A Tale of Two Deliveries

Elia Francis Jakubiak joined our lives in room 209 of the Mater Dei medical clinic, in Rome, at 8:23am, on Wednesday, July 19th, 2023. He was born about one week shy of his due date, at a healthy 3.5kgs and not too imposing 52cms.

In comparison to the birth of our first son Aleksander, we were relatively well prepared, eager even. Aleksander’s arrival three weeks early caught us by surprise. And if you compound that with the typical life-altering level of surprise that first time parents experience, we were downright frantic.

Based partially on that hectic first go-round, we’ve been in preparation mode for an early delivery for months now. So that when 37 weeks of pregnancy passed by, then 38 and finally 39, we mostly sat around googling DIY induction strategies and explaining in toddler terms to Aleksander why baby brother’s any-day arrival was actually taking weeks.

Alas, as Dalia’s body and loins started to show more promising signs, she was instructed by her doctor, at a routine Tuesday morning pre-natal monitoring session, to come back to the hospital the next day at 7:30am with bags packed. We sent excited emoji-laden texts back and forth and I high-fived joyous colleagues before starting a preliminary strip down of my corner office. In the evening, we went over any critical outstanding tasks and tried to preserve some rest before the imminent controlled chaos to come.

We both tossed and turned, into and out of hyper-sensitive faux sleep. Dalia disappeared into the bathroom around 2:30am and confirmed, semi-certainly, at around 4 that it was time to go. For the first time in our Roman lives, we were out in the middle of the night.

Since our second hand Italian Subaru was long gone, we app ordered a taxi for the short drive to the clinic. Apparently, we weren’t quick enough for the first guy as we saw his tail lights disappear into the empty, quite night just as we rolled our carry-on onto the sidewalk.

Therein followed about ten minutes of mild panic as no other cabs were available online and it was still too early to find any at our neighbourhood taxi stand. I imagined walking to the hospital, then giving birth right here right now, as finally someone accepted our pick-up.

We calmly walked into the silent nighttime clinic, sharing little more than a friendly nod with the knowing security guard, and settled into our room, with monitors hooked up and doctor and mid-wife notified – just as the pink palatial Embassy of Monacao began to peak out in the pre-dawn haze on our little Italian medical clinic balcony.

Dalia’s mid-wife Claudia showed up some 45 minutes later, conducted a few exams and called the obstetrician with a friendly urgency in her voice, advising that she should probably not dawdle too much in arriving.

We smiled, danced, floated on our joint exuberance, disbelief, wonder, excitement, joy. Cautiously confident that we were ready, for this, forever.

Dr. Cavalieri strode in at some point after six looking like she was still wearing Cinderella’s glass slippers from the ball, this being Italy. She reassured Dalia with a compassionate authority that the baby was in a perfect position and would be joining this incredible world soon.

Labour began in earnest not too long after that. Dalia hunkered down and helped baby along. I did what I could to not be completely useless and was happy to overhear the anesthesiologist refer to me as ‘molto utitle’ (i.e. not completely useless).

In stark emotional, physical and psychological contrast to the day’s long endeavour for Aleksander to be born, baby Elia seemed content in the express lane – six hours or less. After about 3.5 hours in the hospital, and less than seven from the start of notable contractions, we welcomed our second son, Elia Francis, into our hearts, into our family and into a beautiful sunny Italian morning.

He barely made a sound upon arrival, like he didn’t mind at all. Snuggled up to mommy and got some quiet rest from his own little ordeal. The delivery, like Dalia’s pregnancy from the start, was textbook. Not exactly easy, but entirely honest.

From there, people came and went. Some with Elia and others brining him back. The staff took our orders for three course lunches and dinners, starting with a double serving of amatriciana. We napped, we ate, we splurged on newborn baby head smelling, finger holding and kissing, kissing, kissing.

In the afternoon, I mobilized my bag of bones body to go pick up Aleksander from daycare, with the not so subtle news that our lives were never to be the same again after the Wednesday morning arrival of his little brother. He took the announcement with the same resolved resignation that he would typically show when I bring him fresh strawberries. Cool, but I’m still gonna twirl, spin and ride my scooter home like always, ok dad?! Sure. We stopped for gelato on the way home just to confirm that it was a day of celebration.

We eventually made our way to the hospital, along with Dalia’s mom who had been chipping in on all fronts since her arrival two weeks before.

The first meeting between the two brothers, our pair of beautiful boys, was just as pure, emotional, delicate, deep and momentous as can be expected. Two little lovely beings, having little idea how much and for how long their lives will be intertwined. When we’re gone, they’ll remain for each other. When we can’t be there for either of them, hopefully the other one will. They will travel with us; learn, grow and play together; discover this world and always have one another as an anchor. Of course, none of this was going through the minds of 12 hour old Elia or 33 month old Aleksander. But the adults in the room, despite and enhanced by their own emotional upheavals, bathed deeply in this initial expression of the boys’ brotherly bond.

Realizing that the practical reality that our lives, suddenly blessed with a newborn baby life, wouldn’t stop, we headed home with Aleksander to try to preserve his routine evening touchstones of bath, books and bed.

From there, everything proceeded smoothly. Dalia spent two days and nights at the hospital, the first ever period spent separately from her first born. Elia did and passed all his newborn medical tests: eyes, ears, weight, sleeping, eating.

Dalia came home and we gladly welcomed the reunion of our new little quartet in the comfort of our fourth floor Roman flat. We were more prepared for the first few nights, weeks and months as baby boy parents, than the last time. We had the stuff and knew the vibe. We had forgotten how tired tired could be but also how light as a feather a new baby feels. How much they sleep, how shallowly they cry, how entirely dependent they are. How lovely they smell, how peacefully they fill up a room, how almost everything about them is still a mystery.

We committed to our new life flow immediately. Newborn, toddler, Italy, daycare, long nights. Feedings, exhaustion, energy. Dynamism, quiet, new unexplored interactions.

I hit the ground running getting Elia’s Roman birth certificate the following morning. Basking overwhelmedly in the impossible historical coincidence of our decidely non-Italian child being born within walking distance of the Vatican and Collosseum. Of his birth being registered here for the rest of time. His A4 sized statement of birth copied and piled in tomes for the future to discover. Somehow also made Eternal by his brush with this place.

The birth was officially documented on the Feast Day of Sant’Elia, the administrative process was miraculously uncomplicated by Italian standards, and the only other application on the clerk’s desk was for: Aleksander, non-standard spelling and all. This all augurs well. For Elia, for us, for all time

I meandered back home unhurried, knowing through hard-earned experience that family life is not a race or destination, but nothing more or less than the only reality we’ll ever know again. Elia, Aleksander. Dalia and me. Our family and friends. Destined to always do what we can for one another. All our roads leading from Rome.