Paws into the Honeypot

You may recall that in my last letter I wrote of my upcoming visit with my younger son and his wife and my two little grandsons. Because of COVID restrictions, I had never met the littlest, who is now a robust seven months old, nor had I seen the three-and-a-half-year-old or even my son or daughter-in-law since Christmas 2019. Altogether, this has been a ten month stretch of misery for our family.

The weekend before last, however, was intended to be our reunion with them in an Airbnb we were going to rent together in New York. How joyful it would be to put my arms around them all at last. To return to the metaphor I used in my last letter, the one from Winnie the Pooh, we would finally be able to dip our paws back into the honeypot of family love.

To ensure everyone’s safety, we had all been tested for COVID a few days before meeting and had isolated within our “pods” for ten days or–in the case of my son’s family–for longer. We felt confident that the risk of transferring the virus was minimal.

And then, on the eve of our departure, came a scare. My grandson’s nanny’s husband had contracted the disease. In a mad scramble, my son’s family, as well as the nanny, had already taken fresh tests, both a rapid test and a PCR. Overnight, we waited for the results. Nothing came through. The next morning, I insisted that we drive to New York regardless, and promised my son that we would turn back if anyone’s results came in positive.

We made the six and a half hour trek, waiting for my cell to ring. He phoned in every few hours, sorrow overwhelming his voice as he told us that there was no news yet. Brad and I arrived at the house and put away the groceries. By then I was crying and begging my son to come to us regardless. Perhaps foolishly, perhaps understandably, I just didn’t care anymore. If we had to turn around and go back to Maryland without seeing them I would be depressed for weeks to come.

Still no word by late Friday night.

And then, suddenly, the rapid tests came in negative for everyone involved—including their nanny. I was ready to rejoice, but now my son grew adamant in a new way: rapid tests are only 70% accurate and he wasn’t willing to stake my health, or Brad’s, on an only partially accurate indicator. “I would never forgive myself,” he told me, his voice cracking, “if I gave you or Brad COVID.”

The gray dawn of Saturday morning was broken by the sound of my phone. Still no word on the PCR’s—even though the laboratories work through the night for both kinds of COVID tests. At this point I stopped pressuring my son: I could not help but see how stressed he had grown. I also recognized that he was most likely being smart about not taking any chances, as Brad and I are in a bit of a high risk pool—even though more than 90% of those our age who come down with the virus do recover. My son and I agreed that without negative results from the PCR’s that day, we would not meet. I was devastated.

Two hours later, just when I had given up and was about to repack my suitcase, he called back. All the PCR’s taken on the five of them were negative. My family of four would be there within an hour or so.

As the time for their arrival drew near, I went out to the front porch and waited, nearly vibrating with anticipation. When their car pulled up, I hurled myself into my son’s arms, where we had a hug that lasted and lasted. Then, on to the treat of my new grandson, who beamed even though he did not know me, and who put his arms out so that I could take him in warm embrace. Then on to my next boy, who had grown so big and yet still hid his face behind his hands for a bit; soon he reappeared and was as sunny as his brother—and extremely articulate once he felt comfortable with us.

The rest of the weekend was chockablock full with a trip to a farm, where we fed the goats and sheep and watched the chickens peck for grain. We had lunch beside a pond where swans paddled. We played soccer with the ball and net I had brought as a gift. I rejoiced in giving our little one his bottle and following him around as he crawled from room to room, trying to push the toy I’d packed in my suitcase for him—though it was a little too big for his age. The three-year-old and I played innumerable games of Monopoly, with rules created solely from our imaginations. At bedtime, I could hear the family lullabies filtering down from overhead as Brad set the table and I got the pasta ready for supper.

When it came time to say goodbye, my eyes overflowed. It had been such a special weekend, made even more joyous because it almost hadn’t happened at all. My son was right to delay things till we had news of the negative test results, and I was right to persevere and wait for the Almighty or a Fairy Godmother to intervene.

I anticipate our next visit together, just before Christmas, with the appropriate precautions of testing and isolation undertaken once more. It is necessary to base those precious days on juggling acts that allow everyone to remain within their appropriate pods: Brad’s younger daughter and her partner will come for Thanksgiving, driving long miles to avoid a plane trip. My son and his family will come for an isolated stretch just before Christmas, (so that we can enjoy a slightly postponed Hanukkah, as well), and then leave early in the morning on the twenty-fifth, cutting short the festivities. My sister will come, I hope, for Christmas lunch, and Brad’s older daughter and her family will share our Christmas dinner and as much time as they want afterward. All will test.

After having taken the appropriate precautions, everyone will be included in some way, as we take turns—with gratitude—during this crazy time. Though my family will not need to squeeze itself into a ubiquitous Zoom session, (which may be the best solution for those who cannot, or don’t wish to, isolate and test, or who live too far from each other to be in the same room), I imagine getting together via computer may be their best option, even though it is not optimal or what I would choose. Creativity and new ways to celebrate our special times are required now, otherwise a mire of disappointment or depression can overwhelm those family members and friends who are left alone.

As we make these arrangements today for the coming holidays, I am happy to report that, once again, the honeypot in my household is very full, indeed. May the one in your home be equally so.

Yours,