Call Waiting

Come On, Baby

Babies get here when they get here. All of my prognostications- the baby would come a week early, or arrive on my Dad’s birthday, or on Thanksgiving Day- were apparently wrong.

Here’s the thing. We are waiting at home in Connecticut for our first grandchild to be born in North Carolina. My daughter Rachael and son-in-law Will are his parents, and I am happy that Will’s folks and our other daughter Sarah are in Chapel Hill with them. Sam and I plan to jump into the car when Rachael’s labor begins and drive the 500 miles to get there in time for the delivery.

Re. waiting: I am not a fan. I am the sort of person who sees a long line and decides whatever it is- sports bras, deli turkey- isn’t worth the wait. Babies are, of course, worth every millisecond of the nine months they require, and it’s not like I have a choice, but none of this changes how I feel about waiting.

I am prepared. I have lesson plans for school and daughter Hannah and her partner Dan have offered to watch Charlie the dog. My friend Claudia will take in the mail and the trash cans after trash day. That stuff, I can plan; I can set the wheels to be set in motion, but one thing I can’t know is when.

Back when I was having my first kid, I waited. Hannah was due on September 25th, and she was born on October 6th. That’s a lot of waiting. The longer I waited the crazier I got, finally reaching a point when if the phone rang (remember, this was the age of landlines) I would startle, my first thought, oh, it’s the baby! Bizarre, I know, but that’s how pervasive my sense of expectation was.

This is different, in that I am expectant once removed; yet, I find myself every bit as unhinged, waiting for that call -or perhaps, this being 2021, a text- from the baby, telling me he’s on his way.