandma and Grampa’s, we were delayed and I was exhausted. I tried to get some sleep on the floor of JFK, but felt light headed. Your dad started to suspect you. When we got home I went upstairs and sure enough. Two lines. 

Conor, we were over the moon. 

My pregnancy with you was smooth (until it wasn’t). We glided along through the fall and Christmas, that thanksgiving I’ve never felt more grateful. A little girl and a boy on the way. How could I be so lucky. 

Then in the new year the world changed fast. At first the news didn’t seem so scary, until all at once it was. It changed everything about the end of my pregnancy with you. But you know, life does that. It throws a curveball, and you press on. You were coming no matter how scared I was and no matter how different it looked. So we hunkered down and waited for you. 

Just as spring was making itself known on the trees and on the green creeping up the mountains, we donned our face masks and headed to the hospital. That day was the longest of my life waiting for you to come. I mopped floors and disinfected and cried and watched a romcom. And then, finally, it was time. 

In the hospital your dad was very calm and I was not. I tell you this because it’s the truth. I wish I could tell you I was a pillar of strength and faith and unshakeable maternal wisdom. But I was terrified.

How am I going to push with a mask on? We need to disinfect everything in the room. Did that nurse remember to put gloves on? 

I also tell you this because we can be full of fear, and go forward anyway. So that’s what I did and it brought me you. 

You were big and the pushing was hard. And as you made your way into the world I doubted myself, the past six weeks had taken a toll. So much unknown. I looked at your dad and he looked at me over his mask and I remembered that sunset on the beach in Skye.

Right now hopping on a plane and going to the other side of the world seems impossible. The things we all took for granted, right?

But it won’t always be. I pushed as you crowned because, god willing, you will get to go there someday. You are hope.

I think of the women I know bringing babies into the world right now. My college roommate, my childhood neighbor, all the women who live on my block. Not really, but kind of. All these babies. 

My sister reminded me of a needlepoint my parents had on our wall growing up. It said “a baby is God’s opinion that the world should go on” 

And so we women push through the fear and you babies give us hope.

They laid you on my chest and when you opened your eyes, nothing else existed. 

For the first time in months, it was just you. You and me and your dad. Just like on Skye.

While the storm raged all around us, our hospital room became a sanctuary. 

What pandemic? 

I keep thinking of the picture from the hospital when June was born and how the colors look different than in our picture with you. June’s photo is blown out with color, yours more muted but beautifully detailed. Everything in it seems to carry weight. That’s how it was when you were born. 

The sadness of the time making the joy more acutely felt. More needed. More clear. 

We love you, baby boy. Welcome to the world.

Love, mom