Born six and a half years after our youngest son married, our newest granddaughter was looonnng overdue. We had to go and see the long awaited child.
The day before her birth, her dad said, “Well, a big snow storm is coming this weekend, so that means the baby and the snowstorm will arrive together.”
He was almost right. The doctor decided that a couple complications and the mother’s physical readiness dictated inviting the child to make her appearance on Thursday.
“We were inside the hospital before the storm hit,” the new daddy announced.
They stayed inside through the storm, the clean-up afterwards and the first of the melting snow.
We drove nearly nine hours to check out the newest Hershberger – entertained and distracted over the miles with a cross stitch project and an audio book about Ralph Moody’s childhood on the farm. Yes, we saw snow, but none on the road to the new little family – still safely ensconced at the hospital.
The new momma encouraged us to hold the baby, undo the blankets and check her out her lil punkin. We untucked her blankets, discovered her chipmunk cheeks, a thick thatch of golden hair and long fingers and toes.
Her daddy assured us he knew how to wrap her up again – he said it worked just like making a burrito at Taco Bell.
Once we had her burrito wrapped her into her pink fleece blanket, we enjoyed a walk in the softened weather to a nearby Internet cafe to eat.
Back at the hospital, we visited with our daughter-in-love, now dressed in maternity slacks and shirt, before we decided to visit their home and check out the baby’s newly decorated room with delightful spring shades of green, pink and cream.
Then, although we had an invitation to stay in their home, we elected to go to our reserved hotel room.
We should have taken their invitation.
My husband had reserved a room at a major chain of hotels. He knew the general direction to it – “general” being the operative word. We drove forever before he conceded to stop for directions.
“It’s just down this street about three traffic lights,” the guy said.
Eight traffic lights later, we stopped for more directions. We only had another three traffic lights to go before we found the hotel.
The clerk assured us the only room fitting our specifications for a non-smoking room with king-sized bed existed on the third floor of a building with external hallways.
Fortunately, we had packed lightly. We dragged our duffle bags up three flights of stairs to a dark, dreary, isolated room where I immediately began coughing and gasping for air.
“This is definitely NOT a non-smoking room,” my husband said. I gulped down water, traced a finger over the thick dust on the television while he made arrangements for another room.
Down three flights of stairs we went, back to the clerk who assigned us a second room – on the ground floor but back side of the hotel.
It smelled fresh … and felt cold.
I fiddled with the controls for the room heating unit.
It did not warm up. My husband tried. The unit did not respond.
My husband reached for the phone to call the office and found only the disconnected cord.
We went back to the office.
This time the clerk sent us to the front side – to the handicap accessible room.
It passed the muster.
I ran bath water to warm-up and slipped into the tub. Nice and roomy. Perfect. I sunk deep into the water. Warmed and ready for bed, I slid up to a sitting position and knocked my head hard on the handicap railing – ending my leisurely bath.
Warmed and tired with my head hurting, I retired for the night with no more mishaps.
The next day we went to church with our son, found a great little Italian restaurant and took carry out to the new mother.
I snapped a few family shots and we began the long drive home with audio books, cross stitch and many happy observations about the newest addition to our extended family.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)