Peter broke the speed limit getting to the doctor’s. It’s standard practice now to hospitalize women whose water has broken to prevent infection, but things were more casual then. “Go on home. Head to the hospital when your contractions are 10 minutes apart. If they haven’t started by morning, give me a call,” my doctor told me.
But the first contraction hit as I was getting into the car, and by the time we got home, it was clear that we weren’t going to be there long. I’d frequently joked about walking to the hospital when I was in labor – it was only a block and a half away. But as I plodded down the sidewalk I wasn’t sure it was worth the bragging rights, not least because my nowpuffy feet only fit into sandals and it was snowing. Still, I made it, and five minutes after midnight, Anne came into the world.
It was clear she really was late. Anne didn’t have that wrinkly newborn look. And she had hair – lots of it, about two inches long. “She’s got the most beautiful blonde hair,” crooned the nurse as she took Anne to clean her. Then I got the biggest surprise of my life: “Why, why, oh my gosh,” the nurse stammered as she scrubbed the little head with a soft cloth. “It’s not blonde – it’s red!” Red it was – bright red. I always knew when the nurses were bringing her to my room because of the commotion she created in the hallway. The only red-headed relatives in my family were a couple of my grandmother’s cousins; on Peter’s side it wasn’t much closer.
Back in Springfield, my parents and grandparents were preparing for the trek north. As the weeks passed, we knew they’d have to come to Oak Park, so the D Day-esque preparations (including bringing our home-grown corn, spinach, lima beans, potatoes and turkey) had begun days earlier. My mom and dad left work early, mom stopping off at the now-defunct Bressmer’s department store to buy an exquisite newborn dress. Snow began falling as she walked to her car.
By the time mom got home, the snow was heavy and wet. Strong winds were howling; blizzard-like conditions were predicted. Some of the loading was completed, but my dad and grandparents had stopped, figuring they’d wait until the weather and roads cleared. But they hadn’t reckoned with my mother’s zeal.
My mom is pretty much a force of nature under any circumstances, but becoming a grandmother elevated her to new heights. “If you don’t want to come, fine, but I’m going to see that baby if I have to walk,” she told my dad and grandparents.
They came. At the hospital, I vaguely knew it was snowing, but didn’t give it much thought. Knowing my folks would be leaving in the late afternoon/early evening, when my phone rang at 10 p.m., I asked, “Are you downstairs?” “No,” my mom answered. “We’re in Bloomington.” It had taken them more than four hours to get there from Springfield. Suggestions to check into a hotel and continue in the morning met with my mom’s same response. Conditions improved somewhat as they drove north; still it was after 3 a.m. when they reached Oak Park, where throughout the night Peter had shoveled a parking space for them in front of our apartment.
Later that day my hospital room shimmered with baby adoration as I ate my grandmother’s and mom’s Thanksgiving food that tasted of home.
I’ve always chuckled whenever I’ve heard the story of their journey through a blizzard to see Anne. But I never really understood it until last year, when our newest family member arrived in the world. Robbie was also born the day before Thanksgiving, although we didn’t know about him until 10 days later when Anne and her husband, Ben, brought him home to their New York apartment. Fortyeight hours later I made my own first-time grandmother pilgrimage, much of it also through sleet and snow. Though the weather wasn’t quite as bad, I had a lot farther to go.
As I write, D Day-esque preparations are once again underway for our journey to Brooklyn. By the time you read this, we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving and two other special reasons for giving thanks: Robbie’s first birthday, and Anne’s birthday two days later.
Contact Julianne Glatz at realcuisine.jg@gmail.com.
