In my mind, I have on scrubs and a white coat (The Outfit™). I am pacing back and forth in the waiting room like an anxious father and desperately hoping that there is a cigar around here somewhere. Something to dicker with in my hands because no news is good news and it’s been a while and I can’t keep still. My sister, my brother in law, and my nephew are just in the next room, and it’s not my area. My area is by the Pepsi machines. My area is to sit and think about how this little Texan will change the world, just by being in it.
An hour goes by, there’s nothing to do but wait. I can’t leave, I can’t even move. I can’t even bring myself to do so. I just have to go the distance. I have to be one of the first to know that the baby is okay , I have to be one of the ones that feels the relief and joins in the hugging and crying.
And that’s what I’m thinking about as I sit here in a restaurant in Portland, Oregon.
I am so homesick I can barely think about it. I don’t have time to go “home” until after the 16th of June, and the baby is supposed to be born exactly at the same time.
All I can do is hope, pace, and try not to worry. Because I’m not worried.
I’m just waiting.