They were all at the hospital--mother Dee, sister Cheryl, mother-in-law Vivian, great-grandmother Ana, even sister Lona who had given birth just three weeks earlier, and, of course, great-grandmother Leta. They were the women of the family—both sides—and all filled with high expectations that early Saturday morning in October.
Pat went into labor as she did with her second child deep in the night, just after they had all retired. Father-to-be Don called his mother Vivian first. He usually did. Always a light sleeper, Vivian awakened on the first ring and knew intuitively that her third grandchild was on the way. She subsequently telephoned Pat’s mother Dee, receiving a grumpy greeting from Bill who answered the phone. He had just arrived home and fallen asleep, Dee explained apologetically when she and her youngest daughter Cheryl arrived at the hospital. Friday night was his poker night. Vivian nodded sympathetically, but they all knew—nearly every night was Bill’s poker night.
Of course, Pat had already gone into false labor twice, and the baby was late. She’s on her own schedule, Leta said, but no one seemed to notice. As they had with the previous baby, they referred to the unborn child as she, imbuing the word with all the intentionality seven women and one overly excited adolescent girl could manage. That girl was Vivian’s daughter Linda, Leta’s granddaughter, who at 12 was still too young to be awakened and taken to the hospital, even though she wanted to. Even though it was Saturday and she didn’t have school, which she complained to her mother later that morning. But she was easily pacified with the promise of a visit later in the day. While she still had time, Linda ran out the door to tell all of her friends she was an aunt for the third time, but the first time for a girl.
“Third time’s a charm,” Ana said once they heard the news that Pat delivered the first girl of her generation on both sides of the family. Both Pat and Don were the eldest, and Pat’s siblings had just started marrying. Don’s were still too young—he and Linda had a brother Larry, only age 14. Previously Pat had two sons, and her next younger sister Lona’s three-week-old infant was also a boy. While there were a couple of girls of that generation in Pat’s family, for Leta’s family, this was the first great-granddaughter, which made the occasion special for all of them.
The gathering of women crowded into the hospital room, more than what was officially allowed, but Pat was holding their new baby—their girl—and they all wanted to see and touch the beauty.
“Michele Marie,” Pat said joyfully, but also thoroughly worn out from her exertion. She had waited almost her entire life and through two boys to say that, having held the name and hope in her heart since she first held a neighbor lady’s new baby when she was a little girl. Like she did with her sons, she stared lovingly at the newborn, wrapped up in her arms. With a smile on her face, she fell asleep, still holding the child. The nurse came to take the child almost immediately, as was customary, but Leta stopped her.
“No, not yet,” Leta said.
“But…” the nurse protested. “She’s asleep. That’s not—“
“They’re fine,” Leta interrupted sternly. “We’ll let you know.”
This was a moment for all of them to savor.
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