On the Day that You were Born…

Years from now, you will make this request: “Mommy, tell me about the day I was born.” Natural curiosity will form the question in your imagination, as you’ve undoubtedly heard stories about the Spring of 2020. But to you, the pandemic—that created phrases like the ‘Stay at Home’ order and social distancing—won’t matter. You’ll have read about how the world stopped and changed forever that Spring—about the infamous toilet paper shortages, the country-wide school closures, the lack of testing available for the virus, the unknowns and paranoia left in its wake, daily rising death tolls, the hospital and essential personnel who emerged as branded heroes—but what you’ll care about, and what Mommy and Daddy will remember, is the special part you played during that blip in history. The minutes and hours of April 17th and 18th are now etched into my soul, and they are moments I will gladly pass on to you. And there is no day better than today—the eve of your birthday—than to tell it.

Your story will always have two distinct parts, the first of which is Mommy and Daddy moving into your first home.

After two months of searching, countless open houses, six offers, two awful inspections, and two settlement date delays, we finally had a firm date to move into our first home: April 17th. Consequently, it was three days before you were due to make your arrival. Yes, everyone told us it was crazy. Who moves during a global pandemic, while also 9-months pregnant? Apparently us. But we believed you’d come late—just that week, the doctor talked to Mommy about an induction at 41- weeks. Always the planners, we had contingency plans in place—like if I went into labor, someone would need to bring the mortgage docs to the hospital and we’d beg a nurse to go get them from the parking lot (because we were told once you arrived, we wouldn’t be allowed off the delivery ward until discharge). We called in favors at the hospital, seeing if we knew any nurses working that day—its good to have a wide-net of contacts in the medical field. As our realtor reminded us, all I had to do was be physically present for signing at 10 am. “Keep that baby in til noon, please,” Daddy told me that morning. We were crazy to think anything would be in our control and run smoothly that day—perhaps it was a first lesson in parenting.

On the morning of April 17th, Mommy and Daddy traveled to the magical land of Feasterville and parked out steeds (Daddy’s Rav4 and Mommy’s Crosstrek)—filled to the brim with our possessions—in the parking lot of the title company. We turned off our engines, and beeped our horns—as we were instructed to do. Our realtor—a family friend, who was told she wasn’t allowed to come to our signing—parked in the adjacent lot just in case anything were to happen, waited with bated breath as our docs were brought out to us. Daddy signed first—it took nearly twenty minutes to sign the bible-sized stack of papers—then walked the papers over to me to complete. And then it was done. The house—your first house—was ours. And I made it through with you barely making a peep inside. No drama, no fuss, no need to use our contingency plans. Which, I realize now was the calm before the storm.

Immediately, Daddy and I headed over to the house. Our plan was to move as much as we could ourselves and leave the big stuff to the movers we hired the next day. We wanted to make at least two trips back to our rental house in Conshohocken—so four car loads before the day was done. Again, Mommy and Daddy are planners. We backed into our new driveway, and immediately set to unpacking our cars. Daddy didn’t carry me over the threshold—a tradition you’ll hear about one day. Picking up a 9-month pregnant woman isn’t the safest of things in normal circumstances. We hugged on the doorstep and then punched in the door-code, and stepped inside. It was surreal. Every turmoil over the last two months had led to that moment, and it was a relief. But also overwhelming. There was so much to do and no time to dwell on it.

Daddy went on autopilot and started unloading his car at a rapid pace. I spent the better part of an hour unloading my car—filled with my wardrobe—and taking it up into our bedroom. Up and down three flights of stairs (albeit 6-stairs or less) four or five times is a lot on the legs and lungs when you’re very pregnant. Daddy was not happy with me; he spent the first twenty minutes of our arrival putting together a chair for me to sit in. But I’m my mother’s daughter and I pushed through without complaint.

With our cars emptied, we headed back to Conshohocken to load up our cars again and order some lunch. While Daddy packed up our cars, I ordered lunch from Deli on 4th—another place we will take you one day. The delivery was going to be about forty minutes to an hour, so I decided to lay down for a bit. I passed out the second my head hit the pillow. Daddy woke me when our sandwiches were delivered. I came downstairs and sat down at our kitchen island. I was taking my third bite, when I felt a pop. It wasn’t painful, it wasn’t even uncomfortable, it was just different…and made me pause mid bite. I jumped out of my seat and ran to the bathroom. I didn’t know what it meant but I knew it meant something. I emerged from the bathroom and walked back into our kitchen, and waited for Daddy to look up from his sandwich. “Um…” I said, drawing his attention to me, standing in the doorway, “I think my water broke.”

“Really?!” I watched as the color drained and then flooded back to his face.

“Maybe? I can’t really tell.”

“Well do you think we have time to head back to the house and unload first?” In retrospect, yes, this was an asinine question. But in the heat of the moment, it made sense. For one, I had no clue if my water had actually broken and there was no point in delaying our plans for the day. Even if it had broken, we’d been told by everyone that it could still be hours before active labor started. So, I agreed to head back to the house and unload our cars. Only after calling Marmie—your grand mom. Naturally, she was already on her way over to the house—a global pandemic couldn’t keep her away on settlement day.

“Are you contracting?” she asked me via her car’s bluetooth.

“I don’t think so?” Every week the doctor would ask the same question and honestly, I’d lie. I’d never had contractions, so I had no clue if the slight cramps I felt at random moments were in fact contractions. And when I talked to my mommy friends and sisters, their response was, “Oh you’ll know it when you have one.”

“Get to the house and call your doctor. We’ll be there soon,” Marmie told me.

Which is what we did. We both pulled into our driveway and I headed inside to sit down and wait. Daddy started furiously unpacking our cars, again. I barely sat down when I felt the sudden rush of water that you see in the movies. I ran to the bathroom and there was no denying it; my water had broken. Luckily, Marmie and Poppy walked into our house—masks and all—at that exact moment.

I called the doctor and after answering a few simple questions, I was told to head to the hospital. That’s when it hit me; you were coming. I took one look at Marmie and burst into tears. She pulled me into a hug—something we hadn’t done in 6-weeks, something we were told not to do because of the pandemic, but something I needed so badly. Leaving her, when I wanted her to come with me was really hard.

“You’re going to be a mommy today! This is it,” she whispered in my ear. “Call me and I’ll stay on the phone the whole time. But I’ll be right there in your heart.” I was scared to leave her but nodded into her shoulder. She kissed my cheek and Poppy came and did the same. They told us they’d take care of the movers and everything else, and not to worry. Daddy grabbed my overnight bag—packed since the beginning of March—and we headed out the door. It’s funny for me to think how that day was supposed to be carefree and easy; you had other plans.

We arrived at the hospital, and parked near the main entrance—we were told to avoid the ER at all costs, as the Covid patients were entering that way. “Welcome and congratulations!” the attendant at the information desk said, as he handed Daddy a visitor badge and told us which elevator to take up to the Labor and Delivery ward. The friendliness from everyone we walked passed was surprising. From everything I’d seen on the news, hospitals were horror shows of grief and despair. We saw not an ounce of that as we navigated our way to Labor and Delivery.

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor of the hospital and we walked the fifty feet to the Labor ward. Before we were taken back to the nurse triage, a nurse in full protective gear—a face mask, gloves, and gown—came out and took both our temperatures and asked us if we had any Covid-19 symptoms—a dry cough and a high temperature being the standard. This was the moment I feared; Mommy and Daddy had been self-quarantining for over two weeks in anticipation of these questions, but I still feared Daddy would be turned away. Neither of us had symptoms or been exposed to anyone who was Covid positive, but there was still that lingering doubt in the back of my head. Luckily, that fear was unfounded. We were allowed back to the nurse triage—after being told we weren’t to remove our face-masks while on the ward— to wait for a room was ready for us. It was a little after 3 o’clock and we didn’t see or hear anyone else in the triage area, so I assumed it would be a quick turnaround. Our nurse—who was again outfitted in full protective gear—told us as much when she came to give me a gown and to do a few tests to confirm my water had broken.

“Your room is ready,” the nurse explained, her voice muffled by the mask covering the bottom half of her face. “We need a rapid Covid test and we’ll get you down there.”

Instantly, I felt my face flush. “Is that normal? My temperature wasn’t high, right?” My mind started spiraling, thinking back to the initial nurse at check-in.

“This is all standard procedure,” she said as she pulled the cotton-swab from a long tube. “We’ll just take a swab of the back of your throat and then send the sample down to our lab. Results will be ready in an hour.”

The test wasn’t the horror-show I’d heard of—the long swab inserted into the nasal canal, that basically scraped your brain. But waiting for the results was mental torture. Only made worse because it took far longer that an hour. Two and a half later, the results were still not available and I was still in triage. During that wait, my contractions had started; YES, I finally knew what contractions felt like. It was a combination of intense pressure in your pelvis and like someone was stabbing you repeatedly for two to three minutes. I gritted my way through it, but I was getting frustrated. I couldn’t start the Pitocin—a drug that induces labor—or receive an epidural—which helps with the pain of contractions—until I was taken back to my room. I didn’t want to complain; I knew the hospital was dealing with far more critical cases and I could handle the pain at that point. Until I couldn’t, and started to scream during the intense pressure.

Eventually, my nurse returned and profusely apologized for the delay. “All the rapid tests are sent to our lab and they can only run the samples one at a time. Because we didn’t tell the lab that this was for a pregnant patient, they stuck your test in a drawer.” My eyebrows raised in shock and I snorted a laugh. Because really it was funny. “I know,” the nurse agreed with my facial reaction, “but they are running your sample now and it’ll be any minute, I promise.”

A half-hour passed and she returned. “Okay we’re going to get you down to delivery,” she said as she unhooked me from the machines.

“So the test came back negative?” I asked.

“Yes. But the rapid test can give a false negative and false positive.”

The question on my lips—what is the point of giving a test if it’s not accurate—stayed right there. Instead, I snorted another laugh. At that point, my contractions were coming every fifteen minutes so I didn’t care if the test came back inconclusive or that I was part alien. I just wanted to get moving.

And move I did.

Over the next few hours, things progressed quickly. I was four centimeters dilated and my contractions were getting closer. The Pitocin intensified my contractions, and Daddy held my hand the whole time and Marmie called constantly to check on me—I really needed them both. Only when I couldn’t take the pain any longer did I ask for the epidural. One day, your aunts will tell you about my normal reaction to needles—about the one time I kicked a nurse in the crotch as she was trying to draw my blood—but that wasn’t the case that day. I was in so much pain that the doctor could’ve stuck me fifteen times, and I would’ve asked for fifteen more. In fact, I barely flinched when the needle was inserted into my spine.

“You did great! The best one today!” the doctor said. Yes, you are reading that right!

Within ten minutes, the medication took effect. I was numb from my pelvis down, and couldn’t feel my contractions. “Can I have an epidural everyday?” I asked the nurse, who laughed. I felt so great that I even fell asleep for three hours—”Only you would fall asleep during labor,” Marmie kids me to this day. Thankfully, Daddy did, too. We woke around 1am, and there was a furry of panicked text messages and missed calls from Marmie; the last message she received from Daddy was that I was getting the epidural.

Sorry, Mom.

The doctor came in around 2am and examined me one last time.

“Ok, you are almost 10 centimeters. Let’s wait about an hour and then we’ll start pushing.”

Daddy’s didn’t say much but his face was a mixture of panic and excitement. He started furiously texting our family—especially Marmie, who still hadn’t gone to bed—and trying to keep his nerves in check.

Then—at precisely 3am—the big show started.

Time didn’t exist. I lived and breathed—really breathed—in ten second spurts. Ten seconds of pushing harder than I ever had, then pausing to catch my breath (as much as I could through a fabric mask). I concentrated on the television screen in front of me—a Harry Potter marathon was on. Yes, you were born during a Harry Potter marathon, Half-Blood Prince to be exact; serendipitous, right? Daddy’s phone kept pinging with texts, but his attention was solely on me. After about two hours of pushing, I was exhausted and I truly didn’t think you were going to come out. The doctors and nurses assured me you were right there, and kept telling me that I was “a great pusher”—that scene from Mean Girls kept flashing through my brain. But I didn’t know how much more I could give. Which the doctor recognized and called down to the nurse triage.

Like a bat out of hell, a new nurse swept into the room and revived the room with a crazy, hyper energy. I don’t remember her name, but after ten minutes I assumed she was going to pull pom-poms from her scrubs. She was legitimately the Birth Cheerleader. “Ok Mama, we’re having this baby today!” she said with an ear to ear grin. She grabbed onto my leg and cheered me through every single contraction. “Push, Mama! Pushhhhhhhhhhh,” she encouraged over and over. She had me switch positions, talked me through different pushing techniques, showed Daddy how to act like my anchor, and just kept my mind off the increasing pain. Her energy renewed me; she even had me laughing. I realize now that she was brought into the room for that exact reason. “The baby’s right there! Just a few more big pushes,” she told me.

I pushed for another hour and a half—which isn’t easy to do with a fabric mask covering half of your face. A friend of mine handmade two masks—one for me, and one for Daddy—out of very thick cloth. This was before various clothing companies started mass-producing masks, and when hospital-grade masks weren’t available—even to medical professionals. Due to supply shortages, I didn’t want to take a mask from the hospital, but in retrospect I should’ve. During that last hour, I spiked a fever and almost passed out because I literally couldn’t breathe. “Can you open a window,” I asked one of the nurses, after she took my temperature. They couldn’t, but mopped my head with a cool cloth. It became unbearable.

So I gritted my teeth, mustered up the last bit of my energy and pushed through the pain, only stopping twice to catch my breath. My mind went blank and I knew you were close, which was confirmed when the doctor suited up and positioned herself at the foot of my bed. “One more good push, Mama! He’s right there,” the Birth Cheerleader coached. I looked at Daddy, he nodded and gripped my leg tighter. I took one last gulp of air, and pushed my hardest. I screamed with the push—something I hadn’t done the entire labor—and I could feel the veins popping in my head.

And out you came.

Daddy was instantly crying in my shoulder, “You did so good!” My head was spinning; it took a few seconds for my vision to clear and for my head to compute what the nurses were saying. The Birth Cheerleader whispered (but not really because I heard her) to another nurse by my head, “Call down to the NICU!” I hadn’t heard your cry so my mind started racing. Was everything okay?

The doctor looked up to Daddy and said, “You ready to call it?”

Daddy looked at me and said, “We have a son!”

To which I replied, “Told you!”—from the beginning of my pregnancy, I knew and told everyone you were a boy.

They didn’t bring you to me right away, they swept you over to the side. “Is everything okay,” I asked, as the panic set it. I found out after that because I spiked a fever during labor, they had to be sure the baby didn’t have Covid—and that you could’ve been taken from me for days until they were sure. Luckily, that wasn’t the case; I heard your strong cry and then a different doctor placed him on my chest.

“Congratulations, Mom. Everything is fine!”

And there you were; staring up at me with newborn eyes and smiling. By then, Daddy and I were both a blubbering mess. And so in love.

“Do you have any names in mind?” the nurse asked.

We both stifled a laugh—the picture on the right depicts why. Your name was the CONSTANT debate for the entire 9-months of my pregnancy. Lots of heated arguments, tears, massive frustration, and Googling every documented name in the history of the world—including a few Welsh ones (you can thank Mommy that you weren’t given an unpronounceable name) brought us down to one boy name: Wyatt Emilio. The only name we were in complete agreement was Emilio as your second name—after your uncle. We looked down at you, swaddled tight in my arms and the name fit. You were our Wy guy.

And that’s it. That’s how you came bursting into our lives: two days early and at the most inconvenient time.

I don’t think I can adequately describe what the last year has meant to me—yes, I’m a writer and I can’t find the words. I just feel…complete. Exhausted but complete. Like my entire life was a rough draft preparing me for your arrival. Because in so many ways, your birthday was also mine—something your great aunt would say to Marmie after every milestone birthday. So Happy Birthday to us, Wyatt Emilio—my bubba, Wy guy, Wild Wy. You brought me to life.

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On the Day that You were Born…