Reluctant summertime babies

Great granddaughter Victoria was the first one who was not anxious to enter into our limping world. Who could blame her? Multiple, horrific, worldwide crimes dominating the printed news, made visible on TV and furnishing the main topic of human conversation?

I sometimes wouldn't mind being hidden away in a warm, comfortable sack where food is supplied, there's room to exercise and move around, no societal accountability.

The estimated time for Victoria's arrival came and went without even a second hesitation. Relatives and friends began to worry and mumble. It might have been arthritis, but my arms ached to hold a new little life.

Finally, the "medicine man" said, "Yes, we have to get Victoria into the world." Waiters, rapidly approaching a critical mass of impatience, tend to get a little disrespectful and hyperbolic.

With sharp scythe, machete or maybe just a switchblade, and with the help of some "hurry-up, pharmaceutical snake oil," the "medicine man" mysteriously communicated to the reluctant, but already finished little human, what his intentions were. Victoria, already brain sharp, began to position herself for the inevitable entrance into the wild, wonderful world. Even then she required more assistance to emerge safely and unflawed, all 9 lbs. 1 oz. of her, a dimpled little doll.

My arms ached again. Probably as before, that old devil RA; maybe from holding that precious little chunk of U.S. citizenry.

Even more reluctant was Grant, Mary's first grandchild. (Mary helps me through a bad patch I am now treading). It seems that little Grant's head would get to the portal, then, as if he had eyes in the top of his head, hastily retreat into less scary places. Then, shortly thereafter, he would descend again to see if there were any changes. Nope. None. Zilch.

To doctor's office and back home, ditto, ditto, ditto seemed the order of the day. To the hospital and back home, some more dittos. We began to call it the Baby Trail and wondered if MoDOT would so name it if Grant ever decided to arrive. The hospital was getting impatient too. The aura was, this baby is coming tonight or else. Maybe that "or else" alerted Baby Grant. He uncurled himself and ventured out, long toes and all. As soon as he could focus his eyes, a few days later, he gave everything within range a studied appraisal, as if trying to make up his mind whether he wanted to stay in this strange world. He seemed tiny to me, being used to Victoria's one month headstart, a tiny adult with an attitude of, "You all get along with your business; I'll 'tend to mine."

Then, as if not to be outdone in our little circle of grandmotherhood, Leta walked in one evening and said, "I have a new grandson." Leta is my night watch-person.

I felt happy about the delight in her voice, but felt a little guilty. The rest of us had been so talkative about our new family status, we didn't know that a similar event was going on in her life. How could she keep her secret while listening to us talk about ounces gained, cute little garments and how to properly burp our youngest young'uns?

When I had composed myself, I asked, "Did the baby seem reluctant to come?"

"Oh, no," Leta replied.

"There was only one trip to the hospital?"

"No. Four."

"That sounds reluctant to me."

"It was to hold him back. He was so eager to experience the world, the doctor felt little Blake needed more maturity."

We mildly scolded Leta but were eager for more details: July 24th; 7 lbs. 8 ozs; 19 3/4 inches; lots of black hair; button nose.

So now there was this imbalance -- two reluctants, one eager. It is not a closed six-member club. There are other potential grandmothers in my current set up.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.