Once, many years ago, a quiet doctor who always wore her hair in a bun helped me bring a little girl into this world. It was a big job. It was a big job because it was me. I’m nervous. I worry about everything. I try to manage everything. I vocalize everything. I think I wore her out–that quiet little doctor with round glasses, a soft voice, and her hair in a bun. She had to work hard to get that little girl here. The hours were long and there was no extra money for any extra thing. I told her very passionately, “I have to have this baby on my due date and I have to do it without any pain meds. She’s pre-paid and I can’t leave with a bill. There’s no money for another bill. It has to happen just so.” My little bird-like doctor smiled her lost little smile and probably went home to complain to her husband. She probably said, “This job is too much. These women are crazy. They think they can control everything. This job is just too, too much.” But, because she was a good doctor, she showed up on the day I needed her to. It was my due date and I was in pain with no money for any extras and somehow she got me through the whole thing. The seconds, the minutes, the hours until she laid my little girl on my stomach. I cried. I touched her little head. I looked around the room for this tiny treasure’s real Mommy. I said over and over, “I can’t believe I have a baby. I can’t believe I have a baby.” I sincerely, after nine months of pregnancy and approximately three-hundred peanut butter sandwiches whose only job it was to make my girl move in my tummy, could not believe I was a mommy. So, my fading, nervous, ready to leave doctor shook her head at me. “Where did you think this was headed if not to a baby?” I knew she was right, but I simply could not make my heart believe that this little person was my daughter. My girl. My Boona. I was a mommy. How was that possible? But, I bundled her up and took her home that December morning in the snow and pointed out Christmas lights along the way and the magic began in earnest. I never saw my shy, reserved, slightly unapproachable doctor again. This miracle was to be my only one, but it was ok because she was everything. Her soul was sweet and her humor was wicked. She grew up wonderful, and in the moments of the years to come, I would see her walking across a parking lot, or a stage or simply down the stairs and I would catch my breath. I would look around for my friend the doctor so she could see the wonderful thing she had helped me bring into the world, but she was never there. I was the witness to my beautiful girl. My best thing. My miracle. And, now, all these years later, she is also scheduling weekly appointments with a doctor. A bespectacled, close-talking, blunt doctor. I bet he doesn’t know that there is someone special waiting to be born. Another mommy waiting for that switch to flip. Another magnificent miracle. Probably with a stubborn will and a wicked sense of humor. Most likely, so tall I will have to reach up for hugs someday. Arriving in June. Driving home in the early summer when people are packing for vacations and school-kids are watching cartoons. The worries about money are the same. The demand for things to go easily are the same. But this time, her time, it will be a boy. My daughter’s son. My daughter’s miracle. Her chance to ride the ride. To feel the love. To catch her breath as he walks across a stage or ambles down the stairs. I hope she’s ready. I hope she knows all of this ends in a baby. I hope her doctor understands her like mine understood me. I hope he gets that she’s scared and unsure and ready to bolt, but if he will just show up when she needs him to they will make it happen. She will rise to the occasion and fight hard. And, in the end, my own little girl will be this precious little boy’s mommy. She will love him fiercely and protect him and teach him to read great books. She will laugh with him and discipline him and pelt him with pillows when needed. It will be magic. I will watch and cheer and love them both fiercely. I like this passing of the torch. I know where this is headed and I am ready. This time, beauty will be a boy.