Rider’s birth day was fun. We were upbeat with relief that he had been born and that mother and baby, though completely worn out from the long ordeal, were safe. We were thrilled to be meeting our grandson for the first time and seeing our son and his wife as parents. Underlying these, we were grateful to be together, my bride and me, embarking on this new adventure.
We got going as quickly that morning, taking a commuter train from suburban New Jersey into Manhattan. I will long remember the pleasant conversation with Rider’s beautiful grandmother, my wife. Waiting at the quaint station and during the almost hour-long train ride, we talked about this and that, still plenty to say to one another after almost thirty years of marriage. We reminisced about the last days’ events, evaluating, interpreting, and replaying them. We talked for a moment with a sweet, elderly lady at the station. (Us: “We’re going to see our newborn grandson. He’s our first.” Her: “That’s so nice! I remember the first time I became a grandmother.” Looks like we’re running with a different crowd, now.) The whole thing felt like we were on a little vacation to see Manhattan’s sights. We were, except the main destination was not the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty, but our grandson.
The taxi we picked up near Penn Station couldn’t go fast enough. Buying a few things for them to eat (they were starved, having eaten little during the long labor), I got impatient with the crowds at the grocery. Didn’t everyone know we were on an Urgent Errand? Nearing the hospital, we walked faster and faster, anxious to meet the little stranger. Even before we entered the building, we asked a hospital volunteer, “Where is the maternity ward? We’re on our way to see our new grandson.”
These last nine months I was excited they were going to have a baby, of course, but not really emotionally involved. It hadn’t hit me yet. That changed as we waited and worried during the long labor. It changed even more as soon as I looked into the eight hour-old infant’s face. A thousand and one things went through my head when his father was born almost twenty-six years ago, but this moment was not one of them. I wasn’t prepared to be so moved, so affected. The child looked and felt familiar, sort of like someone I had met before, but not exactly. I recognized this new little human as a relative, a member of our family, obvious sounding but, at that moment, remarkable. I couldn’t wait to get to know this new person, little Rider. As I held and watched him, I looked forward to when I could play, talk, and spend time with him.
The exhausted young family needed to sleep. We left them there and spent the afternoon touring the neighborhood, enjoying the sights in that part of the city. We walked up and down streets, admiring buildings and fountains, stepping into a church, buying ice cream cones, talking about Rider. Sitting at a table on North Broadway across from the Lincoln Center my wife and I huddled together, heads touching as we looked at the many pictures we had taken of the baby. After several hours, we returned to the hospital and, while waiting for a phone call that they were awake, enjoyed a genuine New York City pizza. We sat in the restaurant’s second story open window watching people and horse-drawn carriages go by, getting anxious to be with the baby again.
Back in the maternity ward again we snapped more photos and took turns holding and cuddling beautiful Rider. We became so absorbed with the child we almost missed our train back to New Jersey. We sat, tired but glad, in an almost empty train car, back to where we were staying. We looked at the pictures again, chatted a little more about the baby, then sat, quiet and content, at the end of our date.
A new adventure begins
