I had a dream the other night. I hadn't seen my new granddaughter in twenty-four hours, and when I took her in my arms she was speaking complete sentences. This was extremely dramatic, because in the dream, as in life, the baby was only one month old.

In reality, not much about my first grandchild's birth was dramatic at all. Yes, my daughter went into labor nine years to the day after her father died, on the third of July. Yet the baby waited to be born – or G‑d held off her birth – till the next morning, at 8:24 AM. Maybe it was to make sure her birthday wouldn't be a reminder of a tragedy. Or, perhaps it was to make sure it would be huge celebration. In any event, Shayna Leah was born on the Fourth of July. I kept singing Yankee Doodle Dandy to her, all day long, much to the chagrin of her parents. And that night, when the annual fireworks display exploded over the East River, I was sure they were just for her.

It was a textbook delivery of a healthy baby girlOther than that, though, there wasn't much excitement in the birth of this little baby, other than the excitement every family feels when a baby is born. For us, it was, indeed, a life-changing moment. But in truth, there wasn't much to report about the whole event. It was a textbook delivery of a healthy baby girl.

This, in itself, was strange to me. My own daughter's birth was fraught with so much drama that as I stood in the hospital waiting for her to deliver her baby, I couldn't help flashing back to all the frightening details of the past. I thought about my daughter's little heart beating three hundred beats a minute moments after she was born; I thought about not seeing her for hours and hours while they tried to find a way to shock her heart back to normal rhythm; I thought about my fear that she would die.

But nothing like that happened this time around. My little granddaughter came into this world weighing six pounds, fourteen ounces. She cried on cue, loud and strong. The doctors and nurses declared her perfectly healthy. Her mother held her, her father held her, her father's mother held her, I held her, my mother held her, my husband held her. She slept. And slept. And cried some more. And that's about it.

I could tell you about the twelve hours we spent wondering if my daughter was really in labor. I could tell you about our walk down the street to get manicures and pedicures as a distraction. I could tell you about how my daughter and her husband sat around my mother's Manhattan apartment where I grew up, five blocks from the hospital, until they couldn't sit anymore and went back home to Brooklyn, only to turn around three hours later because it turned out Shira was in labor after all. I could tell you about going to the hospital at two-thirty in the morning, on a quiet summer night, and how I was the one who got to carry the giant blue "birthing ball" up the elevator, feeling silly but proud.

I could tell you about how my strong, calm daughter explained firmly to the surprised young resident in the maternity ward that she was not ready to be admitted, thank you very much, and preferred to walk around the hospital for the last hours of labor. I could tell you about how her husband's mother joined us, and how together the three of us coached my daughter through her contractions. I could tell you about how she resisted getting an epidural, afraid it would slow down her labor, only to learn a half hour after the pain meds had kicked in that not only hadn't it slowed her down, she was now fully dilated and it was suddenly time - time to bring a new life into the world.

We now had a fourth generation of women in our familyI could tell you about how I was getting a cup of coffee at that moment, and when my son-in-law called and said, "You'd better get in here, the baby's coming," I ran all the way down the hall to take my place beside his mom as a make-shift doula tag-team that so impressed the doctor, she wished she could hire us for every delivery. I could tell you how the news, "It's a girl!" surprised all of us, who'd believed every old-wives' tale about how a woman carries and were sure this baby would be a boy. I could tell you how the news that I, an only daughter, who'd given birth to an only daughter, cried and cried at the fact that we now had a fourth generation of women in our little family. I could tell you my mother's reaction, that made us all truly laugh in recognition, when she said, "I could deal with a boy the second time around, but I'm so glad this first baby is a real baby."

I could tell you about how incredible it was to hear my son-in-law reciting Tehillim, Psalms, during the moments leading up to his daughter's birth, and the awe on his face when he looked at her for the first time and said the Shehechiyanu prayer: "Blessed are you, L-rd our G‑d, King of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion."

I could tell you how amazing it was first to hold my daughter, and then moments later to caress my newborn granddaughter.

I could tell you how I cried the next morning when my daughter and I sat on her hospital bed, with the cell-phone on speaker, so that we could hear her young husband's deep, proud voice naming her in synagogue: Shayna Leah bat (the daughter of) Yishayahu Yisrael.

I could tell you how I stood on a balcony that night with my husband, in the rain, watching the sky burst with color, while New Yorkers celebrated our nation's freedom and we celebrated the fact that our half-Canadian, half-American Jewish granddaughter was born in the land of the free and the home of the brave, where she has a real shot at making every dream we have for her come true.

But I have to admit that there really isn't much of a story to tell about the birth of this one little baby. It's not particularly unique or exciting. Nothing dramatic happened, nothing unusual. She is simply, wonderfully, a healthy, happy baby, with healthy, happy parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents.

This Fourth of July we celebrated the blessings of normalcy, marveling at the fact that even in this day and age, with twenty-first century scientific knowledge, the birth of a healthy baby is still in G‑d's hands. My granddaughter's birth didn't leave me with much of a story to tell. But it was, indeed, a miracle.

Which is why, two nights later, on Shabbat, as I lit an extra candle for the newest member of our family, with tears streaming down my cheeks I thanked G‑d over and over again for all his blessings, but most of all for the precious little life cradled in my daughter's arms.