Where was I when each of the grandchildren was born?

Hannah is eighteen today. Her card went on Monday. We telephoned after supper, and she answered from a corridor with a great deal of noise behind her; her floor had made her a cake out of something. The proper dinner is Sunday, when her parents can come.

Eighteen years ago this morning I was in the library at Tamarack Hill, shelving the new picture books, when Bunny came to the door herself instead of buzzing. Ellen had gone in at five. I taught until 11:30, because there was nobody to take the kindergarten, and then R. came for me in the old truck and we drove to Naperville with the windows down. She was four hours old when I held her. That was before I kept anything in here, so I am putting it down now.

R. has his slide rule out on the desk in the den. He means to give it to her on Sunday. I said she will not know what it is. He said, "She will in five minutes."

Owen Raymond Sievert, born yesterday, May 14, at 3:52 in the morning. Eight pounds one ounce. Ellen is well. I am writing this in her guest room in Naperville with Gus asleep across the doorway.

We were up north. It was our second weekend at the cabin. I was down at the shore at a quarter to six with my coffee, on the bench by the boathouse, because the loons came back to the island on Thursday and I wanted to hear them. One was calling when the telephone rang up at the cabin. I ran, which I do not do, and R. had it by the time I reached the door. He said, "It's Mark," and then, "A boy," and then he handed me the receiver and went and stood at the window with his back to me.

We were on the road by 6:30. Water off, the refrigerator emptied into a cooler, Gus in the back of the new car, which had 1,900 miles on it and now has rather more. Frost on the windshield at the cabin and none by Wausau. It is 330 miles from the cabin to Ellen's. R. drove all of it at four over the limit, which for him is abandon. We stopped once, in Portage, and he did not go in for coffee.

At the hospital by 1:15. Ellen was sitting up eating a turkey sandwich and looked as she did at sixteen after a swim meet. Mark had not slept and kept offering everyone chairs. His mother arrived with a casserole for the hospital room. The baby has dark hair that will not last and a serious forehead. They told us the middle name in the room. Ellen said it and looked at her father. R. held him for a long time without saying anything, and then said, "He has a good grip," and gave him back.

Hannah is two and a half and unimpressed. She looked into the bassinet, said, "He is not doing anything," and asked for my purse.

David called from Denver and Kate from Portland, both before noon. We stay until Tuesday; a substitute has the library tomorrow and the day after.

Lucas David Ostrander, born today at 2:47 in the afternoon, seven pounds even, in Denver, nine days ahead of his date.

I have been here since Saturday, sent for early because Julia's doctor did not like her blood pressure. So for once I was on the spot. I was in the waiting room on the fourth floor with Julia's mother, each of us pretending to do a crossword. David came through the doors in a paper gown with his glasses on crooked and could not get his words in order. Julia's mother said, "Is it a baby?" and he said, "Yes."

He looks like R. I mean that exactly: the same long upper lip, the same expression of having been interrupted.

I telephoned R., who was at the office and had to shut his door. He said, "A boy," and then, "All right," and then asked me for the weight twice.

Maeve Dorothy Ostrander, born this morning in Denver at 6:04 their time. Seven pounds two.

I was in the middle of story hour with Mrs. Kowalski's third grade, reading aloud, with the telephone face down on the cart, where it buzzed twice. I finished the book. I could not tell you now what it was. When they had gone I turned the telephone over, and there she was in a striped hat, with the name underneath.

Dorothy. Nobody had told me. I sat down on one of the small chairs.

R. was at home, in the shop. He says he read the message, put down the plane, and went out and bought the cherry for her toy chest before lunch.

We fly out on the 19th, the first day of spring break.

Theodore Sami Khoury, born last night in Portland, January 30, at 9:41 their time, which was nineteen minutes to midnight here. Seven pounds nine. Sami is for Samir's grandfather.

We were at home, in bed, with the suitcases for Gulf Shores standing open on the floor. The telephone rang on R.'s side and he answered it in the dark the way he answered it through thirty years of bridge emergencies, with his surname. It was Samir. I had the lamp on by then. R. listened and said, "Well done," and, "Tell her well done," and handed it to me, and Kate's voice was hoarse and about nine years old.

A long labor. She did not tell me how long, and I will get it out of Samir.

That makes five. We leave Friday as planned; I fly to Portland from home on March 6, when her mother-in-law has gone back to Michigan.

Juniper Margaret Khoury, born this morning in Portland at 4:12 their time. Six pounds fourteen. They will call her June.

We came home from the family week on Friday (ten of us this year; Kate could hardly have come), and at half past six this morning I was upstairs at the Bernina, sewing the binding on this child's quilt, which I had sworn would be finished before she was. The telephone was on the ironing board. Samir said the name, all three parts, and then said it again more slowly, because I had not answered.

Margaret. Nobody has been named for me before.

R. came up the stairs at the sound I made, saw my face, and said, "Which?" I said, "A girl. They've put my name in the middle." He sat down on Kate's old bed and said, "Well, where else would you put it."

That makes six. I fly out on the 1st for three weeks. The quilt wants eleven more inches of binding and will go in my suitcase.