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.