She was born early in the morning on July 26, 1987, the first of our four children. The doctor had assured us a few days earlier we were at least a week away from having our daughter, so when we called him before dawn, he told my wife to walk around and see if the contractions went away. I can only imagine how that could have looked to any of our neighbors awake at that ungodly hour. My wife, dressed in a yellow maternity top and shorts with bright-colored parrots on them, striding around the outside of our small Fort Smith house in the dark, me trailing behind trying to read a watch by street light to see if four minutes had passed.
When we actually went to the hospital, we were so certain we weren’t in labor a nurse had to tell us to stay or we were likely to have a baby in the elevator. During delivery I discovered that, despite prenatal class assurances of the importance of my role as a “coach,” my function was actually to feed the mother-to-be ice chips and let my fi ngers get broken.
When they asked me if I wanted to cut the umbilical cord, my first thought was“really, isn’t there anyone here more qualifi ed?”
Looking back, I can’t imagine a person more unprepared to be a father than me. I was the youngest, by far, of three and had never been around infants in my life. When we put our baby in the car seat and started to drive away from the hospital for the first time, it must have hit me, because my wife remembers me blurting out “I can’t believe they’re just going to let us drive off .”
Since my job allowed me to sleep in a little, I was the designated nighttime baby walker. We had an area rug in our dining room with a pattern I could follow so I didn’t stagger off into a wall. I shufi ed around it for what seemed like hours, trying to quiet her by croaking James Taylor songs in a voice that must have sounded to her like a small animal being noisily eliminated. For some strange reason it seemed tosoothe her, or perhaps she just wore out and fell back to sleep.
Life was not always easy for our firstborn. She didn’t always know what she wanted to be. There were relationship heartaches and career changes. But she just kept going, found a role she liked, met a wonderful young man she loves and who loves her.
While we all watched, they were married on a cliff overlooking the lake. And the small miracle started all over again.
She was born late in the evening on Dec. 1, 2012, our first grandchild. Ruby Grace is her name, and we sat in the waiting room for most of a day and for what seemed like an eternity waiting for her to arrive.
When she did, she was so tiny, almost hidden under the knit hat, looking out at the world quietly, as if wondering what all the fuss was about and not realizing it was about her.
In some ways, it’s the same. I remember writing that, from the moment they’re born, parents teach children about love. And from the moment they’re born, children teach parents about letting go. That seems to work for grandparents, as well.
But it’s also diff erent.
When your children are born, their lives and yours stretch out before you, intertwined seemingly forever. All the birthdays, all the Christmases, all the special moments all those years you’ll have together will bring seem guaranteed to you.
The math is more abbreviated when you’re a grandparent, and you spend your free “worry” time doing it, and making cosmic deals. I don’t smoke, so, does that get me to graduation? Do the baby aspirin get me through her college? Will the jogging mean I get to see her walk down the aisle, or hold her children?
The worry is still there, and the impending heartache and the desire to sweep them up and protect them and make sure no bad thing ever harms them, or at least it has to go through you first. So is the knowledge that you can’t do that. Life will happen and the best you can do is be there for as long as you can, for the good and the bad.
And the love is still there. Just as it always was.
Like I said to her mother years ago, “Welcome to the world, little girl.” GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Opinion, Pages 5 on 12/06/2012