I want to talk to you about babies. No, no, I’m not having a baby. Even if I weren’t as old as dirt, highly paid surgeons removed all my lady parts years ago, (which didn’t stop Kaiser from robocalling me for years demanding that I get a pap smear.)
I currently have one grandson, whom I call Floyd for the purposes of this column. He’s a perfect child in every way, which I can say without prejudice since his mother was adopted, meaning he’s fortunate enough to have none of my DNA.
Anyway, perfect child Floyd is now 15 months old, and he’s about to have a new sister, who will be arriving around the same time as the Thanksgiving turkey. Gives new meaning to the phrase “A bun in the oven.”
My daughter, Curly Girl, is 25 years old and runs a dive bar. She gets no maternity leave (or any other benefits for that matter,) so she’s trying to save up money for when she’ll have to be off giving birth and such.
I tried to explain to her how difficult it was going to be to have two babies in diapers at the same time, but, as usual, she paid no attention to me. What could I possibly know? After all, I’m old and I don’t even know how to use TikTok.
So she went ahead and got pregnant, because she wants her children to be close together in age, as she and her brother are. I do think this is a good thing, especially if you’re Angelina Jolie and can afford two full-time nannies.
Before Floyd was born, my daughter asked me if I wanted to be in the delivery room with her and the husband.
I asked her if she really wanted me there, and she said it was up to me. So I said, “No, thank you.”
All her life, I would feel nauseous whenever my daughter even had to get a shot at the doctor’s office. I remember once she ripped her knee open on some jagged rocks on the beach down in remote Baja, and I thought I’d pass out, watching the blood pour down her leg, while pretending that it was no big deal to keep her from freaking out.
(A butterfly bandage and some antibiotic cream fixed her up, thank heavens, because we were 8.2 million miles from the nearest doctor.)
I didn’t think I’d be able to stand watching my precious girl go through all the painful and messy stuff that allegedly occurs during childbirth. I don’t personally know because both of my kids came premanufactured.
So all I really know about childbirth is what I see on TV and it never looks appealing. Curly Girl understood my anxiety and didn’t hold it against me.
What I didn’t realize was that – after I declined – she was going to ask the other grandma, her mother-in-law, if she wanted to come.
Other grandma couldn’t wait to get into that room, apparently. Because not only did she go, she took videos. At least she didn’t bring a camera crew. This woman and I have a cordial but frosty relationship.
Curly Girl called to tell me she was in labor and going to the hospital, and that she’d let me know when the time got close. We then talked several more times during her labor, none of which made me wish I was there, especially when she was sobbing and begging the nurse for the epidural.
Her last communication was that she was fully dilated and then … nothing. I decided I should just go over to the hospital. But when I got there, they told me I couldn’t go up to the birthing room because the guest slot was already occupied by the other grandmother. So I had to sit and wait on a hard folding chair in the lobby.
Seriously? Kaiser Permanente made $4 billion last year and they still couldn’t afford comfortable chairs in their lobby? Anyway, I sat there for what seemed like hours and was astonished to see that other grandma was actually posting photos on Facebook of the new baby before I’d even been allowed upstairs to see him.
Gee, did this infuriate me? Of course not. I was perfectly calm and happy on my folding chair. Finally, after what seemed like 86 hours, other grandma came down and told me I could go up now. Gee, thanks so much.
All my fury melted away when I saw my beaming daughter with the world’s most perfect newborn. Seriously, he was. All the nurses kept coming in and saying he was actually handsome, unlike most newborns who look like red hairless monkeys.
So, now, my beautiful daughter is having another baby. This one’s a girl. And, once again, she’s invited me into the delivery room. Hmm. It would probably dampen the experience if I threw up or fainted, right? Maybe I could take some Schedule 1 narcotics beforehand, so it would all be a pleasant blur. Luckily, I have a few months to think about it. Do you have an opinion?
Want to email me? I’m at mfisher@scng.com. I especially love it when you tell me what I’m doing wrong.
Related links
Frumpy Mom: Can I babysit my grandchild? Ever?
Frumpy Mom: It happened. There’s a baby.
Frumpy (Grand)mom? Yikes, I’m terrified of becoming a grandmother
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I might get around to cleaning. Right after this nap.
Frumpy Mom: Things you kids should know while I’m away
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