April 8, 2016
I missed my blog date a couple of weeks ago, and feel like an errant student who failed to turn in a homework assignment. But my excuse was legitimate, I promise.
It all started nine months ago when my son and daughter-in-law surprised us by a phone call. “What are you doing April 3rd?, Melanie asked. “I don’t know,” I replied via speaker phone. “I suppose anything you want us to.” “Good then,” she said, “Because I wonder if ya’ll would like to come meet your grandchild.”
And that’s how the story started. Needless to say, my husband and I had a few tears of joy that day. This grandchild would be number one. My son David and his wife Melanie didn’t even want to know the sex.
For months, people would say, “Do you know what they’re having?” “Not a clue,” replied I, and I was perfectly fine with their decision as I never knew, and wanted to respect their process. All I prayed for was healthy.
Anyway, the months passed—sort of like wildfire, and Melanie, an R.N., kept working her hospital shift. “When are you going to take some time off?” I’d gasp. “I’m fine,” she said. What I was worried about was she’s thin and when I showed a friend her “baby bump,” she said, “Are you kidding me? That’s lunch.”
Fast forward 38 weeks and she’s finally showing—what’s more, she’s all baby. Friday the 25th she worked a 13-hour shift, came home to what she thought was Braxton Hicks. To get comfortable, she did what she always does—walk. Now remember her due date is April 3rd.
I was so proud of their decision to use a birthing center, midwife and doula, and my son got on the phone with the midwife who assured Dave they had time—new mom’s generally don’t deliver early. But finally in the early morning hours, the couple started to have their doubts. The midwife said, put her on the phone, and that’s when she heard the panting in Melanie’s voice, and said, “You better get her to the birthing center. “Well, by then that wasn’t going to happen because babies, not parents or midwife’s, decide when they’re ready.
Now in most cases the couple might panic, but my daughter-in-law works with premies and newborns so she simply drew a bath, while my son stayed on the phone, and handled the process herself and just beautifully. And at 7 a.m., with seven burly EMTs standing by in their very tiny living room, my granddaughter, Norah Jane was born at a healthy 8 lbs! By then the midwife was present and my son cut the cord. Further, the midwife said she’d never seen a more perfect setting for a delivery.
So, there’s my excuse; frankly, I think it’s better than the dog ate my homework. But if you’d like proof… I’m one happy grandma. And if you want the truth, I’m not feeling the least bit guilty. As a matter of fact, I’m feeling so blessed.