Over Thanksgiving in 1984, my parents announced they were pregnant with their first child. My grandmother Margaret knew before they opened their mouths. Allegedly, the giveaway was when my mom refused a glass of wine but I prefer to think my grandmother possessed a matriarchal foresight bordering on omnipotence - a kind of hyper-awareness of her own genetic material, a deep-seated knowing of self-preservation and instinct that has quietly powered human propagation for thousands of years. You just know.
My parents were a little nervous to break the news. Not that the child was conceived out of wedlock (actually, rumor has it conception occurred the night the Detroit Tigers won the 1984 World Series.) or under duress or had any prenatal health conditions, but the anticipated due date came smack in the middle of my grandparents planned months-long grand tour of Europe. It was the type of trip retirees plan years for, the kind seen in ads for pharmaceuticals or financial planning firms. Nobody called it a Bucket List then but this was *it*. Maybe it was the fact that this would be their second grandchild and the novelty had worn off, maybe it was because my grandmother had spent time teaching young, unwed girls in Pontiac, Michigan the tools and knowledge they would need to raise children alone or maybe it was because after decades of hard work and raising three children of their own, they were ready to indulge in a well-deserved vacation - they knew a newborn is little more than a flesh-bag with organs and he wouldn't mind if they met him when they got back from Europe. "Sorry I'm not sorry," they might have said today.
On the day the baby was born, my grandparents were in Paris. I assume my parents paid a small fortune for a long-distance telephone call to France to let them know - 10 fingers, 10 toes, happy family, etc. etc. "Black Irish," they'd say, dark hair, blue eyes, good lungs.
In the coming days, my father would snap photos of the new family, get them developed and put them in an envelope with the address for the American Express office in Paris on it, the place my grandparents were getting their mail and correspondence during that leg of the trip. During those same days, my grandfather would walk into that office each morning, eagerly looking for the envelope. "We're waiting for pictures of my grandson," he'd tell the teller. "Sorry, nothing today," they'd respond.
"Any mail today? We're waiting for pictures of my grandson."
"Je suis désolé, monsieur."
The baby was already delivered but the photos weren't until mid-July. Standing in the AmEx office, my grandfather snatch the envelope, flipped over to the back and began to unseal it. My grandmother snatched it right back and said, "Not yet."
They walked to the banks of the River Seine to sit down at an outdoor cafe. They ordered a carafe of nice white wine. I like to think it wasn't the nicest wine in the restaurant - they weren't a showy couple - but it was from nearby, well-made and good enough to do what good wines do: draw your attention to the value of the moment. When the waiter finished pouring the glasses, my grandmother took a sip, looked at my grandfather and said, "OK, now open it."
That's how they first laid eyes on me, their first and only grandson.
