In the lobby of Community Hospital South, the sound of a familiar ringtone brought me up short. I looked around for the source, then told the two women at the information counter that I recognized “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” because it is the tone that I have assigned solely to calls that I receive from my 9-year-old granddaughter. The ladies at the counter told me that “Twinkle” was the song played through the hospital’s public address system when a girl child is born. That news warmed me, as I was at the hospital to accompany my youngest daughter as she checked into the maternity floor.
Lauren’s mother, Teresa, had been accompanying Lauren to her doctor’s appointments and on Tuesday, May 2nd, called to tell me that our daughter’s labor was going to be induced the following day. Lauren’s due date had been May 8th, but my 5’ 3” shorty was slinging a hefty 8 pounder, so the OB decided to get the kid out, soonest. Her mother and I accompanied her to the hospital for the check-in, and waited with her for a few hours through the various inducement ceremonies. Her doctor advised Lauren that he would “break” her water at 4:00 a.m., and that delivery would be sometime on Thursday, May 3rd. Mom and I went to our respective homes to wait.
Lauren called her mother to tell her that her labor was not moving the pumpkin and that she was to have a Ceasarian delivery. We saddled up and rode back to the hospital, where our worn-out daughter waited to be incised. Teresa gowned up and accompanied Lauren as her bed was wheeled from Room 4 and down the hall to the delivery room; I waited, remembering the day in April, thirty years ago, that Lauren was born. Her mother’s labor was long and intense, and in the end, a C-section was required. Her “heart-shaped pelvis,” a trait shared by our daughter, made a natural delivery impossible.
As I waited in the recovery room, my eldest daughter, Lisa, continued a pattern of harassment that had begun when I told her that her sister was going into the hospital, “dinging” me with text messages every few minutes: “Baby?!?” Despite my communication skills, I had been unable to assure Lisa that, whatever happens, whenever it does, “I WILL TELL YOU!” I had sent her pictures of Lauren in her bed; Lauren being wheeled away, and the open door through which Lauren had been wheeled to delivery. This child was to be the first offspring of her siblings, and a girl, to boot. Lisa has staked a claim on the baby, relegating Lauren to the role of “deliverer of baby niece.” Of course, this energetic expectancy has stimulated my granddaughter, who wants to see her cousin, NOW.
As I sat in Lauren’s recovery room, a nurse came bustling back to gather Lauren’s and Teresa’s cell phones, for picture-taking purposes. About twenty minutes later, another nurse came in and busied about. I asked her, “Where’s my baby?” The nurse said that enough time had elapsed that there must be a “Baby?!?” Then, at 6:53 p.m., I heard a song: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” softly tinkled through the public address system. I started to cry, ran into the hallway, and looked around for my children. I called Lisa, told her to have Imani call me when I gave them the signal, and as Lauren was wheeled into the room, her niece’s ringtone repeated the hospital-wide serenade that had heralded the arrival of the girl-child, her cousin.
Welcome to the world, my twinkling star, Miss Myah Zuri Woods.