Sweet Caroline, a reason to be thankful

You I worried about from the start, even before you were born. The doctor told us you were in there in an unusual position. Transverse breach, she called it.

Somehow you were upside down and slung across sideways. It was a form of occupancy less than ideal. It might even be dangerous, the doctor told us. The umbilical cord could get tangled up, even strangle you as you came out.

Hardly what Mom and I needed to hear eight months along. She took it pretty well, at least so it seemed. Me, I was another story. I kept thinking about it day after day for those last weeks.

Please, I thought, let her be OK. We'd already had one perfect child. Was it too much for us to hope for a second? Go two for two?

The doctor kept close watch. Mom went to see her more often, just as a precaution, just to check on your position in the womb. Nothing changed. In transverse breach you remained.

Please, I kept thinking, let her be perfect. It was sort of a prayer, but sent out to the universe at large rather than to any god. I swore never to expect or ask for anything else again. I kept my concern to myself to avoid upsetting Mom.

The doctor showed us a sonogram of you so we could see your awkward position. It was decided that day that the safest course was for you to be delivered, at full term, by Caesarean. In those days, that meant I would have to stay out of the delivery room, unable to see you born, as I had our son, Michael.

When Mom went in the operating room at what was then St. John's Hospital on Queens Boulevard, I waited outside, more nervous than I'd ever felt. I needed to do something to keep my mind off my worries. So I wrote.

I had an assignment from a science magazine. It had to do with either mummies or robots, I forget. A short piece. I tinkered away, trying to make it as perfect as I wanted you to be. An hour went by, maybe more. Then the doctor came out. She told me you had emerged fine, without a hint of a problem. I could go see you now.

Back I went to where all the new babies hung out, all in those little bassinets. I stood over you, your face so pink, your eyes closed, your mouth puckering, your fingers squirming, your hair matted. You cried.

I felt a rush of relief almost stunning in its force. You were OK. I could see that for myself. And then I felt my whole face wrinkle and flush and I broke down crying.

"Hello, Caroline," I said through tears. "I'm your Daddy. Glad you could make it."

Now you're an adult. You're pursuing a career as an entrepreneur. You're healthy, smart, beautiful -- in short, perfect.

For that, call me grateful beyond words. Happy Thanksgiving, baby.

Bob Brody, an executive and essayist, lives in Forest Hills.