I gave birth to our third child on August 26th while the sounds of Jannik Sinner breezing through his first-round match at the US Open echoed in the background. We had planned to turn it off when things got more intense, but it all happened so fast.
Our nurse, Debs, was the hero of the day. She provided me with an exercise ball to bounce on, a plate of saltines with peanut butter, and laser-focused eye contact when contractions spiked.
When the doctor came in to check me as I went from 4cm to 10cm in under an hour, she noticed the “Surprise!” scribbled on the whiteboard next to gender.
She knew we had two girls at home. “I love delivering surprises!” she said, asking who would announce the gender. I told her I didn’t care, that I just needed this baby out of me, and since Clayton had done it before, he’d do it again.
But after five good pushes, she couldn’t help herself.
“IT’S A BO..” she blurted, then glanced at Clayton, teeth clenched, realizing she’d given it away.
My shock spiral began. A boy?! I couldn’t believe it. I had convinced myself it was another girl. Three girls, for sure. We had the perfect name ready. The girls had chosen their Halloween costumes based on the pretense it was a girl: Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy. This baby was supposed to be Peggy. The Schuyler Sisters! And now we had… Alexander Hamilton?
I grieved for a few moments: the tradition of Haley girls broken, the basement full of hand-me-downs that suddenly didn’t work, the thought of him riding a pink strider bike. Then I spiraled again, realizing how much I cared about gender stereotypes. We’re better than that!
But then they placed him on my chest. His tiny body curled against me, jet-black hair matted to his head, button nose and puckered lips. My boy. My sweet, little baby boy.
Within seconds, a warm gush spread across my abdomen. “Uh, He’s peeing!” Clayton said, laughing. Our first taste of boy-diaper chaos.
We kept calling him “baby,” hesitant to commit to the name we’d chosen.
“Well… is it Thomas?” I asked Clayton, watching the nurses weigh and measure him.
Yes. Thomas. Our Thomas. Breaking our rule about nicknames, but I swore I’d never shorten it. It was a strong name. Classic.
The girls came to meet their brother later that day. Caroline burst through the door, grinning: “Where’s my Tommy?!”
Kate climbed onto my bed, suddenly gigantic next to Thomas. Where’s the baby?” she asked.
“That’s your brother,” I said, pointing to Thomas in Clayton’s arms. “This is the baby that was inside my belly.”
Kate frowned. “No, no… dat Thomas. But where dis baby?” She asked and patted my still-swollen belly.
That first night we remembered what it meant to care for a six-pound human. We let the nurses handle the diaper changes. I had no idea what to do with that thing.
As the evening wore on, hunger won out. I ordered my meal of choice: a Jimmy John’s Turkey Tom. The decision not lost on me. I ate my sub and special ordered Baked Lay’s in my hospital bed, kissing the top of our hours-old son between bites.
A boy. MY boy. Our Thomas.
So so sweet. Loved Kate’s commentary and Caroline immediately calling him Tommy. Such a great detail about the tennis match in the background. Surprised you didn’t change his name to Jannick!
Also this line: “…the thought of him riding a pink strider bike. Then I spiraled again, realizing how much I cared about gender stereotypes. We’re better than that!”
Hahaha
CONGRATULATIONS!!
Looking forward to Thomas stories. ❤️