Waiting! New Baby on the Way

Waiting. For the phone to ring. For my son on the end of the line. For his voice in my ear. For the words, "It's time, Mom. The baby is coming." 

Waiting. For two weeks that's what we’ve been doing. The first baby came two weeks early. The second we believed — mother, father, grandparents, sisters, friends — would certainly do the same. The doctor practically agreed. "Any day now," he said.

That was two weeks ago. 

Waiting. At the grocery store, at the bank, at the library, at a dinner party, at the theater, phone always in hand. Waiting. At the kitchen table, at the computer, in front of the TV, in bed in the middle of the night.

And every time the phone rings or vibrates, my heart leaps. But then caller ID shows the call is from Boston, or Braintree, Mass., or out of area — not New York City, not yet. I say "Hello," and the caller hears the disappointment in my voice.

Waiting. "No baby yet," I tell people who phone. "No baby yet." I write to people who e-mail. "We're still waiting," I say at the post office and in church. "Mimi, can I sleep over?" my grandson asks and I tell him, "No, honey. The baby is coming soon and when the phone rings I have to get right in the car and drive to New York."

My bag has been packed for weeks. It's in the trunk, all ready for takeoff. The camera is charged. I have extra cash. The car has a full tank of gas. I'm constantly topping off.

I've done the laundry. Paid the bills. Written birthday cards. Written ahead.

Waiting. The phone rings and it's my friend Rose. "Want to go to dinner tomorrow night?"

"If I'm around," I say, certain that I won't be. But then I am. We meet at a restaurant. I set the phone on the table next to the bread and butter and will it to buzz.

It doesn't.

There's a big dinner dance. "We can't go," I tell my husband. "I won't be here. I'll definitely be in New York by then." Only I'm not. I’m still in Boston. "No baby yet," everyone there asks? "Any minute now," I respond, cell phone in hand.

"Are we having Sunday dinner, Mom?" my daughters asked two weeks ago and then again last week. "I don’t think so," I said both times. "I bet I’ll be in New York on Sunday."

But I wasn’t.

Waiting. And the phone rings. And what do you know? It's my son. It's New York calling! But before I can say hello, he says, "This is not the call, Mom. I'm just checking in.”

"This is not the call," is how he has begun our conversations the last few days. "This is not the call. Things are fine. Don't worry. We'll see you soon." 

The baby is not overdue. We are simply overanxious, over the top excited, eager to meet this person whom we have all tried to imagine.

Boy? Girl? Plump? Lean? Hair or no hair? Who cares?

I have pink clothes and blue clothes packed. And a pair of Snoopy pajamas for the mom. And books for the 19-month-old soon-to-be big sister. And new walking shoes for me so that I can wheel her all over town.

Waiting. She's been waiting, too, perplexed by all the cleaning her mom and dad have been doing, scrubbing the floor, washing the walls, moving things out of their small apartment only to bring in different things — a Moses basket, baby bottles, tiny clothes.

It will soon be over, all this waiting. The phone will ring and it will be the call and I'll race to the car as my son and daughter-in-law race around getting ready to head for the hospital.

Waiting. There's the phone now. Maybe this is the call. Maybe it's time. 

It isn't. It's the library phoning to say a book I requested is in. "By the way, has that baby been born yet?"

"Not yet," I reply.

Waiting. For my son's voice and the words. "The baby is coming."

Soon. Very soon. Maybe today.