While Dad was preaching at his church that Sunday, Mom padded down the hallway in her pink bathrobe to look at me through the glass window of the newborns’ room. She felt other mothers looking at her, searching her eyes, and she stared back at them. She had longed for a redheaded girl; I had arrived, but in slightly different form from what had been expected or wished for. The nurses had attached a small sign to my crib that read “Miss America” in blue, carefully printed in letters. Mom tapped on the glass; she blew me a kiss.
While Dad was working at the fire station that weekday, Mom walked down the hallway in her everyday clothes to look at us through the crystal clear window of the newborns’ room. She saw other parents looking at their babies and taking them home, she smiled at them, and they smiled back. She had hoped to take us home sooner; we had arrived, but slightly premature from the date that was expected. The nurses had attached a small sign to our cribs that read “Baby A” and “Baby B” in red and blue, strategically typed in letters. Mom’s love radiated through the glass; she never stopped smiling.