expecting

My 24-year-old daughter is five days past her due date with my first grandchild as I write this. The collective anticipation among our family is electric and widespread enough to power New York City, even from our Baby Watch Headquarters in Kentucky. It is occupying every decision in my brain, where a mental list of reminders and “what if” scenarios are flickering like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Images of my daughter at various stages of her childhood flash in my head, a movie trailer that highlights her toddler years and fast forwards to her growing up into a beautiful woman, belly swollen with pregnancy. Her big, blue eyes are eager to embrace motherhood. The background is a tangerine sunrise over rolling hills in the country, a white farmhouse that is equipped to welcome a baby. The opening scene zooms in to where she stands with me on her front porch, the two of us cradling the expectant portion of her that holds a miracle.

A MIRACLE.

The scene runs through my head as I curate a Spotify playlist for her to listen to during labor. I select songs that are reminders of her childhood, where she came from and the memories that have shaped her. There is theme music from her favorite cartoons mixed in with various Taylor Swift era classics. “Call me, beep me if ya wanna reach me,” runs through my head as I remember her dressed like Kim Possible one Halloween. With the help of my middle daughter, we compile nearly 30 songs with “Get’cha Head in the Game” from High School Musical, along with The Lion King’s “Hakuna Matata” and Barbie’s “Queen of the Waves” rounding out the selections. We call it “Expecting Isla.”

ISLA. 

This morning I will replace the sweaters and boots I packed in the car last week when it was 40 degrees with lightweight shirts and sneakers since temperatures have risen to almost 80. Spring in Kentucky. My phone has been by my side nearly every moment, radiating off my nervous energy, ringer on high, ready to sound the call from my son-in-law that they are headed to the hospital. I will grab my youngest daughter to make the two-hour drive south when he calls.

CRICKETS.

I check my phone. No missed calls. The house has been clean for the pet sitter who is going to be double-booked if the baby doesn’t come by tomorrow. I’ve mopped the floors, cleaned out the fridge. I have readied the house for a celebration, but the guest of honor is fashionably late.

My gas tank is full. I need to pack the cooler with drinks and remember to take the pink hydrangea bush I bought for her and set out anxiety chews for the dogs because it’s going to storm tonight. My Highlander has 265,000 miles on it and has weathered a lot of storms. It will carry me on yet another journey … the most exciting one of all. I try to remember the last time the oil was changed.

There is so much out of my control. Do I have enough calm gummies to get me through this?

I need to remember to take out the trash and revisit which places are available for an overnight stay. I’ve reached out to three Airbnb owners to check on availability, reluctant to reserve anything until we get the call.

THE CALL. When IS it going to come? I was expecting to be holding that baby in my arms by now.

My youngest daughter is taking a practice ACT exam today at school. I wonder if I should just let her stay home as I consider how disruptive it might be if I need to pull her out in the middle of testing. I need to grab the phone charger from her room. We’re down to one again.

THE PHONE.

Why hasn’t it rung yet? I check it for the hundredth time to make sure it’s not on silent.

The pink hydrangeas. I need to load them in the car when I leave, I remind myself.

PINK! I’m having a granddaughter!!

What will she look like? Will she have a full head of hair just like her mother did when she was born? Doesn’t she know how eager we are to meet her? Is her reluctance to come a foreshadowing of her personality? Is she going to always be fashionably late like me, her grandmother, her “Gia,” as I’m hoping to be called? Will she be stubborn, or shy, or will she be laid back and relaxed?

My middle daughter drove four hours from her college to be with her older sister in hopes that she’ll give birth before the semi-formal dance her sorority is hosting this weekend. There’s a dress hanging in her closet waiting to be worn.

There’s always a dress hanging in a closet ready to be worn. I have three daughters, and soon a granddaughter.

BUT NOT SOON ENOUGH! We are all growing impatient and exhilarated at the same time.

I take a walk as is my normal mid-morning routine after I’ve created content, done some work for my Stronger Girl brand or accomplished something that deserves a reward in nature. But I have my phone with me, of course. Then, I take a shower and blast the “Expecting Isla” playlist on the Bose speaker that has bolted out the songs that have empowered me during hard seasons of waiting. This shower concert is my pre-game warmup, along with the instrumental lullabies that motivate me to sweep the kitchen floor one more time.

I’m interrupted mid-sweep.

THE CALL.

IT CAME.

I phone the school. My youngest is done with her test. We drive the two hours south and land at a coffee shop just a few blocks from the hospital. A blended latte for her. A matcha for me, extra hot with oat milk and a little honey.

Then, another call from my son-in-law.

I am in slow motion. EVERYTHING IS IN SLOW MOTION.

The baby is breech, not head down as we anticipated.

The parents-to-be set the tone, and I have no choice but to follow it. “Everything will be okay,” they tell me. It will be different than we anticipated. But, it will be okay.

So, we wait.

Other family comes to join, including my ex-husband. We reminisce about the day I went into labor with the mother-to-be who is being prepped for surgery. Our other two daughters share our nervousness, but they hold true to optimism and anticipation for the arrival of their niece.

We wait.

More family comes. We are all nervous. Our heads look up as each passerby shadows the waiting room. The WAIT FOREVER ROOM. We anticipate my son-in-law’s arrival to tell us it’s all okay. The waiting is unbearable. Already, this is not what I expected.

Then, finally.

FINALLY, SHE’S HERE.

Both mother and baby are okay.

Yes, she does have a full head of hair! Yes, she is absolutely beautiful! The look on my daughter’s face when she introduces sweet Isla to our family holds the whole world’s supply of peace and joy. She is perfect.

She is here.

My daughter is a mother. I am a grandmother. Isla’s four great grandparents are all here. She is so incredibly loved. There is so much love.

My boyfriend, Chris, surprises me and shares in the celebration at the hospital. It’s late. We check into our Airbnb around 10 or so, a place my brother rented for the whole gang. We eat soggy French fries around the kitchen island, then retreat to our rooms. Chris’s shoulder is the recipient for the tears I had been holding in all night.

The next day, I arrive early at the hospital and hold my granddaughter for the first time. It is magical and surreal. I am overwhelmed with gratitude so intense that I cannot remember any worries or concerns. They don’t matter. All that matters is this child in my arms and the child in the hospital bed who is recovering from bringing life into this world.

LIFE. This beautiful little life.

She isn’t a rule follower, this little one. She is resilient and brave from the start. She is a miracle. Her arrival. Her uniqueness. None of it is what I expected. And, once again, I find myself a student of life being taught by a newborn about what is important in this world.

The anticipation. The waiting. Even, the worry. It’s all worth it. This kind of love. Expecting Isla has taught me that I am learning and growing as much as she is. We are in this together. This world.

This love.