Being wrong in this case was ‘grand’

I’ve never pressured my kids to procreate, never said that the best thing they could give me was a grandchild. Frankly, I didn’t give it much thought. A lot of my high school friends have been grandparents for so long that those grandkids are now in college.

Such is a matter of math. If you get an early start on the begetting and your offspring also start begetting young, you will have closely spaced generations.

As I said, it’s just math, and I am bad at math.

I am also a slow learner and a late bloomer. Despite the facts of math and time, I never felt old enough to be a grandparent.

Yet, in the fall of 2023 my daughter and son-in-law announced that they were expecting a baby. They also said that they wanted the baby’s sex to be a surprise.

I had a pretty good track record for guessing the sex of people’s babies, including my own. With my own pregnancies, I also did not want to know beforehand, but I knew anyway, not because a technician blurted the secret. I had had a dream of a little girl coming upstairs, calling my name.

A few months later, “Thumper” arrived on a sunny Sunday morning with skis for feet and bright orange fuzz on her head.

With the second pregnancy, I knew that “Bam Bam” was going to be a boy. He situated himself low, as if already on final approach, and he played drums and did gymnastics in utero as soon as he quickened.

I not only guessed the sex of my kids but other people’s pregnancies, too. I sometimes got “a feeling” about them on a certain day, often on the exact day their babies were born. Other people have this kind of intuition, too. It can be freaky.

It can also lead to a false sense of omniscience. Thus begins the story of my downfall with intuition.

During her pregnancy, my daughter complained of heartburn. I said, “I had heartburn with you, too.” 

My daughter carried high. I carried high with her, too.

“It’s a boy,” everyone said.

Bosh! I thought. But she had a dream about a boy.

“Heartburn means it’s gonna have lots of hair,” everyone said.

Twaddle! I thought. She had fuzz like a newborn chick, and it rubbed off within weeks.

The due date was set around May 22, close to my birthday. I was already spinning fantasies about grandmother-granddaughter teas and outings. Besides, aren’t first babies usually late?

They had their birth plan; they were packed. We decided that I would wait for a text from Son-in-Law telling me all systems were go. Then I would drive across the state for the big landing.

On May 14, Daughter thought she had eaten something bad. She felt off, and maybe she was having contractions.

Lay off the spicy food, I thought. More Braxton-Hicks, I thought.

A couple of hours later, Son-in-Law texted that Daughter is “at 6” and being admitted.

At 6. Being admitted.

Did I run and tell my boss that joyous news was on its way, and I’ll see ya in a few days? Did I grab my suitcase and head out?

No. I kept working for another couple of hours because in my infinite dumbdom, logic was out the window, and denial was in the driver's seat, and you probably know the old joke about denial.

I went home for lunch. I walked my dog. I went back to work.

I repeat: I. WENT. BACK. TO. WORK.

At 2:30, the heavens prevailed. The hand of God or one of his angels reached down — or maybe it was just that my synapses finally fired — but something hauled me off the trip down that river in Egypt.

Son-in-Law had said she was “at 6.” A baby is ready to be born at 10 centimeters’ dilation. Even I, math-avoidant to the end, know that 6 is more than halfway there. And that was hours ago!

The knowledge of the situation dawned like two bowling balls being dropped in a burlap bag. “What are you still doing at work? You’re not even packed!”

A very calm and logical co-worker told me to get going. Clothes got flung into a suitcase and, while doing so, the biggest realization of all struck.

This baby is a BOY. This baby is going to confound all of your lah-di-dah suppositions. Get over yourself and get your butt in gear.

Usually, the drive across the state passes pleasantly enough, but when you spend three-and-a-half hours cursing your stupidity, time tends to drag.

When I dropped the dog at the sitter in Waterloo, I still had an hour to go, and I suddenly knew that the baby — the baby BOY — had been born. No one had to tell me. I knew.

More cursing ensued and the hour dragged. How would I ever atone for missing the birth of the first grandchild? How many toys would I need to buy to ease a guilty conscience?

I was right that the baby was born at almost exactly the moment I had the thought in Waterloo. So, I guess intuition isn’t total bunk, but it did lead me down some blind alleys.

A saving grace to the whole debacle is that having a baby is not like unzipping a jacket. A lot of messy stuff happens when a baby is born, and clean-up for mom and baby takes time.

In the end, I arrived neither too late, nor too early, and my son-in-law, ever gracious to this day, has never brought up what a dunderhead his mother-in-law is.

And soon that baby will be one. Everyone was right; there’s nothing better. I can't wait to wish you Happy Birthday, Grand One!

Joan Zwagerman learned her lesson and is done making predictions about babies.