The nurse was exactly what you’d expect: bright, sassy, and Southern. She changed shifts at seven. The minute the new nurse left the room, my sister looked around at us.

I. DO. NOT. LIKE. HER.

I would say it was like a dream, because it was. Months before I even found out about my sister’s pregnancy I called my mom to tell her about a dream I had. A dream where my kid sister had a huge pregnant belly and that my grandmother, mother, and I were in a dimmed room helping her through labor. I dreamed that I had to keep eye contact with my sister so she wouldn’t be afraid.

And there we were – my mom and sister and I – surrounding her in a dark room, the birthing lamp shining on her huge belly. Looking into her eyes so she wouldn’t be afraid. We clutched her ankles and coached her through contractions through the night. We yelled and laughed and cried. T

he nurse was all business and numbers, reading charts and typing notes. She didn’t get my sister, didn’t get that she was always this stubborn. She eventually deflated and became just another object in the room, letting my sister do it her way and letting us count down the reps.

With a soldier as a father, it always seemed like it had been just us girls. When my parents divorced it only exacerbated the feeling of being one female entity. So it was only fitting that a mother, a daughter, and sisters were there to witness a new generation enter into our world. In a moment we became a grandmother, an aunt, and a mother. It was only fitting it was another girl.

Welcome to the world, Christyn.