Kimberlee K.

My mom texted: Third floor, labor and delivery!

My sister Natalee’s c-section had been scheduled, and my brother and I had taken the day off work. I was sitting in traffic on the way to the hospital when I got the text, and my brother was in his kitchen making breakfast. We both had plenty of time to get there, but the exclamation point seemed to add urgency, so I parked in the first open spot I found—perhaps the furthest spot from the hospital—and my brother parked and sprinted through the parking lot, leaving his breakfast behind.

When we settled into our seats in the waiting room, adrenaline was still buzzing through us. It made the waiting more suspenseful. It was a reminder that we weren’t sitting in any room, in any hospital, on any day. Somewhere down the labyrinthian hallways, our sister and brother-in-law were in hospital gowns and hair nets, taking a selfie before being led into the operating room. Our niece, who we did not yet know the name of, was preparing to enter the world.

The waiting room was small. Chairs were set in a U shape against the walls and we quickly became familiar with the limited things we had to look at: the television, playing an endless stream of morning talk shows; the cartoon like painting on the wall that featured colorful buildings and a cat in a tree; the elevators, which occasionally ushered in mom’s to be holding their bellies; and the back of the security guard’s head, which nodded at new dads and family members given permission to visit.

We flinched at the smallest sound, as if Natalee or her husband Will were going to appear any second. We snuck peaks at the tired parents going to and from the small NICU door, offering prayers in their wake. We wondered why a crew of construction workers walked by carrying a ladder, and debated borrowing their hard hats and reflective vests to slip in and make sure Natalee and the baby were okay.  We’d brought snacks and books and jackets in case it got cold. We leaned with the rise of the sun, constantly adjusting the shades on the large windows. Some of us sat, some of us paced, some of us did a little of both.

It was a day we’d been waiting on for nine months—it was a day we’d been waiting for our whole lives.

My brother and I wore matching crewneck sweatshirts that said “Aunt Kim” and “Uncle Bub,” titles we’d been excited to wear since Natalee told us she was pregnant. And my parents, along with Will’s parents, waited anxiously to start their new chapter as grandparents.

It was a day full of joy, of magnitude. We all sat there waiting, thinking, considering everything that got us to that waiting room, and all the places we might go after. It was a new adventure for all of us, and we were excited to be a part of it—excited to be doing it together.

Just after ten o’clock, our phones went off like dominoes, one after the other after the other. We gasped and cheered and hugged as a picture of baby Gracie lit up our screens. We’d waited patiently to learn her name, waited patiently to see her face, and now there she was. Seeing her felt like seeing a sunset with all its glorious colors. We knew she’d be perfect, but we didn’t know how perfect.

A few hours went by as we waited for Natalee and the baby to be transferred and settled into their room. The waiting room fell quiet, except for the fervent tapping of our fingers desperate to tell everyone that she was finally here. We checked in on our daytime talk shows, we ate more snacks, we napped. It was a weird state of flux, knowing our lives had changed and yet we were still in the same room.

I kept thinking of my own aunts, who have told me their stories of being in the waiting room when I was born. It was jarring to suddenly be on the other side of the story, to imagine Gracie one day being old enough for me to tell her this story.

None of us will ever forget what it felt like to sit in that room, to receive that message, to see her face for the first time. And I look forward to telling her about it over and over. Telling her that the first time I held her, I looked down at her face and said, “how are you real?”