You won’t remember 2020, but you’ll learn about it in school. The year of the global pandemic. Lives and jobs lost to the point of the numbers almost becoming abstract and meaningless. Our favorite restaurants closed, some never to reopen. Empty apartments across San Francisco, people fleeing the city for more space and less rent. Birthdays and holidays celebrated over FaceTime and Zoom.
2020 was the year we lost your paternal grandfather, just a few weeks before the country shut down. We made it to the east coast in time for him to meet you, but you won’t remember that either. You made us all smile on a cold February day, in a gray hospital room.
2020 has been a hard year to be new parents. So many of our friends and even close family haven’t been able to meet you yet. Parenthood can be lonely and FaceTime can only help so much. I miss the way people would smile at me pushing you in your stroller or wearing you strapped to my chest. I try to imagine them smiling behind their masks.
2020 has been the year of cancelled plans. I always assumed I’d spend an overnight away from you within your first year. You’re 14 months old today and it hasn’t happened yet.
2020 was the year our dog, Tank, got cancer. One night in December you had dinner in your carseat while we waited to hear from the emergency veterinary clinic. His chemo meds sit next to your favorite snacks in the pantry.
2020 was the year we walked and walked and walked. We clocked miles upon miles in Golden Gate Park, looping around the Conservatory of Flowers and weaving our way through the Inner Richmond streets.
William. You’ve been the brightest spot in a dark year.