My doctor says I’m good to spend the weekend in Hudson, N.Y., with Maria, my daughter Emma and granddaughter Robin, who loves to pose for photos.
(The photo above was Ribon’s class picture, as you can tell, she isn’t shy about posing.)
We’ve been trying to figure out a way to get together since the pandemic began; Emma lives in a Brooklyn hot zone and says she doesn’t want to be the person who gives me Covid-19.
I know I’m not the perfect or typical smitten grandfather, but I am eager to see my daughter again and to look at my granddaughter, who appears to be hot.
But Covid isn’t going away; it’s just changing stripes and zoning in on older people like me with heart disease and diabetes.
I’ve got all my boosts and vaccinations, but I’m told that doesn’t matter as much as I thought it would. I’m one of those people who doesn’t mind at all when the government tells me what to do about Covid.
I got a phone lesson in Covid caution this morning.
I’ve got my box of 9-95 masks; I’ll avoid indoor dining, rub my hand with disinfectant whenever I touch a door, store or restaurant knob, or gas pump, and keep away from crowds and crowded places.
“You know how you probably touch the gas pump and then touch your face?” the nurse asked. “Well, don’t do that.”
I’ve gotten lax about the disinfectant and about touching my face after touching things others have touched without disinfecting my hands.
I’ll up my game for the visit.
We do have a hitch, of course.
Emma reports she’s getting sick. She tested negative for Covid but might have trouble getting out for the weekend. Her husband Jay is out of town.
I’ve put together a very sophisticated and funky bag of books for Robin; she is, like her mother, a voracious reader. She also had her own Ipad; of course, this is Brooklyn.
I told her to do what she needed; we had a whole summer ahead of us to switch dates if we needed to. We both think it’s time, and I am guessing it will happen.
If not, we’ll deal with it.