Page 172 of Babies for the Big Shot
The beeping monitors that seem to amplify the intensity in the air. The scent of antiseptic that’s supposed to reassure but only makes everything feel colder.
And then there’s Sara, who seems unnervingly composed.
Every contraction, every moment of discomfort, she handles with the kind of calm strength that I should probably be emulating. But instead, I’m a mess.
The kind of mess who’s asking for organic ice chips, as if that’s going to fix things. Or yelling at the nurses about blanket softness, as though her level of comfort is what’s going to get us through the next several hours.
My heart’s hammering in my chest, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Sara, though, she’s not flustered. She’s sitting there, steady, as the hours slip away.
Twelve of them.
And I can’t stop thinking about howgoodshe is at this. Not just the pregnancy, not just being calm for me. But how she’s good at showing up when I’m fumbling. How she’s already holding it together for us, for all three of them.
I try to take a deep breath. I try to focus on her, to ground myself in what’s happening. But I can’t. I feel the panic building again.
The nurses come and go, Sara’s labor progressing, and I keep looking for the next step, the next thing I’m supposed to do.
“Nick,” she says, her voice calm despite the strain, “I’m fine. You’re fine.”
But I’m not. Not really. And it’s getting harder to hide it.
The tension in my chest won’t ease. Every minute is a battle, and every time I try to be a calm presence, to offer something that resembles control, it falls apart.
I keep thinking,what if something goes wrong? What if I don’t know what to do when it’s time? What if I don’t know how to be the father these kids need?
And then, an emotional sucker-punch, it happens: her contractions overwhelm her.
She gasps, doubling over, clutching her belly, and for a moment, the world goes still.
Sara’s always been strong. I can see the effort on her face, the determination in her eyes. But this moment? It knocks the wind out of me.
I lean forward, ready to support her in whatever way I can, but my brain isn’t catching up fast enough. I’m caught between my love for her and the terror of what’s coming next.
I feel her hand grip mine, her fingers tightening around me so she’s holding on to something solid.
“Nick, I’m scared,” she whispers, her breath shaky.
I don’t even hesitate.
“I’m here. I’m right here,” I assure her, my voice thick with everything I’m trying to hold back. I press my forehead to hers, trying to let her know I’m present, that I’m ready to do whatever it takes.
And that’s when I realize it. It’s not about me fixing this. It’s not about me staying in control. It’s about being there.
That’s all. Just showing up, in the mess, in the chaos, in the waiting room of fear, and never once stepping away from her side.
I stay with her.
I’m there when the nurses rush in, when the medical team begins to prep her. I’m there as the minutes tick by, dragging on, stretching into hours.
And then, finally, we reach it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment we both have been waiting for.
I feel a sharp intake of breath from Sara, and suddenly, the room is alive with action.
The first cry echoes in the room… loud, strong, perfect.
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until it’s released in a rush. And then the second cry follows, and the third, and the room is filled with the sounds of our children making their entrance into the world.
