Her front door is going to stay closed for the next six weeks. I completely understand. I completely agree. And I am so sad
I stop short.
I’ll what? I’ll hold her? Bathe her? Diaper her?
How can I possibly hold her? What if I sneeze? What if a breath escapes my mask? What if a single germ lies dormant on my sleeve? How can I take that risk? For her, for her exhausted mother?
Her mother. My daughter. She needs to relax, not be busy entertaining energetic first-graders. She needs to sleep, and eat nourishing meals, and get her strength back, not make do with scrambled eggs and pasta.
She needs help.
And I want to be the one to help.
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