Alexandria, Virginia
It is impossible to read through the transparent eyelids of an eight-day-old just what kind of young lady she will become, but I already know Katherine Matilda is going to have impeccable comedic timing. She announced her existence a week after we donated all the maternity and infant clothes, diapers and, natch, car seats — a month after we signed off on a renovation that demolished the entire ground floor for the duration of a pregnancy. She came home on a Saturday, a week into a pinkeye epidemic in which half of her sisters proved allergic to antibiotic eyedrops. There was a time when such chaos would have sent sleep-deprived parents into crisis.
That time was Monday. It is hard to say exactly when it happened, for the doorbell camera cut out as the third-grader approached the dying dogwood tree. We were inside fussing over an infant hat in preparation for the postpartum pediatrician appointment when the bough broke. The doctor didn’t bat an eye when we piggybacked a head-injury examination onto a newborn checkup. The concussion diagnosis wouldn’t be confirmed until she threw up into a soup bowl at dinner. You learn to count blessings as a parent. None of the vomit landed on the new countertop.
The sense of looming crisis is inevitable whether you’re on your first child or your sixth. Our tolerance for panic blossoms alongside our progeny. As I visited the third-grader throughout the night to check on pupil dilation and refill the ice bag, I couldn’t help but think of the walking wounded I left behind at the maternity ward. New fathers are easy to spot here in Washington with their bespoke athleisure wear and puffy vests, their overstuffed go-bags and iPhones teeming with detailed notes from Lamaze class. None of it can prepare them for their main task of retrieving apple juice from the snack room and spelling the child’s name correctly on the birth certificate. We look back fondly at the green father we met in 2016 who paced a maternity ward for two days carrying a car seat with tags still attached. His countenance when Mrs. McMorris asked him if he’d thought to try installing it surely mirrored my own when the concussive vomiting started.
These men will panic and agonize far more than I will over the coming months. They will sit in the dark for hours trying to spy a sleeping baby’s breath or worse, slide their cold hands onto her chest, not realizing you can glimpse her pulse in those lashless eyelids. They will speak aloud when their wives are nursing instead of just bringing them ice water and nipple cream in silence. They will tepidly tap the baby’s back for a burp, thinking themselves strong enough to break a child who just a few days ago squeezed its unfinished skull through a very small opening.
Only time and experience will teach them the ins and outs of fatherhood, but there is one area of pregnancy where dad can have some influence, and that is the choice of hospital. We live in an age of amenities, when hollowed-out institutions hawk extraneous detritus to distract from their failures to fulfill their raisons d’être — schools incapable of educating students sell parents on their therapeutic offerings, a Navy incapable of maintaining maritime lanes has a drag ambassador, etc. And so it is that maternity wards come to highlight world-class food service and superior floral arrangements, in-house newborn photographers and OnDemand TV menus that contain a “Still In Theaters” section. The brochure will mention the beautiful views from the recovery room. Red flags all.
StoneSprings Hospital is located outside a quarry and just beneath the flight path of an international airport. The cafeteria is tiny. There is a Starbucks logo inside, of course, but behind it sits a tattoo-free barista who will direct you to a single push carafe of Pikes Place. The television in each recovery room is a 20-incher, and the view is of a barren roof. It is almost as if the doctors and nurses would prefer you spend time looking at your wife and newborn inside the unit before moving on to the crises that await you outside.
This article was originally published in The Spectator’s June 2024 World edition.
