Here I am again in Santa Marinella, probably the fifth time this year and tenth time since we arrived in Rome over two years ago. This beach town has pulled ahead of the other beach towns near Rome, accessible by train, as our preferred spot to get out of town and dip our toes in the mesmerizing turquoise blue of the Mediterranean. Aleksander is asleep after a short walk in his stroller, having taken the same boardwalk route I took with him the first time we came here and never since.
Elia is home with mommy because even as a three week old Roman born baby, he’s still not quite ready for the midday August beach heat. I’m snacking on a calamari fry, sipping on an aperol spritz in the fifth row of the beach club, two to the left of the overpriced one I really like, reflecting, about to impossibly write about the impossibly wonderful time we’ve spent in Italy. Since, by all indications, in about two weeks we’ll be heading to our next home, country, posting, in the Middle East.
There are literally a thousand possible different starting points to this essay but maybe I’ll start at the realest recent one. A few days ago, Dalia’s mom stayed home with the kids and sent us on our fourth date in the past three years. Thanks to general newborn parent exhaustion and a few other Roman contributing factors (i.e. it being a Sunday in August), we ended up at a neighbourhood pizzeria that I somewhat adore and Dalia barely cares for. Over a truly weak salami and cheese spread and decent half-litre of the house red, we haphazardly surveyed a handful of big, pressing, sometimes competing feelings.
When I described some of my recent long city walks during Aleksander’s naps, where I’ve uncharacteristically decided against podcasts or music for the benefit of strictly city soundscape listening and maximum Rome vibe absorbing, where we’ve meandered according only to a nostalgic heart’s desire and where I’ve actively leaned into the acknowledgement that Roman life, for us, is but a passing reality, soon to become an epic dream, I teared up.
I am (very, very) tired and entirely emotionally overwhelmed by the beauty, blessing and privilege of taking mundane daily walks on the ancient uncomfortable cobblestones of this epic place. Of looking up at buildings that are intricately beautiful in a way that just may never be in fashion again.
That we have one child forever born in Rome and another who’s Italian (mama mia daddy) makes us feel, well, like children.
That Dalia and I used to walk to the Colosseum so much that we eventually got bored of it.
That Aleksander kicked his soccer balls in St. Peter’s Square like it was the local schoolyard.
That we saw the Trevi fountain with only 15 people there.
That we have at least eight gelato spots citywide when the urge hits.
That our families, from top to bottom, got to visit this incredible place with us, maybe even because of us.
Same goes for some few dozen friends.
That we’ve been able to travel to, eat in, sleep restfully in at least ten of Italy’s finest cities (of a possible approximate 50 – the beauty knows no end in this country…).
Sperlonga MateraVeronaLake GardaMilanAssisi IschiaFlorenceOrvietoTaorminaVeniceCagliari Polignano a MarePositano
That I’ve had enough amatriciana, Dalia enough carbonara and the both of us enough cicoria to last for three future generations.
That I now leave Italy and complain that coffee is far too big and weak and expensive.
That I talk with my hands when my foolish Italian runs out and that’s almost always been enough.
That I arrived with a mostly negative impression of ‘the Italians’ and now I feel almost exactly the opposite.
That my colleagues have been the most caring, balanced and complete people that I’ve ever met. That the Canadian Ambassador to Italy knows my name and occasionally laughs at my jokes.
That our Sri Lankan doorman has seen Aleksander’s growth from infant to toddler more regularly and consistently than anyone but us (and preciously trained him to bellow: ciao bello! whenever they part).
That our neighbour and stand-in nonna, Lola, cries every time she mentions our departure.
That we live across the street from a convent and when I’m catching the morning or evening light from our balcony, I occasionally see nuns ironing their habits or sweeping their rooms.
That this place exists; has for the better part of human civilization, existed; and while this planet is still inhabitable and worth inhabiting, will continue to exist. And then our little family’s story co-existed here from Easter Friday, 2021, until the end of August, 2023. It already doesn’t feel real and I’m still here.
Rome is the best, deepest, oldest, alivest, beautifulest type of place and the fact that Rome has been our normal everyday Home for two plus years will never not astonish, delight and humble me.
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.
Aleksander turned one month old this past weekend.
Yesterday, he had his fist monthly check-up with the pediatrician. Despite putting on an operatic display, the doctor assured us that our son is growing well and looking good. He’s almost up to nine pounds, having added about 30% of body mass to his birth weight. The day for mommy and daddy was typical for the days when we’re scheduled to be anywhere with our little one: long, hectic and hanging by a thread controlled chaos.
Aleksander’s first month of life has offered so many lessons that it’s hard to know where to begin. (Also, to note, my brain capacity is hovering somewhere around the 50th percentile as I write this, further complicating the expression of any coherent description).
The first notable thing is probably the incredibly abrupt, immediate and all-encompassing reorientation of personal priorities that comes with a new (especially first) baby. Dalia and I have lived a pretty charmed existence as a married couple. We exist very comfortably, have jobs we enjoy and numerous hobbies to keep us busy. One could say that we were completely in charge of how we spent our energy and time, and we very much enjoyed this privilege. This reality was flipped entirely on its head with Aleksander’s arrival. I’d estimate that now, Dalia’s actions are between 95-98% dictated by his needs, and mine are probably motivated about 90% towards him, her and every other thing around the house that neither of them can do.
In no way is this any kind of complaint either. The deep-seated motivation to take care of an infant feels entirely endless. All I’m saying is that this one-day-to-the-next absolute rearrangement in your life’s priorities is something to behold. And one of those annoying cliches that happen to be true – that there is no preparation sufficient and that the situation must truly be lived to be understood.
On the point of priorities, mixed in with exhausted brain fog, I’ve never been so laser-focused on a few distinct items, namely: Aleksander, Dalia, me (somewhat)… then way down the list, every other thing. I’ve always liked being non-committal to the varied aspects of my identity, flowing through them as needed. Now I’m so locked in as a father and husband that I barely see anything outside of our three person circle of life. Of course, it helps that we’re both on parental leave (shout out Canada!), so without hyperbole, both of our full-time jobs (including nights, weekends and holidays) are solely to take care of our son, full-stop.
Aside from the impact on our own lives, Aleksander has fascinated, astonished and brought us joy in so many ways. First is just the incredible, almost indescribable, cuteness of one so little. His fingernails, chubby legs, perfect ears, are just so lovingly surreal that you can spend hours just admiring them. This complete enrapture is such a clever evolutionary twist. Admiring his little beauty and acknowledging that he’s been born of you almost distracts from how fully dependent he is on you. The desire to protect and care for him is so strong and so perfectly matched to how much care and protection he needs: 100%.
As we age into adulthood, we seem to be authentically surprised and impressed less and less. Our stores of memories of life grow quite substantial and we become comfortable with a certain predictability in life. In fact, one could argue that that’s what maturation is really about: creating a stable and predictable life path. Changes come more at the pace of icebergs than ice storms.
A newborn is such a quickly and transparently developing creature that it smashes the rational and reasonable adult contexts we’re so familiar with. Aleksander changes noticeably, in some way, on a daily basis, sometimes even seemingly within a few hours. He grows, gains weight, opens his eyes, uses his voice, stops to listen, squirms his body, pauses to consider in ways that are always new, because they really are. It is nothing short of miraculous to witness. And invigorating, and refreshing, and the most lucid reminder that life at its core is about growth and discovery, and not only about doing the needful.
Of course, he has no idea of any of the metaphysical inspirations he’s stimulating – he’s too busy eating his own hand, or sleeping like a rag doll, or filling his diapers. At one month, he’s starting to focus his eyes, although he still shows no real recognition of us. In the last week, he’s discovered a few sounds that he can make that are not related to crying and we very much hope he leans into those more. Sometimes when he’s alert, in a good mood, and thinks no one is watching, his little fingers and hands dance around like twinkling snowflakes. It’s angelic and innocent and pure and makes me want to cry. He doesn’t mind when we kiss him dozens of times, smell his little head, or even when daddy cleans his armpits in the bath. He lifts his fists to his cheek as an immediate reflex when he eats and it’s just the most adorable thing you can imagine. He’s quickly outgrowing his newborn onesies, some of which I’ve grown quite fond of and am sad to see go, and will soon move past newborn-sized diapers. He makes the greatest little faces, usually just fleetingly and by accident, but you wish you could frame and forever keep every single one. He’s going through a gassy and fussy phase which can be really challenging but he’s in good hands with mommy and me, and like with all things in his life, we’ll do our best to get him to the other side of this and any other of his tougher moments.
We’re constantly being reminded by other parents to treasure and absorb these early moments because they pass by fast. In fairness, we’re mostly in survival mode so contemplative reflection isn’t always the first instinct. I’m trying to sneak in these essays and hope that between the words and dozens of photos, we’ll never forget how blessed we were in the first month of Aleksander’s life.
Last Wednesday morning, just before 7am, Dalia returned to bed, woke me up, and whispered: my water has broken. Thanks to countless movies and tv shows, I groggily understood this to mean that our baby, growing in her loins for the past 37 weeks and three days, was on his way. Taking in this gigantic pre-dawn news, I closed my eyes, held her close and responded: let’s just sleep for 45 more minutes.
Our first born son, Aleksander Joseph, arrived into our lives less than a day and a half later, at 1:24pm on Thursday, October 29th, 2020 at the Ottawa Civic Hospital. As I write this, he’s been home with us about five days after spending a few extra ones in the care nursery due to some low blood sugar readings. Dalia and I have been adjusting to our new reality in the frantic, exhausted, absolutely consumed way that seems to be the norm for parents of a newborn. One thing is for sure, I do not regret those extra 45 minutes of sleep!
We found out about our pregnancy the weekend before Canada entered the first nationwide Covid lockdown in mid-March. The timing was not awful for us as our work moved home and we spent out our long lovely days between the office at the dining table and the lounge on the nearby couch. Dalia’s pregnancy was good by all standards, not exactly a cakewalk, but manageable. We followed our baby’s growth using apps and marvelled at our little sesame seed, pea, almond, chickpea, tangerine, avocado, baseball, squash, melon and then full-term human baby. We cried at ultrasound pictures, debated over names, accumulated stuff, worried that the belly was too small, and then quite suddenly, too big, received tips, read books, took online courses, but for the most part our lives remained largely the same, except with no alcohol, caffeine or sushi.
This mostly wonderful period ended quite suddenly with the early morning October surprise. Dalia called the hospital and they casually told her to have breakfast and then pass by. While she did that, I emailed my boss to say that I would be indisposed anywhere from a few hours up to about 20 years and began organizing many of the baby items we’d been putting off organizing, pretending that I had any sense of what was about to come.
Dalia arrived back from the hospital with the order to have lunch – they clearly want you well-fed – and to return by mid-afternoon to be admitted for possible induction. We took the news like two naive schoolgirls, giddy, emotional and feigning confidence. We rolled out of home with our hospital carry-on in tow, favourite pillow underarm and snacks in a zip-lock bag like an elementary school trip to the science museum.
In our room, we danced and texted our family and friends – now deeply unaware of what the next day or so was to bring. After a handful of hours of bouncing on an exercise ball and with mild contractions still only five to ten minutes apart, a parade of nurses, doctors, residents, fellows and students arrived to kick the festivities up a notch. What followed was possibly the most intense 12 hours of our lives, but especially for Dalia. Needless to say, no matter how much you read, learn and research about childbirth, there is no real preparation. It truly must be lived to be understood. That being said, my wife show herself to be intrepid, courageous, powerful, committed and because she is who she is, always kind.
Just after noon, about 20 hours after first landing at the hospital, we began in earnest the homestretch to new life. The brigade of doctors returned to our room to help Aleksander arrive safely into this world. At 1:24pm, October 29, 2020, he joined his family and was immediately put to rest on mommy’s chest.
Seeing your child for the first time is an atomic bomb of love and joy in your world, heart and soul. For as much as you track their growth and movement in the womb, their humanity remains somehow abstract. Something of a science experiment mixed with a practical joke, when you feel their punches and hear their hiccups in mommy’s belly. Stopping for a moment to enjoy the novelty, then getting back to the rhythms of your daily routines. The moment they thunderously arrive into you life leaves no doubt of their reality, tenacity and wholeness. This beautiful little human is yours and here to stay.
Dalia and I gushed like Niagara Falls and I, for one, also whimpered like a puppy. I cut my son’s umbilical cord, acknowledging his absolute dependence on us and our absolute commitment to him. We took our first family picture, Aleks got cleaned up a little bit and within one hour was suckling on his new source of life. A tiny creature who can do almost nothing for himself comes pre-programmed to latch to his mother in his bid for life, strength and growth. Yet another astounding phenomenon that hits completely differently when it’s your own flesh and blood and not just a nature documentary.
Aleksander was born three weeks before his due date and was also on the small side for his developmental milestones. Our little beauty weighed in at just under six pounds, and yes, that’s as tiny as you imagine. Aside from that though, his fingers and toes were in place, vocal chords engaged, face charmingly symmetrical, skin somehow out of a photo shoot, and maybe most satisfying of all for daddy, his family jewels looked ready to propel our clan into the 22nd century.
Within just a few minutes of delivery, most of the dozen or so people in our room thinned out, off to similar nearby rooms, to drop in on other everyday miracles. Dalia, Aleksander and I enjoyed our first moments as a family. We facetimed excited relatives near and far with joyful introductions. We moved into our post-partum room and both mom and baby continued to undergo regular tests.
Aleksander’s blood sugar came in low a few times, due, as we were told, to the fact that his little body didn’t have enough fat stores to last from one feeding to the next. Exhausted, disappointed and lowkey, strung-out worried, he was taken off to the nursery for overnight monitoring. Without much to do on our first night as parents, we crashed like we hadn’t slept in days, even though it had only been one and a half.
We visited Aleksander down the hallway as often as we could and were delighted when he returned to our room mid-afternoon on his second day of life. We did our best as first-time parents to change, feed, coddle, hold, entertain, soothe, admire, rejoice and rest, all while always paying special attention to his beautiful, splotch-free, floppy little head.
During his first night with us, coincidentally Halloween, Aleksander was put under a phototherapy lamp to bring down his jaundice level. Our little superhero put on his protective eyewear (aka superhero mask) and did his best to absorb all the healing light he could. Unfortunately, he became quite fussed, suddenly undressed and sprawled out in the middle of the room, and had to once again be taken back to the nursery.
Although our child wasn’t sick or in any kind of danger, we went through all the feels with him coming back and forth. Of course we were happy that he had all his fingers and toes, but parents crave for so much more for their children, especially in their earliest moments and days (but probably for always). You wish to take any instant of discomfort from them, you pray that their genetic coding has no hidden flaws, you watch for every breath and hope that it is deep, nourishing and easy. We low-grade agonized over Aleksander’s first 72 hours. But he already displayed his courageous and gracious temperament. Rarely crying or fussing for a moment more than necessary. Feeding and resting as if knowing that that was his most important job. And then finally, cleaning up like a champ for his short ride home from the hospital.
Bringing your baby home feels so deeply satisfying that it must be one of the few human experiences that have been enjoyed in our lineage for millenia. It’s truly a proper, formal introduction for him into his life’s context. The smells, vibes, tunes, objects, routines, sounds, touches, tastes that will cradle his growing psyche for years to come. It’s the life that mommy and daddy slowly, lovingly created for themselves and now cheerfully make space to integrate their newest family member into.
Since Aleksander arrived early, and as we typically keep a busy lifestyle, most of his items were not quite in the fully ready state when we got home. I tore through boxes, built, measured, assembled, rearranged and organized as much as possible, as Dalia dove into the new priorities of feeding, changing and constantly waking. With every passing handful of hours, our new highly-altered reality became more and more apparent. Our bedroom had been transformed into a fresh-baby-smelling haven and our living room became partially unrecognizable under the assortment of soft, fluffy accessories required to keep a newborn dry, full and cozy.
I hesitate to summarize these early days in any kind of definitive way because they are constantly changing, evolving and morphing, both for Aleksander and for us. It’s truly awesome to witness his growth in his first few hundred hours of life. From one day to the next, and sometimes even within a few hours, his cheeks become a bit squishier, his voice more assertive, and his tiny onesies slowly smaller and smaller on his frame. He discovered his hands, stops to listen to mommy’s voice, stretches and kicks his little legs into all the space his heart can imagine. Mommy and daddy are on constant stand-by, day and night, to do our best to decipher and satisfy his every need. And I imagine, perhaps with longer periods of sleep in-between, that will never not be the case.
Before closing this early open-ended essay, I just wanted to touch on one other thing. Amongst the myriad of mysteries of newborn life, Dalia and I have been confounded by why our little beauty, already small for his age, decided to join us almost a full three weeks early. Surely life is easier on the inside, always warm, wavey and wonderful. Along with wondering what Aleksander is seeing and thinking, we will never have a satisfying answer to this question. But, after a bunch of time kicking this around, with admittedly a strained mental capacity, I’ve only mustered one theory.
My father died on June 29th, exactly four months to the day before Aleksander was born. I don’t exactly know what I think this means. Maybe a wink from the Heavens. These two colossal Jakubiaks of mine shall never meet, but I like to think their two spirits passed on the same wind in those four months. Maybe even shared a glass of milk and a glass of beer in the airport lounge in the place we come from and eventually end up, somewhere between Final Departures and Arrivals. Maybe they talked about me, shared some laughs, planned some surprises.
I had always heard that my dad had a difficult childhood. In the way of family history, these were hazy half-told tales. A few years ago, I remember seeing, for the first time, a picture of my dad as a toddler, chubby hands and face hanging over a black and white village fence in Poland. I was consumed with love for that little boy, knowing some of the bumps and bruises that he would face along the way.
I’m no Buddhist and don’t believe in reincarnation but I do like the idea, the privilege, the gift of raising Aleksander as though he shares a twinkle in the eye with my own father. Do my best to fill in the gaps, to squeeze him extra hard in the tough moments and create a foundation of love and support that lasts him a lifetime. A place to always safely land, and even more, to comfortably take off from.
It is with these hopeful, positive and grateful feelings that we begin our own journey as parents and moreso as a unique family in our own right.
Dad In The World 