Room 4: Jazz, Pitocin, and Absolute Chaos

There are few things in life more humbling than watching two physicians arrive at Labor & Delivery with the packing strategy of exhausted college freshmen heading to a sleepover. At 4:00 PM we rolled into Room 4 armed with blankets, snacks, and a suspiciously curated jazz playlist that I believed screamed “sophisticated birth experience” but apparently translated to “hotel lobby during brunch.”  Our nurses, Laura and Autumn, welcomed us warmly while I immediately settled into my role as Unhelpful DJ. When Autumn gently asked Emily, “So… is this the music you want to listen to?” I reacted as though she had insulted my ancestral line. Naturally, this became the running joke for the next few hours.

Dr. Amanda arrived shortly after and performed the bedside ultrasound. Head down and now the work begins! Foley and Cervidil were placed, pizza from Island Pub was ordered, and our doula Lauren heroically fetched it while Emily casually announced between bites that she might be having contractions. Very relaxed contractions. Respectable contractions. The kind of contractions that politely knock before entering.Though rude enough to keep one from sleeping well through the night. 

As evening settled in, Emily and Lauren wandered outside to watch the sunset disappear behind the snow-covered mountains, a calm moment before the storm. Meanwhile, Emily’s parents, Sam and Mary Jo, arrived teeming with grandparent excitement. The plan for the night was simple: rest, wait, and see what the Cervidil and Foley would do. Medicine, however, loves a plot twist.

At 5:44 AM, Emily texted Lauren that the Foley had fallen out hours earlier and she’d been contracting all night. We were thrilled. Things were moving fast! Which is precisely when the OB universe decided to humble us. Suddenly the unit filled with laboring patients, pitocin got delayed… indefinitely? and our momentum evaporated. Disappointment reigned. Somewhere, karma sat in the corner eating popcorn.

Then things escalated quickly. Contractions intensified, anesthesiology was tied up, and Emily entered what I can only describe as Viking warrior mode. I started to panic as there were no reinforcements yet. Luckily, Lauren arrived while Emily labored in the bath, breathing and rocking through contractions every ninety seconds. Dr. W was trapped placing another epidural while Dr. A was in emergency surgery, so Dr. Amanda literally stationed herself outside another patient’s room like a medical bouncer to intercept anesthesia before they escaped the unit. It was one of the more spectacular moments of the day. 

At 8:38 AM the epidural finally began, and for a brief shining moment everyone exhaled… until Emily’s blood pressure promptly cratered to 75/55. Suddenly the room filled with rapid movements, medications, adjustments, and me trying very hard to contribute useful medical suggestions while simultaneously remembering I was, in fact, the husband first. Thankfully Dr. W and Heidi, the absolute superstar day nurse, stabilized everything quickly. Emily felt better, the epidural was dialed back from “temporary lower-body retirement” to “pleasant numbness,” and peace returned to Room 4.

Then labor turned into a NASCAR pit crew. Water broken. Position changes. Spinning Babies maneuvers. Pitocin started. Lauren briefly left to let the dog she was housesitting for out because things appeared stable, which in retrospect was adorable optimism. Ten minutes later I called her while she was at the DeHart’s roundabout because Emily suddenly felt “a little pressure”. Lauren Tokyo-drift-style spun around immediately. Emily was 9.5 centimeters. This child apparently heard someone leave and decided it was showtime.

At 12:15 PM, Emily started pushing surrounded by an Avengers-level team of powerful women. Thirty minutes later, at 12:40 PM exactly, Genevieve “Evie” Lane Rosenfeld burst into the world while Ice Cube’s “You Can Do It” transitioned directly into Pink’s “Get the Party Started,” which honestly feels less like coincidence and more like Evie personally selecting her entrance music.  Six pounds, three ounces. Nineteen and a half inches. Tiny, perfect, and already dramatically on brand.

 

And just like that, our family became complete. Joni gained a sister. Emily somehow became even more incredible. I gained a second daughter.

Of course, because childbirth apparently cannot simply conclude in an orderly fashion, the placenta decided it had no intention whatsoever of cooperating. What followed involved Dr. Amanda demonstrating the sort of calm competence and aggressive professionalism that makes you deeply grateful certain people chose medicine as a career. There was some impressive womanhandling, Amanda handled everything beautifully. Emily recovered wonderfully, because apparently she is powered entirely by grit and Scandinavian farmer strength.

The room settled into that strange, sacred post-birth stillness where exhaustion, joy, disbelief, and love all pile together into one giant overwhelming feeling. Also, somewhere in the background, house jazz was still quietly playing, waiting for its apology.

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into that strange new-parent haze where time no longer behaves normally. We spent hours simply gawking at Evie. Tiny fingers. Tiny yawns. Tiny squeaks. The occasional dramatic stretch that looked like she had just completed a long shift in the mines. We debated personality traits, future hobbies, whether she’d idolize or terrorize Joni, and what kind of chaos two sisters would eventually unleash upon our household.

Mostly, though, we couldn’t wait for Joni to meet her.

The nurses took pity on us and wheeled Evie away for a little while so we could sleep. It was the sort of kindness new parents remember forever. Emily was recovering well, the room had finally quieted, and we collapsed into one of the deepest naps human beings are capable of achieving inside a hospital room filled with beeping machines and stale coffee smells.

Later that evening, Sam and Mary Jo returned for more Evie snuggles and a celebratory champagne toast. There is something profoundly joyful about watching grandparents fall instantly and completely in love. 

That night we somehow managed four glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep. Then, as dawn crept in, reality arrived with it: diapers, cluster feeding, exhaustion, swaddling debates, mysterious newborn noises, and the beginning of the long, beautiful slog of parenting a newborn all over again. 

And honestly? I couldn’t be happier!

And the Wheel of Life Keeps Turning

 

There’s something wildly unfair about how quickly toddlers become little people. One minute Joni was this tiny, sleepy burrito who fit in my hand, and now she’s wobbling triumphantly across the living room like a drunken sailor. This past week she started walking for real, not the cautious “two steps then collapse into a parent” kind of walking, but determined exploration. Suddenly the house feels like a death trap with various corners and edges she could crack her head on. 

And with walking has come personality in overdrive. She’s become coy in the funniest ways, tilting her head down dramatically when someone talks to her, peeking upward with this mischievous smirk like she’s fully aware she’s adorable and weaponizing it. She’s social now too, eager to wave at strangers, charm restaurant servers, and flirt shamelessly with anyone willing to acknowledge her existence. Yet five minutes later she’ll bury herself into my shoulder with this deeply cuddly little sigh that makes it impossible to move for fear of disturbing the moment.

Somehow, amid all the chaos of physician schedules, night shifts, dogs, dishes, and the endless laundry factory that accompanies children, we’ve stumbled into a genuinely wonderful routine. Joni sleeps like an absolute champion, which still feels less like parenting skill and more like winning some kind of biological lottery. Our evenings have rhythm now. Dinner, bath, books, cuddles, bed. There’s a comfort in the predictability that younger me would have found suspiciously domestic, but current me treasures deeply.

The most exciting part of all of this is watching her world suddenly widen. Walking changes everything. Before, life happened mostly where we placed her. Now she gets to decide. She can investigate corners, chase the dogs, carry objects from one completely inappropriate location to another. Every doorway is an adventure. Every room is a possibility. You can almost see the gears turning in her head as independence arrives one tiny step at a time.

And just as we’re getting used to this version of life, here comes another baby.

What’s strange is how different this feels from the first time around. With Joni, we documented everything. Every kick. Every app update comparing fetal size to obscure produce. Every tiny milestone got memorialized like we were historians preserving evidence for future civilizations. This time? I mostly just feel impatient. Not anxious. Not scared. Just overwhelmingly ready for her to arrive already. I want to meet her. I want to see who she is. I want to watch Joni become a big sister and see our family click into its final shape.

Well… mostly not anxious. Tonight may be testing that theory a little. It’s the night before we head to the hospital, and in a truly masterful display of poor planning, I somehow scheduled myself for a night shift. Emily is understandably a bit stressed since this is all happening earlier than expected, while much of our family support cavalry is still en route. Timing, as it turns out, remains mostly fictional no matter how many calendars two physicians own.

But even tonight, underneath the logistics and exhaustion and low-level panic, excitement wins. I can feel it sitting there quietly beneath everything else. We’re about to meet our second daughter. Our family is about to become complete. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, Joni will probably toddle into the hospital room with that shy little grin, completely unaware that her whole world is about to grow too.

What Happens in Vegas…

We slept in like proper vacationers, the automatically closing blackout curtains doing their heroic work against the brightness of morning.    Breakfast came with an aerial view over the Strip. There is something deeply indulgent about sipping Irish-creamed-coffee while looking down at the chaos you plan to wander through later. Joni (who has officially decided that hotel life suits her) was all smiles as we packed her into the stroller for a long, meandering tour through the casinos. The lights, noises and overall busyness overwhelmed the senses but she took it all in wide-eyed. 

One of the highlights of our wander was stopping at the Fountains of Bellagio. Joni was absolutely mesmerized. She leaned forward on the fountain ledge, eyes locked in, tiny hands gripping her mamas’s as if she didn’t want to miss a second.  The choreography of light and water seemed almost magical through her gaze. It was one of those simple travel moments that feels unexpectedly sweet.

Lunch was a steaming, soul-hugging bowl of ramen, exactly the right balance of indulgent and restorative, before we retreated for a long, glorious siesta. There is something poetic about resting in climate-controlled luxury while knowing we are soon returning to the frigid, honest cold of Alaska. Joni capped the afternoon with some pool time, splashing happily, before being tucked in with our now-trusted babysitter.  And just like that, Emily and I were off for the pinnacle of the day: our final date night of the trip.

Enter Superfrico; part restaurant, part fever dream, part circus, part comedy club, fully unforgettable. From the moment we sat down, center stage, best seats in the house, practically in the splash zone, we knew this was going to be special.  Acrobats flew overhead. Contortionists folded into shapes that defy both anatomy and physics. Comedians roamed the room with razor timing. And a bubble artist (I’ll link a YouTube clip here because words simply fail: https://youtu.be/Bvl4m0PdL60?si=G5ee0Lw2e56bDcUX). 

And then, the moment…. The male cow stripper. Yes. A sentence I never imagined typing. At one climactic point, he aimed his “udders” directly at me and shot a stream straight into my face. Emily laughed harder than I have seen her laugh in years, the kind of laughter where she fully loses composure. I was soaked. The crowd erupted. I bowed. Marriage is built on these moments. It was absurd and theatrical and completely Vegas. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We interacted with nearly every act, high fives, playful banter, direct eye contact that said, “Yes, we are fully committed to this chaos.” It felt intimate and electric all at once. The food was amazing, the acts were unforgettable, and the whole vibe could only be described as nirvana. 

And then we ended the night in my favorite Las Vegas ritual: sitting at a bar for two uninterrupted hours, doing nothing but people watching. No phones. No agenda. Just observing the parade. Sequins and bachelor parties. Very old men with very young women…. High rollers and first-timers. The overly confident and the utterly confused. Vegas never disappoints when you simply sit still and let it walk by. As we head back north, I’ll carry the warmth of desert nights, the echo of hysterical laughter, Joni’s wide-eyed wonder at dancing fountains, and the faint memory of being publicly baptized by a dairy-themed performer. Truly, what more could one ask for? What. A. Life. 

3 Star Date Night in Las Vegas

 

We had the absolute joy of dining at Joël Robuchon for date night with Joni being babysat in our hotel.  The only way I can describe the evening is this: it felt like stepping into a deliciously choreographed dream.

From the moment we entered the French cafe themed dining room, everything shimmered, not in a flashy Vegas way, but in a quiet, elegant, “you’re-about-to-experience-something-special” way. 

The evening unfolded like a storybook. We were greeted by a thoughtful babymoon gift. Our first course began with delicate caviar and crab, light and briny and luxurious, paired with Cristal Champagne that felt celebratory from the first sip.  It was so elegantly prepared by hand (see photo!). Then came potatoes and foie gras layered with truffle; rich and velvety, but somehow never heavy. The Maine lobster was sweet and refined, the avocado and salmon bright and refreshing. 

The scallops were tender and beautifully seared, gently floating in an apple cider foam and walnuts that added just enough crunch and warmth.  The sunchoke and parmesan course felt cozy and earthy, like winter wrapped in silk. Even the vegetable millefeuille felt magical, proof that vegetables, in the right hands, can feel like royalty (Emily’s quote).

And then… the black cod. The star of the evening. The best fish I’ve had in years. Perfectly caramelized on the outside, buttery and silky within, with a malabar pepper sauce that added depth without stealing the spotlight. It was one of those dishes where you pause mid-bite, look across the table, and silently acknowledge: this is extraordinary. We even complimented the chef as Alaskans with deep black cod experience. 

The venison and lamb courses were rich and beautifully composed, each bite balanced and thoughtful. And just when we thought we couldn’t possibly be more impressed, dessert arrived; saffron panna cotta, exotic chocolate creations, followed by an entire dessert CART filled with a whimsical parade of mignardises that felt like edible jewels.   

We opted for the highest class wine pairing, and it turned dinner into something truly transcendent. These weren’t just nice wines, they were some of the finest wines in the world, poured generously and explained with passion by our personal sommelier. Each glass was best in its class. The pairings didn’t just accompany the food; they exponentially lifted each dish. 

What truly elevated the entire evening, though, were our incredible waiters, Driss (Frenchman)and Andrew (midwesterner). They were warm, intuitive, and effortlessly knowledgeable, guiding us through each course with enthusiasm and grace. They made a world-class experience feel personal and comfortable. 

By the end of the night, we were floating. Smiling. Grateful. And stuffed after 14 courses. 

And because this is Las Vegas, the night didn’t end there. We made our way to Absinthe at Caesars Palace, which felt like stepping from refined culinary opera into delightfully unhinged rancorous and raunchy circus cabaret. The bohemian styled tent buzzed with energy, and from the first outrageous monologue by The Gazillionaire, we knew we were in for something wildly entertaining. 

The acrobatics were jaw-dropping, the humor irreverent and laced with sexual innuendos, and the entire production had us in stitches with laughter.  After a night of impeccable precision and polished elegance, Absinthe was the perfect exclamation point; bold, daring, hilarious, and just a little bit mischievous. We left laughing, slightly stunned, and feeling like we had experienced the full spectrum of what makes Vegas unforgettable.