Isn’t she lovely? Our baby story
Originally published Nov. 5 and 12, 2017, in the Times Herald-Record of Middletown, N.Y.
“It can happen any number of ways,” they tell you in childbirth class. But they add that when it’s time to head to the hospital, you’ll just know.
Last Saturday was as boring a day as we could imagine. We cleaned the house and made a laundry run while waiting for our child’s impending arrival. In between wiping down the toilet and sweeping the floor, Sarah bounced on an inflatable pregnancy ball. I carried clothes to the laundromat; Sarah said she would head over to transition the clothes from washer to dryer. I stayed home and finished some work.
Sarah returned home from the laundromat, her hair tossed, her face frazzled. She looked at me with curious eyes. Then she uttered the two words that sent us frantic.
“I fell.”
She fell off the curb and onto the street while walking home from the laundromat. She remembers bracing herself with her wrist and knee, but definitely feeling some impact on her belly. She rolled over at the end of the fall, too.
“I feel okay, but maybe we should call our midwife.”
We did, and since there was impact on the belly, our midwife instructed us to come to the hospital immediately.
Our entire pregnancy had been easy. We had followed every direction, had heeded every warning and had remained relatively on track with weight gain, dietary needs and avoiding anything potentially dangerous. But there’s very little you can do about slipping off the curb, about losing your balance for the millisecond necessary to send a pendulum-like woman down to the ground.
For nearly 39 weeks we had done everything to plan. But three days before full term, we nervously drove to the hospital, reassuring ourselves every minute that the baby was fine. Sarah cried. I went through every possible outcome. Sarah reminded me her mother was in a car accident weeks before birthing her. That seemed to help. This happens to a lot of people.
An hour before this we were on the couch, waiting impatiently for our kid on a boring Saturday. Now a baby heart monitor was placed on Sarah. Fluids from plastic bags flowed into her veins. We sat through the longest ultrasound of the pregnancy, watching as the technician quizzically studied every last measurement, deepening our worries by the second.
Five hours after we arrived, our midwife informed us everything was not only fine, but great. The baby was unharmed and healthy. Sarah was still in perfect fitness to deliver. We could go home. So we did, stopping only to scarf down the best fast food we ever tasted in our lives.
“It can happen any number of ways,” they tell you in childbirth class. And when it’s time to head to the hospital, you’ll just know.
There were no contractions, no signs at all, but four days later Sarah woke me up.
“I’m not sure, but my water may have broken a few hours ago.”
We called our midwife, and once again, we found ourselves on a hospital bed, connected to baby heart monitors and fluids, waiting for yet another verdict.
And an hour after we arrived, our midwife informed us everything was still great, but nothing had happened. We had to go home. So we did.
We figured then that this easy pregnancy was finally turning against us. We sat in the living room; I opened a beer to watch Game 7 of the World Series. Then Sarah shot a quick look to me.
“That’s a contraction,” she said, stunned. “That’s a big contraction.”
“What kind of songs do you want on the playlist?”
“I don’t know. Fun songs. Upbeat stuff.”
Two weeks ago I finished our “delivery playlist,” a Spotify playlist of about 100 songs we’d play as our baby was making its way into the world. Sarah would be in tremendous pain, needing every inch of support and comfort to finish the pregnancy, and little was more comfortable for her than music.
For us it’s always been music. We spent the first several weekends of our relationship riding in trains and driving in cars from Middletown to Queens, our only companions the music that buzzed into our ears. Back then there was newer artists like Bon Iver, Real Estate and Cut Copy alongside older favorites like Todd Rundgren and Hall & Oates. Plenty of searching, new sunshine to let in, discoveries to be made.
As we grew deeper in love, we’d take road trips together with music blaring from my car. The Band and Stevie Wonder were two of our frequent passengers during those weekends.
One day, mid-pregnancy, as I drove alone on Interstate 87, the strains of Loggins & Messina’s seminal hit “Danny’s Song” began to play. Kenny Loggins wrote it for his brother Danny upon the birth of his first child. The song clearly resonated with me, and at some point in the middle of the song I began to tear up.
I’m not in the best place with the family that raised me. I recently faced my inability to cope with difficult situations; the hurt and scorn that helped shape my past; and my damaged relationship with my mother, my brothers, and many of the people who’ve known me for decades. It has been a challenging last two years. I’ve cried, screamed and assessed often, and so much that the carousel of emotions have spun into a blur.
As a parent I feel an obligation to be better than the past that shaped me, to rise above hurt and scorn. And a song like “Danny’s Song,” which tenderly outlines the hopes of a parent to fulfill his obligation, strikes right to the heart of that feeling.
I started the “delivery playlist” around 4 p.m. Nov. 3, as Sarah zoned out in a hot tub, each contraction clamping against every inch of her body. There was the Band’s “The Weight.” There was Stevie Wonder’s “Uptight.” It seemed too perfect.
Hours later Sarah was drenched in sweat, a cold compress and ice cubes giving her fleeting relief. Each contraction meant another round of unstoppable pushing. Alicia Keys gave us “Girl on Fire.” The Pointer Sisters chimed in with “We’ve Got the Power.” There were fun songs, upbeat stuff, the nurses singing along in those long pauses between contractions.
At 1:30 a.m. Nov. 4, “Danny’s Song” played. Sarah was exhaling deeply. I was standing beside her. Our five-minute-old daughter, Genevieve Waverly Malcolm, rested on Sarah’s chest. A nurse recorded the moment as we sang to our 7-pound, 7-ounce Evie:
“And even though we ain’t got money,
I’m so in love with you, honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love.
And in the morning, when I rise,
You bring a tear of joy to my eye,
And tell me everything’s gonna be all right.”
