When I found out Baby Ruth was on her way to this world, I was honestly excited. But I couldn't wrap my mind around being any one's granny. I had just reckoned with entering a new decade. Still hadn't made it all the way through menopause. Had just remembered who I was, who I had been before children. Before being some one's mama or some one's wife. A part of me was petrified. Afraid I'd loose my identity all over again. Afraid I'd be labeled old and insignificant and put out to pasture.
All the while we waited for you, Baby Ruth, I insisted you'd have to call me something cute and hip like My Barbie Doll. Nothing anyone linked to being "granny". I'd be there for you, but I'd still be me. Still wouldn't be old.
Then on April 10th, 2012 you were on your way into this world. I entered the birthing room with your parents, your mother's mother and her mother and your mom's twin. I saw your mom near exhaustion. I saw the doctor's eyes above the mask as he watched the monitor. I looked at the monitor and I felt the tension in the room. I saw your daddy grasp mommy's hand and lean down. Whisper in her ear and their eyes locked. With one more gigantic push that she managed from somewhere deep inside, you slid into the world. There was much relief all around. Then I noticed the the doctor silently, intently rubbing little circles on your chest. Concentration in his eyes. As if encouraging you like one would a race horse on a track, "Come on, come on!! You can do it." Finally! The heartbeat and breath he was searching for. The cord was cut and you were on your own.
And nothing mattered anymore. Who I was, or what anyone thought. Call me anything. Just call me. Just be here. Stay here. Grow here and let me be a part.