Essential

Dear Aspen, We were early by ten minutes. I drove you around the block. The long way around. Out by Prince Eddy’s, then loop around across Main then toward the water. There’s construction out there. I didn’t know that. You hated the bumps.

We got back to The Hub at 8:13. That gave us two minutes to unload and find a yellow pylon. Our slot is 8:15.

Margie—dressed in full PPE passed me the thermometer. I tried to take Linden’s temperature, but he asked me to do yours first. I did.

After the screening questions and goodbyes it was time for you to walk through the big door without me. Parents aren’t allowed inside the daycare anymore.

You didn’t cry, but you backed into me and pushed your body against mine. You held my leg. You wouldn’t walk alone even though we both know you can.

Then Margie winked at you through her safety goggles. I’m sure she was smiling too, but there was a mask in the way. Margie took a new towel and tossed it over her shoulder. You ran to her.

She picked you up. She turned and walked inside. You smiled back at me. I think you were playing us to get extra cuddles.

Today is your second day back at The Hub. So much has changed. You walk now. You talk now.

Your bag stays inside now. You’re in a small group now. You have an exact drop-off and pick-up time now. You get poked in the ear each morning, and I’m not allowed to help you settle inside.

But the things that matter most haven’t changed at all. What matters most are the people around you. The people who don’t let masks or goggles get in the way of smiles and giggles. There’s no way I could stand outside for two hours in full PPE and smile.

Aspen, I need you to learn the meaning of essential.

The thermometer and masks are required. The small groups are needed. The clorox and screening questions and exact timing are critical.

But what was essential for you was a wink through a quarter-inch of Plexiglas

It’s people who are essential, Aspen. People and what they do to show love.

People like Margie.