You spend nearly all your entire adult life, in every sort of way: actual, telephonic, electronic, and spiritual, with a person who grows, in a normal way that never ceases to seem miraculous, from an infant into an admirable woman. Along the way, you experience every human emotion you thought existed, and a lot that you wished didn’t: the stuff that infuses Christmas letters and such, and the things you wouldn’t want your own soul to know about you. And then, in the progress of time, your very own, unique phone number is linked to a contact listing labeled Mom in the admirable woman’s cell phone. And then, one evening when you most expect it, your phone rings later than anyone else would call you, and you hope it’s him. You hope it’s him, not your daughter the admirable woman, because he will be alert and sequential. In fact, he will be the most important person in the world for the next 13 minutes and 52 seconds, because he is telling you the details of your granddaughter’s arrival. And he, this important person who speaks in a way that is so very calm and warm and affable and take-charge, is the one who will iPhone you that first incredible photo of your daughter the admirable woman and the amazing new life in her arms.
It was a gentle landing, all in all.