At 1:01 in the morning of October 26, 1982, the doctor who delivered Ginger sang “Happy Birthday to Us,” because it was his birthday, too.
Afterward, I slept in my room, and my little daughter slept in the nursery.
Bill made all the phone calls, waking everyone to say, “It’s a girl.” And so everyone went back to sleep, knowing mother and baby were happy and healthy.
Almost everyone.
At 6:00, my mother-in-law walked into my hospital room, carrying my new little daughter. Vivian’s hair and makeup were perfect, her heels were polished, and over her impeccable business suit, she wore a yellow surgical gown. Vivian was the tough and exacting head of nursing at the hospital.
Thinking she’d only just gotten here, I smiled and teased, “Hey, Grandma, what took you so long?”
“Oh, I’ve been here for hours, getting to know my granddaughter.”
Because she could.
ginnygram 