Call Me Nana

This time it was no false alarm. When the call came at 7:00 a.m. last Thursday, I could clearly hear my daughter in the background in obvious distress. As my son-in-law calmly explained that they had been at the hospital for two hours already but had waited to call until they were sure, I was already slipping into my clothes and waving to my husband to get a move on.

We were about to become grandparents.

After flying out of the house without breakfast (who could think of food at a time like this?), my husband took the wheel (who could drive at a time like this?), negotiating the rush hour traffic without a single curse word. I, however, was not as civil. Didn't these people know our daughter was having a baby? Couldn't they have had the decency to have taken a sick day or scheduled a vacation to Tahiti?

Thankfully, when we finally arrived, our daughter was in better shape than she had been earlier. The nice doctor with the needle had been to visit right before we got there and the epidural was slowly starting to work it's magic. After welcoming the paternal grandparents to the party, we spent the next few hours talking, laughing, and marveling at the miracle that was taking place.

A little before noon, it was go time. The nurses called for the doctor and shuttled all but the delirious dad into a separate waiting area. The four anxious grandparents-to-be spent the next two hours checking our phones, calling our friends and praying.

When my son-in-law stuck his head around the corner, we thought it was all over. Hardly. Things had stalled. Our daughter was doing great but our grandson had not yet made his appearance. That's when I asked if it would be okay for me to pop in and check up on her.

I didn't expect to stay. I didn't want to take anything away from their moment as a couple. But as I was getting ready to excuse myself, they both wholeheartedly invited me to stay; to be a part of the biggest day of their lives.

There was no way I was going to say no. And if I had, I would have missed one of the most memorable days of my life.

Encouraged by the nurses to jump right in, I did what I could, offering words of encouragement and support as her husband counted through each contraction. Throughout the next two challenging hours, I marveled at my daughter's steely determination and courage and my son-in-law's calm, confident demeanor. When my first grandson finally did make his appearance, the room erupted with such joy and relief that I felt blessed beyond belief to have been able to share in his parents' sheer elation and document the new family's first moments with my trusty Nikon.

Since then, I've taken 1,472 photos, spent countless hours staring at his sweet little face, and started looking into trips to Disney World.

What? Too soon?

Hurry Up and Wait

Yesterday was supposed to be the day. The weather was beautiful, my husband and I were both available, and I had 9/14/14 in the "guess the baby's arrival date" pool. It was a done deal; especially after our daughter called before nine to let us know they were heading to the hospital.

So why am I still grandchild-less?

The hospital gave the usual song and dance as they sent my kid packing. "Go for a walk; call us when contractions are stronger; he's not quite ready."

Not quite ready? What kind of passive/aggressive diva (can a boy be a diva?) behavior is that?

Obviously, this child has no idea how many people are breathlessly waiting to meet him. He has no clue how many people are chomping at the bit to shower him with love and affection (and trips to Toys R Us). He can't begin to imagine the fun he's going to have once he gets a load of the crazy family he's about to be born into. If he did, he wouldn't be hunkered down in that claustrophobic nightmare he calls home and he would get his cute little butt (head first, if you please) out here.

His new digs are ready. His two sets of first-time grandparents are ready. And his mother is really ready.

I hate to say this but it looks like somebody has a little selfish streak in him.

Labor Days

Today I attended a "gender reveal" party, something that didn't exist a couple of decades ago when I had my kids. The mom-to-be, my one and only niece and her husband hosted the event attended by family and friends, eager to learn whether they would be buying dresses or overalls for the highly anticipated winter arrival. An avid baker, my niece decided cupcakes filled with either blue or pink icing would be an appropriate message delivery system. I can't argue. In fact, from now on I want all communication from all sources to come inside chocolatey desserts.

Anyway, at the count of three we all bit into our yummy treats to discover that we were about to welcome a little boy into the family. Those who had correctly predicted the gender gloated; those who had not, pouted and took another bite of their consolation prize. As I watched the future parents being hugged and congratulated, I couldn't help thinking about my own children's entry into the world - one's gender a surprise until the last; one's known a couple of weeks before.

Our daughter was born in January, almost exactly when this new little guy is expected. It was one of the coldest, snowiest Januarys on record and all I was worried about was whether I would end up making it to the hospital or end up on the ten o'clock news having delivered my first child in the back of our car in the middle of a blizzard. (Note to niece: do not pick a hospital thirty minutes from your house!) When she safely popped out via C-section, I was so thrilled that everyone was okay (and not frozen in the middle of a snowbank), I barely had a chance to register my delight at having a little girl. I had secretly hoped for a daughter and now I had one.

The next time around, we had an ultrasound shortly before our son's birth to assess his size. When the doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender, we hemmed and hawed a bit, wondering if we would be short-changing ourselves from the big delivery room surprise. But curiosity won out and we left the office knowing we would be welcoming a son (although it still took us five days to name him after his birth). When he finally made his appearance, I soon found out that he was everything I never knew I always wanted.

In the end, the way we learned our children's gender didn't matter. In the delivery room or in your doctor's office, learning the sex of your baby is a monumental moment. Once "it" becomes he or she, something changes. "It" becomes your son or your daughter and everything becomes very, very real.

And very, very wonderful.