I am preparing a school lunch box for a 5 year old. Though this is not foreign to me, I’m having to draw upon a few of the tired, old memories that have long sense abandoned the frontal lobe of my brain. Add to this, I am in a kitchen that is not mine. I have no idea where my daughter keeps her Ziploc bags. The buttons on the microwave are unfamiliar. The black coffee is the only thing that feels halfway normal.
For the last 8 days I have been on call, because for the last 9 months my youngest daughter has been pregnant.
“When the baby comes, can you help us with the girls? They’ll need to get to school while we’re at the hospital.”
When she asked me that question, I was feeling confident.
“If you don’t feel up to it, I can get someone else to watch them,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it. I want to be there for you.”
Most of last week I would check in daily to ask if there were any signs of a pending delivery. The answer was always the same. Nothing yet.
The word finally came down from the doctor that if the baby didn’t come on her own by Sunday, she’d make arrangements to induce labor on Monday. On Sunday night, it all got real for me when I went down to spend the night at their house.
I tossed my bag in the corner and my pillow on the couch. A man needs his own pillow. Strange pillows can do irreversible damage to the cervical region of the neck bone. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I didn’t sleep well. Partly because I knew they would be heading to the hospital around 3am and I wanted to wish them well. And partly because I laid there sorting through all the handwritten instructions required of me to feed and care for Naomi and Zelda. Two pages worth.
The first morning was easy. The hospital delayed their call to 8am, so I had plenty of help getting the girls ready and off to school. The girls were excited. They gave hugs to Mom and Dad, then piled into my truck.
Zelda is in sixth grade. She guides me through the neighborhood to a friend’s house. They meet up every day and together they walk the short distance to Aaron Cohn Middle School. It makes me uneasy to let her just hop out of the truck and head off with a complete stranger to me. I’m not ready for her to be so grown up.
Naomi is in pre-K. Even though I know exactly where I’m going, she feels obligated to comment on my route to the school.
From the back seat she says to me, “Mommie doesn’t go this way. Do you know how to get to my school?”
I know Columbus pretty well. I’ve been driving here over 30 years. I move to the left lane to get on the Manchester Expressway and head into town, only to find out that there is no left turn lane. The ramp is a cloverleaf on the right side. And I missed it.
“Mommie usually turns over there.” Naomi is pointing out the window.
“Well,” I say, “We’re going a different way this morning. We’ll get there.”
I’m not sure she believes me.
In my defense, I do know where the school is. I’ve been there many times. But I’ve always started from my house 30 miles up the road. I realized in that moment that I’d never been there from this side of town. My brain was recalculating.
There was no baby news by late afternoon, so I picked Naomi up from school and took her to dance class. Pink tights and a pink tutu. I missed the driveway to the dance school and had to turn around.
“You just passed my dance school,” she said from the back seat.
Zelda was already home when we got there. She was seated at the kitchen table with her homework spread out. I started supper. Nothing fancy. They both voted for salmon patties and French fries.
My backseat driver chirped in. “Do you know how to make salmon patties?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve been around this many questions.
“I cook better than I drive,” I told her.
Bedtime was easy. The girls went to sleep without knowing when their new baby sister would arrive. My son-in-law was keeping me posted. Epidural started. 6 centimeters now. Getting close to push time. I’ve got the TV on just trying to stay awake.
Finally he texts me. “Time to push.” And 15 minutes later…”Hannah is here.”
When the third one finally decides to come, it happens quickly. Our third one did. And now it’s my third one who is holding her third one. I might have rubbed a tear from my eye. I know I slept better once I knew everyone was okay.
The next morning was easier. Two sleepy-heads at breakfast and off to school we went.
“I’ll pick you up early so we can go meet your new sister this afternoon.”
This time I took the cloverleaf ramp to the expressway. When I commented on how fast the other cars were going Naomi spoke up.
“When Mommie goes fast she gets pulled over.”
Good to know.
We park around back of the hospital around 1pm and walk in. The room is quiet. Whispers of joy are exchanged. I love watching these two girls hold their new baby sister. They count toes. They touch her fingers and rub her head. They take turns holding her and exclaim every time, “She’s so tiny.” Smiles and giggles abound.
As I look at little Hannah, I can’t help but think about how far apart we are in age. My goodness. I’ll be 90 when she turns 20. I hope I see that day. I hope I get to help her reel in a big fish. I hope she gets to drive me around in an old pickup truck. I hope I get to attend her high school graduation. I hope beyond everything that I get to be a part of her life.
But the truth is, I have no idea whether I’ll get to do any of those things. I have no clue what’s around the next corner. I never expected to inherit Marion’s four grandkids, but I did, and I love every one of them. And now I have five of my own to love.
This is a big responsibility. It weighs on me to think I could waste the years I have left. I want to use my time to make memories with all nine of my grandkids. I may not make every birthday. I may not make every ball game or recital. But for the sake of love, I’m gonna try.
We say our goodbyes to Hannah. I have to get Zelda to her tumbling practice by 5pm.
Naomi asks, “Do you know how to get to the gym?”
Mercy! All the questions. Gratefully, my assignment will be over tomorrow.
That’s not true. My real assignment is just beginning.
