Grandma reservations

I never looked forward to being a grandmother. Not because I feared being branded old, but because I worry and did not relish the thought of adding one more human to my already long list. During the nine months the GAP bore the burden of whining and dining for two, I gave my best performance acting supportive and excited. Surely she’d sense support if I sewed a quilt, appliquéing eight fuzzy fleece sheep with black elastic legs and bubble painted eyes on the flannel squares. It only took forty tries to get eight lambs that faintly resembled one another. And she’d unquestionably recognize my excitement if we spent an entire weekend painting a wall border of Wallace and Gromit sheep around the baby’s room. But neither the quilt nor the ring of sheep mustered up the feelings in me you’d expect from a first time grandmother.

The GAP had always liked surprises. At least you’d think so observed by the astonished look captured on her face every time I caught her sneaking in late from a date. The same surprised look any time I called out to her and her name actually tripped first off my tongue without running through the entire family, including the cat. So she and husband, Mr. Green Jeans, opted to not know the sex of the baby until birth. That made it tougher for me — developing an endearing relationship with “it.”

My discomfort with adding another branch to my family tree was more than having to link another face to a name. But that uneasiness did little to halt her growth spurt. I began to wonder where she was actually carrying the baby when her breasts enlarged, blossoming to look like a Wet Meal for a small country. But soon her stomach caught up, oddly enough in proportion to the number of fruit smoothies she consumed. Just like when, as a toddler, her plump belly grew in relationship to the number of McDonald’s milkshakes she guzzled. When her circumference ceased to increase in a week, three days past her due date, she was admitted to the hospital.

Mr. Green Jeans and I accompanied her into the serenely wallpapered birthing room. The room housed essentials — a bed with stirrups, a cart of covered medical instruments, a warming crib, and one chair that could fling you across the room if you didn’t sit square in the middle.

A nurse, wearing baby bottle earrings, one blue nipple and the other pink, dangling from each lobe, put the GAP’s feet in stirrups. At that moment, I could tell, she gave up the idea of natural childbirth. I saw her mouth form the word “surrogate.”

She’d always been a lightweight when it came to pain. She’d cry and melt into a glob of human putty wherever she stood. With cheeks slick with tears, looking lovely as any soon-to-be-mother did — legs elevated, face scrunched, belly bulging, she demanded ever so slowly and distinctly, “I need an epidural!” She had only dilated two centimeters. I’d had stomachaches that bad from gorging on cheesecake.

Mr. Green Jean’s six foot three frame twisted pretzel-like in the chair next to her. With one treacherous chair, one bed, and three people, it was obvious they didn’t want anyone more comfortable than the patient in stirrups.

Twenty-nine hours and five epidurals later, complications arose. The monitor showed the baby’s heartbeat slowing significantly. “I’m going to use a vacuum,” Dr. Hansen said. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll perform an emergency C section.” He called in the neonatal IC group for backup. He positioned himself at the end of the delivery table, secured the instrument and pulled. The vacuum lost suction and the doctor staggered backward towards me. Again he inserted the plunger and pulled.

This time a head emerged. The head pointed up towards the ceiling. Nothing moved on the face. It looked round and swollen — like a cartoon emerging out of a few sketched lines. I thought to myself, “Gotta be a boy with a head that size.” The doctor became anxious again when he saw the cord tightly wrapped around the baby’s neck. He eased out the rest of the body. I thought I heard the obstetrician say “him” as he passed a little blue, lifeless body to the neonatal group.

My inward dialogue immediately changed to a prayer. Mr. Green Jeans sobbed and the GAP, highly drugged, was silent. Less than thirty seconds passed when I heard a whimper and I was in love. A miracle had happened. In more ways than one. All the feelings I’d questioned whether I would ever feel flooded my body. Maybe because my grandson was the most beautiful baby ever to be born on the face of this earth.

“What’s his name?” the doctor asked, awakening me to the reality of it all.

“Hoover,” Mr. Green Jeans chuckled, “or Electrolux.”

Dr. Hansen glimpsed at the flawless baby’s ivory skin as the Bug received his first wipedown. Not a splotch of redness. “I’m a little concerned about his coloring. He seems so white.”

The GAP giggled. Knees bent, her feet were still positioned in the stirrups. As the doctor glanced at her, the glare from her white legs blinded him. “Yes, he’s definitely,” Dr. Hansen said, his concern dissipating, “his mother’s son.”

The Bug never cried or had smelly diapers (because as a grandmother I chose not to be there at those times). Mr. Green Jeans boasted that the baby looked like him, but, of course, I thought he got his winning looks from the GAP.

He was born on Father’s Day, seven years ago today. Since his birth was my first Father’s Day without my own dad, and his wish had been to have a great grandchild, I think the Bug’s birth was a tribute to him. I imagined Dad walking my grandson to the threshold of life and gently letting go of his hand.

Don’t you see the resemblence?  Especially the toothless grin.

Related posts:

1. Weekend at grandma’s
2. What’s in a name?
3. Letting go, almost
4. Let me introduce you to my family
5. Play ball