By Lorry Myers
The call came in the middle of the night. My older daughter was checking into a hospital three hours away to deliver my first grandchild.
It was time to go.
When we stepped off the elevator at the hospital, my younger daughter waiting for us. “Happy Birthday,” Mariah said, looking like she’d just woke up. I could tell by the way she nervously tugged her hair that she was worried about her sister and what was happening behind those hospital doors. I stood looking out the window and snapped a picture of the sun rising over the sleeping city. The sky was purple and the sun lit the world like it was a new day, full of hope and promise.
A day to be remembered.
I paced the hospital corridors remembering the birth of my first child, Taylor. I thought about choosing the baby’s name and the man that baby grew to be. I thought about the connection my firstborn has with his two sisters and how hard it was for Taylor to be so far away from his family on a day like this.
Just then, those hospital doors swung open and a newborn Dad walked out, my son-in-law’s eyes shining with relief and happiness.
“He is here and everybody is fine!”
After that, after we were done hollering and hugging, I remembered what I didn’t know. “What’s the baby’s name?” I asked.
“I’ll let his mother tell you,” was the answer.
In her hospital room, my daughter’s curly hair was in a topknot, wispy tendrils floating around her face. She was propped up and nestled against her heart, was a tiny head covered with a knit cap. When Hilary looked up at me, she started crying, her emotions rolling down her cheeks.
“Mom.” She said. “I am so happy!”
“Me too,” I wanted to tell her, but I only had tears for words.
Holding my grandson for the first time is a moment I still carry with me. When I lifted his hat to view his fuzzy dark hair, that baby opened his eyes and looked at me like he saw who I was and who I would be.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
