Elijah David

I am an aunt.

I have a handsome 7 lb 2 oz, 19 1/4 inch long nephew.

Born on the first day of the month at 5:47pm.

I've never waited in a waiting room for a baby before.  I almost didn't go this time.  I knew my sister didn't want an overabundance of people crowding her and her little family on their first hours, days, together.

But I went.  After being awoken at 4:30 in the morning with a prayer on my lips.  "Come on, Eli," I found myself whispering.  "Today's your day.  We want to meet you.  Come on."  Thirteen hours later, here then he was.  With a perfect blend of my sister and our brother.  With hands like Katherine and Tamera's.  A head full of hair.

I sat, feet swollen, in the waiting room and just thought about how I'd never done this before.

Waited on a baby.

Or waited for someone to get out of surgery.

Or waited for news, which just wouldn't seem to come.

The waiting room became overrun, quickly, with drinks and phone chargers, and a fluctuation of Vaughans and Rectors and Rehnborgs and Penningtons.  The whole hospital seemed to undulate with our family, never fewer than three of us, and as many as twenty at one time.

Just waiting.  On this baby boy.

Everyone kept staring at me as I'd walk through the halls.  When was it my turn, they wanted to know. And I'd just shrug.  Eli had to come first.

That was the rule.

Eli had to come.  Be the first.  The first grandson, the first great grandson, on both sides.  The first nephew for all of his aunts and his two uncles -- one who was getting updates from the other side of the world.

Eli had to come.  And then we'd worry about getting Judah here.  It wasn't my turn yet.

I was there to wait.

I'd always known Katherine wanted to be a mom.  I'd seen her with countless babies over the years, watched her change diapers, heard her talk about her plans as a mommy.  But fatherhood is not something a lot of men talk about, before it becomes a personal topic.

I've known David for a long time.  Ten years now?  I'm having a hard time remembering when he wasn't part of our family.  But I'd never seen this David before.  He appeared in the waiting room every few hours.  Unshaven.  Saving his energy.  Acting like nothing had changed and then laughing when we pounced of him for not sharing important news.

So now they were both parents.

I spent a lot of my time in the waiting room thinking about how everyone kept telling David "you're a daddy now!", and the reaction my heart had to this statement.

Because.  I tend to think they both became parents a long time ago.

I think, maybe, you become a parent the minute another small life becomes more important than your own.

And for both my sister and my brother, that happened a while ago.

So Eli is here.  Elijah David.

A fifth generation.  A third member to a small family who lives in a town house down the street from me.

My parents first grandchild.  Their first grandson.

My first nephew.

Can't help but think, if we knew the joy and anticipation, which surrounded our arrivals into this world -- how people waited on us, celebrated us, and prepared for us -- how much differently would we live our lives?

If we knew how people had waited on us.