Chapter 44. Let's Go Have a Baby

The call never came.

For weeks, Jaime and I kept our phones charged, nearby, and perpetually within reach. Every vibration made us look. Every unknown number made our hearts jump. We planned out scenarios in case Marina called and said she was on her way to the hospital.

“It’s all possible once you hit week thirty-six,” Dr. Dawson had told us a few months earlier. “Y’all should be ready, just in case.”

And so, as we reached the final stretch of the pregnancy, we knew anything could happen.

“There are two direct flights from LaGuardia every day except Saturday—and another one from JFK at night,” I said to Jaime as I browsed Expedia options, as if I were planning the logistics of a military campaign.

“If she calls before noon, we can still make the Delta flight. Between noon and four, we’ll have to go to JFK for the American Airlines flight. After four, we may need a layover in Denver, but we’ll still get there within six hours.”

We kept our bags packed by the door, just in case, though every day we’d think of something new to add to them.

“Do you think we’ll need long-sleeve pajamas for the plane?” Jaime asked.

“Planes tend to get cold.”

“I’ll throw a couple more in. Just in case.”

We did the same with bottles and bibs and pacifiers, and before we knew it, we had an entire suitcase filled with baby gear.

“For once, your makeup and hair products won’t take up most of the luggage space,” I said.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” he replied, unimpressed. “At least I don’t pack running gear that takes up half a suitcase and stays there the entire trip.”

“Yeah... probably not the best idea this time. Let’s travel as light as possible.”

But the call never came.

Thankfully.

And so, on May 27, we took an Uber to LaGuardia as planned, carrying two large suitcases—one for us and one for the baby supplies—along with our brand-new diaper bag and three printed copies of the paperwork: our birth plan and the court order recognizing us as the legal parents of our child.

As we flew into XNA, I looked out the window. Arkansas looked nothing like it had four months earlier. Back then, the trees were bare and the landscape was painted in shades of beige, brown, and gray. Now the branches were full of leaves, and green stretched in every direction.

The hot humidity hit our faces the moment the airport doors slid open. It felt thick. The dry winter air from January was long gone. This heat entered your lungs the second you stepped outside.

Four months earlier, we had left Arkansas with a handful of sonograms still thinking of fruit sizes. Now we were back carrying a diaper bag and a court order, only days away from meeting our son.

For the first time, it felt real.

Fayetteville and Bentonville are sister cities connected by an eighteen-mile stretch of Interstate 49. When we searched for Airbnbs, Marina recommended Bentonville. Even though the hospital was farther south, she said we’d be more comfortable there.

The house we rented sat a few blocks from the town square, a charming area filled with local restaurants and shops. The square itself looked like something straight out of a movie. It reminded me of the town square in Back to the Future when Marty arrives in 1955. Memorial Day decorations—red, white, and blue ribbons draped from lampposts and American flags fluttering from storefronts—made it feel even more cinematic.

Under different circumstances, I probably would’ve spent hours exploring every corner of town. Instead, everything felt strangely temporary. We weren’t there for Bentonville. We were there because Marina was nearby, and in a matter of days she would help bring our son into the world.

Just off the square sat the Walton Museum, the original store Sam Walton opened decades before building Walmart into an empire. To this day, the Walton family invests heavily in preserving Bentonville. Everything looked spotless and carefully maintained, almost as if we were walking through one of those architectural models filled with miniature trees and perfectly placed cars. Nothing like the image that I had built in my head when Marina’s profile said she lived in a small town in Arkansas.

We settled into our Airbnb, a cozy single-story house with two bedrooms, a comfortable living room, and a large tree shading the front yard.

“Are you ready?” I asked as I wrapped Jaime in a hug.

“As ready as I can be.”

But, as ready as we wanted to be, it was still the middle of the workweek, and our parental leave had not yet started. So we opened our laptops and worked.

It was nearly impossible to focus.

There I was in a town I hadn’t even heard of a year earlier, answering emails and Slack messages while my mind kept drifting to the same thought: somewhere nearby was Marina, and in just a few days our lives were about to change forever.

We typed and clicked and joined calls for a few more hours before heading back to the airport to pick up my parents. They had volunteered to help us navigate the mystery of caring for a newborn.

At the arrivals gate, they came down the escalator wearing matching Grandma and Grandpa T-shirts my sister made specifically for the occasion.

We laughed, hugged them, and headed back to the Airbnb.

That evening, my parents stayed behind to rest and settle in while Jaime and I drove to Marina’s house. We drove to her house at the end of a cul-de-sac.

And there she was. She greeted us at the door with a hug.

We had seen countless photos of her baby bump by then, but photos hadn’t prepared me for seeing her in person. She was unmistakably, undeniably pregnant. Thirty-nine weeks pregnant. After months of appointments, updates, texts, and ultrasound photos, there was something powerful about seeing her standing there in front of us, carrying the little boy we had dreamed about for so long.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I’ve been absolutely exhausted lately,” she said. “I’ve been taking naps, and I never take naps.”

“Except when you’re pregnant!” said her husband, making an appearance and greeting us. “Are you guys ready?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever be ready!” Jaime said.

As for Marina, her exhaustion didn’t show. She was full of energy, and for the first time I understood what people meant when they said pregnant women glowed. She looked tired on paper, but in person she seemed lit from within.

We ordered pizza and spent the evening with Marina, her husband, and their now three-year-old daughter. We brought Marina her usual order of Egg Everything bagels from New York City and brought Alex a couple of toys after hearing she’d become obsessed with Lilo & Stitch.

At the end of the night, Marina handed us the car seat and bassinet we had shipped to her house so we wouldn’t have to fly with them.

“I washed the sheets for you so you don’t have to use the Airbnb machines,” she said.

It was little gestures like that that reminded us our relationship had grown far beyond the typical intended-parent and surrogate arrangement. We cared deeply about Marina. She cared deeply about us. Somewhere along the way, we’d become friends, and that friendship had become one of the most meaningful parts of the journey.

The following day, we joined Marina for her thirty-nine-week appointment.

“I should warn you,” she said. “You guys have become celebrities to Dr. Dawson’s nurse. She’s been wanting to meet you for months.”

She wasn’t kidding.

The nurse, probably in her mid-twenties, greeted us with visible excitement.

“I’ve heard all about you guys! Congratulations!”

A few minutes later, Dr. Dawson came in.

“It’s all looking great,” she said as she checked the baby’s heart rate.

Then she pulled out a measuring tape. She measured Marina’s bump and thought for a second.

“Six pounds, eight ounces. That’s my prediction.”

“Dang it,” Marina said. “Danny’s going to win.”

Dr. Dawson looked up, confused.

“Oh, we made a bet,” Marina explained. “We’re all guessing the baby’s weight.”

“Well,” Dr. Dawson said, smiling, “I’m sure he feels huge at this point. But you’ll be grateful he’s not huge when it’s time to push. A woman upstairs just delivered a nine-pound, eleven-ounce baby.”

“Whoa,” Marina said. “That’s terrifying.”

After finishing the exam, Dr. Dawson walked us through the induction plan for Sunday.

“So you’ll come in at five p.m. and we’ll start the first medication. It’ll help your body get ready.”

“Is that what induces labor?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” she said. “This is more about helping things along gradually. The actual induction won’t begin until the morning.”

“When does that start?” Marina asked.

“Around four or five a.m. We’ll begin Pitocin.”

“Pitocin?” Jaime asked.

“When labor starts naturally, your body produces oxytocin,” Dr. Dawson explained. “Pitocin is the synthetic version. We’ll start slowly and increase it every thirty minutes.”

I later looked it up online. Oxytocin is also known as the love hormone —the same our body uses when feeling empathy, or deep care for someone. And it’s that hormone that helps a woman’s body prepare for birth.

“So what does that mean for us?” I asked. “Should we stay overnight at the hospital?”

“I wouldn’t,” she said. “You’ll want the sleep. Trust me. I don’t expect anything to happen before the morning.”

“I don’t think I’m going to sleep much the night before.”

Dr. Dawson laughed.

“Fair enough. But take advantage of these last few days. Go out to dinner. Have fun.”

Those words stuck with me.

These were our last few days before everything changed.

That night we followed her advice and went to a barbecue restaurant Marina recommended. Apparently, it had won national awards a few years earlier.

I barely remember the food.

I remember looking across the table at my parents. Then, at Jaime and realizing this was one of our last dinners before becoming dads.

The thought felt impossible.

On Friday, we wrapped up our final work calls, scheduled our out-of-office replies, and closed our laptops for the next six weeks.

The moment felt strangely emotional.

For months, work had been the thing that filled the space while we waited. Through consultations, paperwork, setbacks, and uncertainty, work had remained constant.

Now I was stepping away because I was about to become a father.

“This feels weird,” I said.

“Good weird?” Jaime asked.

“The best kind.”

That afternoon, we met Marina and Hayley for an early dinner at an Italian restaurant in downtown Bentonville. My parents joined us, and we spent the evening talking about everything and nothing.

The topic hardly mattered.

As the servers cleared our plates, my mom pulled a small gift bag from beside her chair.

“We brought you a little something to thank you for what you’ve done for our family,” she said.

Inside was a beautiful pen.

“You can think about how wonderful you are every time you use it.”

Marina smiled and immediately clicked it open to inspect it.

“Thank you,” she said. “I won’t let myself cry.”

After dinner, we headed to a nearby park.

“I want you guys to have photos with the baby bump,” Marina said.

So we wandered through the park finding little spots to take pictures. Some were sweet. Some were purposely ridiculous. Some looked like something out of a maternity photoshoot gone slightly off the rails.

The photos mattered less than the moment itself.

Still, I knew we’d treasure them forever.

Eventually Hayley headed home. My parents, who had served as our impromptu photographers, also returned to the Airbnb.

That left the three of us alone.

It struck me that we hadn’t had many moments like that.

“Let’s get ice cream,” Marina suggested.

So we walked back toward the square and bought three cones.

The rainy weather had finally cleared, and the setting sun cast everything in golden light. Families filled the park. Kids chased one another across the grass. People stood in a line that stretched nearly around the block.

“You know,” I said, “we went through three other profiles before we found you.”

“No way,” Marina said. “What happened?”

So we told her.

The very first profile we received and that we passed on.

The match that never showed up to our introductory call.

The couple from Texas that almost worked but somehow didn’t feel right.

And then we told her about finding her profile.

I confessed my hesitation when I first saw Arkansas at the top of the page. The moment on the 7 train when I felt like I could hardly breathe as we decided whether we’d say yes or no.

We laughed about it now.

“I am glad we trusted our instincts instead of our fears” I said.

The sun started to set. Golden light bathed the table where we had sat with our cones.

“You know,” Marina said after a pause, “you’ll be my first and last surrogacy couple.”

She looked out toward the park.

People were laughing. Kids were running around. The town buzzed around us.

“But if you ever wanted a sibling someday,” she continued, “I’d consider it.”

The words hung there for a moment.

Jaime and I weren’t thinking beyond May 31. We weren’t thinking about siblings or future plans. We were still trying to process the fact that we were about to become parents.

But hearing that meant more than I can adequately describe.

It wasn’t really about another journey.

It was about what it represented.

Trust.

Friendship.

Love.

The fact that Marina would even consider taking this ride with us again felt like one of the greatest compliments we could ever receive.

Eventually our ice cream melted away, the light began to fade, and we said goodbye.

“Two more days,” we said.

Two more days.

We spent the weekend trying to ease our nerves by exploring a few local spots.

On Saturday morning, we joined Marina and Alex for their weekly trip to the farmers’ market.

The square buzzed with activity. Musicians played on street corners. People carried bouquets of fresh flowers and bags filled with produce. The smell of coffee drifted through the crowd.

For a little while, life felt wonderfully normal.

That afternoon, we visited Tanyard Creek. Families walked dogs along the trails. Children splashed through the water near the falls.

It felt like a small vacation.

A strange little pause before the rest of our lives began.

That night, Jaime and I climbed into bed knowing it would likely be our last full night’s sleep for a very long time.

Neither of us said it out loud.

We didn’t need to.

On Sunday morning, we turned our attention to logistics.

I assembled the bassinet while Jaime washed bottles and pacifiers in the kitchen.

When I finished, I found myself staring at it.

For months, it had existed as a box.

Now it was a bed.

Our son’s bed.

In a matter of days—or maybe hours—he would be sleeping in it.

I ran my hand along the side and tried to picture him.

What would he look like?

Would he have hair? What color would his eyes be?

I had absolutely no idea.

And somehow that made it even more exciting.

We installed the car seat in the rental car. We reviewed insurance information. We organized our paperwork one final time.

By late afternoon, there was nothing left to prepare.

The bottles were washed.

The bassinet was assembled.

The car seat was installed.

The paperwork sat neatly inside a folder.

For four years there had always been one more thing to do. Our checklist never ended.

One more form.

One more appointment.

One more hurdle.

Now there was nothing left.

Just waiting.

I stood in the Airbnb living room and looked around.

The next time we returned here, we wouldn’t be coming back alone.

That realization stopped me cold.

Four years.

Four years of hoping, planning, grieving, adjusting, learning, and trying again.

Four years had somehow led us to this ordinary Sunday afternoon in Northwest Arkansas.

Eventually we climbed into the rental car and headed south on Interstate 49 toward Fayetteville.

The eighteen-mile drive felt both impossibly long and far too short.

Every mile brought us closer.

Every exit made it harder to believe this was actually happening.

When the hospital finally came into view, I reached over and took Jaime’s hand.

Neither of us said much.

We didn’t need to.

We parked.

We walked toward the entrance.

And before we stepped inside, I squeezed his hand and said the five words I had been waiting four long years to say:

“Let’s go have a baby.”