With nearly 370,000 babies born across the globe every day, you’d think the miracle would wear off. I mean, 15,062 births every hour, 251 every minute – that’s a lot of first cries and cut cords. But no, anyone with eyes open to wonder looks at a newborn and sees miraculous, in bold print, in all caps.

Which is why I insisted on the bow.

A not-too-big, not-too-little white one that matched my granddaughter’s monogrammed dress perfectly. After all, it’s not every day you get to see a miracle – maybe even hold one – so I thought the big sister needed to look her best. And she did, right until we crossed the threshold to the fourth floor of Baptist Hospital. How that child found the only hole in 8 million square feet of solid footing I’ll never know, but she managed to. She also managed to remove her only available hair accessory at precisely that moment. And drop it. Smack dab into the elevator shaft.

Bye-bye, bow.

So we rounded the corner, unadorned and unkempt, to greet the fellow grands and others gathered for the big unveiling. Even with all the mothers busy reliving their deliveries like soldiers at a VFW meeting, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Darling’s bowlessness. That, however, was nothing compared to the next “lessness” I experienced when my footwear decided to have a serious malfunction.

I now believe wedgelessness at a hospital trumps having a toe strap flapping for an entire day of fifth grade. It seemed every set of eyes I passed at Baptist traveled to what remained of my poor, pitiful shoe. Finally I had enough. When a pair of nurses dared to stare, I tried a new strategy, and instead of averting my gaze, I went on the defensive.

“What? Never seen a woman walk on one wedge before?” (Well, I didn’t exactly say it like that. Actually, I didn’t say it at all. But I did think it in my mind. Loudly.)

Eventually I was able to limp to the food court, where I had some big decisions to make. Monterey Cheddar or Hardy Italian? Toasted or not? That’s when I asked for a slice of provolone – with a long “e.”

“Provoloneeee?” The sales clerk countered, obviously amused by my cheese pronunciation. Hubby, of course, didn’t miss a word of the exchange, and instead of defending my honor, chuckled under his breath. Big mistake. It took me all of two nanoseconds to whip out a dictionary app and have an expert do the talking: P-R-O-V-O-L-O-N-E, long “e” and all.

The sound of vindication was lovely, so I kept pushing the button for more. “Should I play it a little louder?” I taunted from my side of the table. Indeed, the only thing that stopped me was a need for more sweet onion sauce, and it was while I was on my way back to the counter that I had a brilliant thought: maybe one of the kids can turn that recording into my new ring tone.

After lunch, we got to meet the new baby. It was, of course, one of those hushed, freeze-frame moments you never forget. Standing there in Room 4769 on one wedge, I curved back the blanket’s fold and took in the sight of our family’s latest miracle – her and her headful (and I do mean head full) of curly, black hair.

Well, well. What do you know? Bowlessness can be beautiful after all.

Welcome to the world, little Lydia. Welcome to the world.

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.