Before my husband, Omar, and I got married, we had the “kid” conversation. This wasn’t our first marriage, and we each had children from previous relationships. Our blended family got along wonderfully. Why add a new baby to the mix?
Besides, I was 39 and Omar was 42. In a few years, our kids would be out of the house. Neither one of us wanted to start over, to go back to sleepless nights and changing diapers, right?
Then my period was late. I’d left Omar and the kids back in Texas to spend a week with family in Massachusetts. A few days into the trip, I got really nervous. What if I was pregnant? What would Omar think?
Anxious, I called him. He was calm and supportive. “When you get home, we can get a pregnancy test,” he said. I felt better, knowing we were in this together. But after we hung up, I couldn’t stop thinking about having another little person to share our love with.
I got my period the next day. Dejected, I texted Omar: “Never mind.”
Instead of texting back, he called me. “Baby, are you okay?” His voice was gentle.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know it’s crazy, and we already said we don’t want kids, but I was kind of getting my kids, hopes up.”
“You’re not crazy,” he assured me. “I was too. I think we had that ‘kids’ conversation too early. Maybe we should revisit it.”
My heart leapt. “I mean…only if you want to.” We talked for an hour about the pros and cons of having another child, who would graduate high school when we were in our fifties. We had plans to travel and enjoy our retirement. That wouldn’t be as easy to do. But the thought of bringing more love into our home—into the world—kept pulling us back to “yes.” We put the discussion on hold until we could talk face to face.
That night I said an extra prayer at bedtime. “God, the thought of having another baby is scary but also exciting,” I whispered. “Whatever your will is, Lord, please give me a sign.”
I woke the next morning to a text from Omar. “I like the name Roselyn for a girl,” it read.
I smiled. “Okay, but I’m gonna call her Rosie for short.”The plane home was full. A stewardess announced that some carry-ons would have to be checked. I had a middle seat. The passenger to my right was already asleep against the window. To my left was an empty aisle seat, but I knew it wouldn’t stay that way.
Sure enough, just as the doors were closing, one last passenger came striding down the aisle. She plopped a diaper bag under the seat in front of her and buckled her seatbelt in one swift movement, all while juggling a toddler on her hip. The child tugged at her mother’s shirt with her tiny hands and giggled at me as I gave her a wave.
“She’s precious,” I said.
“Thanks,” the mother said. “She’s a handful, though.”
“Oh, I can imagine. What’s your name, little one?” I asked.
Her mom answered for her. “Rosie.”
The mother smiled, not realizing she was delivering to me the very sign I’d asked for. Our family wasn’t quite complete, and I couldn’t wait to tell Omar!
Our baby girl was born less than a year later. Isabel Poppy Rose.
