Hello Emma Jo, Goodbye Heart

After months of anticipation, joy, and a fair share of challenges, we are overjoyed to announce the arrival of our beautiful daughter, Emma Jo! She made her grand entrance into the world at 3:29 a.m. on January 18th, weighing 5 pounds 15 ounces, and measuring 18.2 inches long. Her journey to us is a testament to resilience, love, and the power of family—and maybe a little caffeine.

It’s hard to explain the mix of excitement and terror we felt as we drove to Balboa, a military hospital in San Diego. On one hand, we were finally meeting our daughter. On the other, we were experiencing the impending doom that had been haunting us for months.

Kimberly and I had been on this IVF rollercoaster since 2022. Emma was our third embryo transfer. The first transfer didn’t stick. The second stuck a little too well—we were pregnant with twins but heartbreakingly lost them. By the time we got to our third and final embryo, we were riding the fine line between cautious optimism and full-blown panic. But as they say, third time’s the charm. Spoiler again: It worked out.

We were 39 weeks to the day and were arriving for our scheduled induction on the third floor of the west wing. I love spontaneity, but Kimberly is very much a planner. While having a natural and surprising birth story sounded cool, there was no way Kimberly would have welcomed the thought. We rolled into the hospital at 1 p.m., ready for the big day—and by “ready,” I mean emotionally unprepared but with fully charged phones and a camera for all the pictures. After checking in, Kimberly was offered the infamous $25 paper gown and $20 grippy socks but was having none of it. She strutted out of the bathroom in our labor unit wearing a chic black hospital gown and fuzzy socks from Amazon that screamed, “Millenial Mom".

The team of nurses, corpsmen, anesthesiologists, and doctors introduced themselves, but it was midwife Jayne who broke us. She walked us through the induction process and mentioned that staff would rotate throughout the day. “My replacement will be Stacy,” she said casually. Kimberly and I froze, then immediately choked up. Stacy is the name of my late mother, who passed away in 2014. For context, I’m the youngest of five, and losing my mom left a hole in my heart—especially knowing our baby girl wouldn’t get to meet her incredible grandmother. But my mom had a habit of leaving us signs, little nudges that reminded us she was still around. And let me tell you, this one hit like a ton of bricks. When Jayne said her name, I turned into an emotional puddle on the hospital floor, trying to quietly sob while she continued calmly explaining the logistics of pushing a baby through Kimberly’s vaginal canal—as if the moment wasn’t already surreal enough.

When I finally rejoined the conversation (having wiped my tears and done my best to not look like I’d just watched the end of Marley & Me), Jayne noticed my puffy eyes and paused. "Are you okay?" She asked gently. No, I’m a Pisces, I thought. How could I ever be okay? But instead of saying that, I managed to croak out, "Stacy is my mom’s name, and she passed away." Jayne’s face softened instantly. "Oh, I’m so sorry," she said, wrapping me in a warm hug.

I’ve never been good at handling sympathy—it makes me squirm—so I defaulted to humor, as always. "I just hope Stacy is nice," I blurted out, trying to lighten the mood.

Thankfully, everyone chuckled, and just like that, the weight of the moment lifted a little. Laughter was always my mom’s favorite thing, and I know she was somewhere in that room laughing along with us. It wasn’t until 3:33 p.m. that Kimberly had her first cervical check. Jayne clapped like a proud parent at a school play as she read Kimberly's monitor. "You're already having good contractions!" Kimberly had been riding the contraction rollercoaster 4 to 7 minutes apart but had no idea—because apparently, contractions don’t come with an app notification.

Jayne positioned herself between my wife's legs and did her best to make her as comfortable as possible. (Between IVF and all of the medical professionals from military clinics, I’ve lost count of how many people have had a front-row seat to my wife’s business.) "1, 25, -3," she said, completing the assessment and dramatically ripping off her latex glove like she was in an action movie. Naturally, as first-time moms and lifelong learners, we asked, “What do those numbers mean?"

“You’re 1 cm dilated, your cervix is about 25% thinned out, and -3 is your baby’s positional progress in the birth canal. It just means Emma is still quite high in the pelvis.”

I nodded, mentally preparing myself for a baby that would probably be taking the 48 hour scenic route. "The first thing we have to do is get that cervix nice and soft, so we will start you with Misoprostol and a 3cm foley balloon." We were both familiar with the foley balloon as we had learned about them from our group maternity classes. "Do you have any questions?" Jayne asked. "When is the latest I can feed her a solid meal?" I was borderline more afraid of Kimberly becoming hangry than going through labor. They allowed her to have a clean sandwich from Subway with some baked chips before Nurse Gabby came in around 4:40 p.m. to check the foley balloon. They planned to come in and pull on the foley balloon every hour to provide what they called a sort of "mechanical induction." Unfortunately, the foley ballon felly out! Gabby was convinced it was not placed correctly, but she mentioned it had some blood on it so she wasn't entirely sure what happened, but we would find out at the next cervical check. We had a lot of time to pass, so we got out the tablet, connected to the hospital wifi and Kimberly sat on the birthing ball as we watched our show a little while to help Emma find her way to the light at the end of the tunnel a little quicker. We had been recording a few videos to sort of document our thoughts as the pregnancy and labor continued. I began recording as Kimberly rolled about on her ball and asked her a couple of questions about what was going on. As she was answering, she paused, spread her legs and looked down and back up at the camera. I had to stop recording because I was too busy laughing—what a wierd moment. "I think I peed on the ball," she says, casually standing up and strolling to the bathroom. She finishes her business, washes her hands, and just as she’s about to reach the bathroom door to exit, she freezes and says, "I have to pee again." We both knew Kimberly's water had more than likely broken after the third (or maybe fourth) time sitting down. I called the nurse's station to let them know Kimberly was leaking, and Gabby came to check on the evidence. She confirmed that the water breaking was a possibility, but we would only know for sure at the 7:30 p.m. cervical check. Around 5 p.m. Kimberly started to writhe and groan as she watched her contractions come and go on her monitor. This was a complete 180 from the contractions she was having just an hour before. We didn't have a "birth plan" necessarily, but if we did it would probably be an 8x11 sheet of paper with big bold capital letters on it that spelled "EPIDURAL". That's it, that's the birth plan. We have incredible respect for all moms who opt for a natural birth, but we both knew that would not be us. We were worried Kimberly would be forced to endure some Pitocin-induced pain before getting the epidural, as we’d heard enough "war stories" about Pitocin contractions to know that wasn’t something she wanted to experience before receiving the sweet, sweet relief of anesthesia. Around 6:30 p.m., things took an interesting turn. We started hearing some truly wild noises from a room next to ours. Imagine a woman screaming like she was auditioning for a role in Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but then getting into a serious smackdown with cocaine bear. The anxiety boiled in our veins as we listened to the fate that awaited Kimberly.

I should add, if you happened to be in Labor and Delivery Room 10 at Balboa Hospital on January 17th, 2025, I apologize for the slightly exaggerated description. We later learned you went the natural route... so, props to you. You go, girl! We eagerly waited for the nurse, or anyone really, to come in and give Kimberly a cervical check. We had yet to learn if she truly did break her water, and the contractions were getting bad enough that it would have been great to know where she was in terms of dilation. Finally, at 7:15 p.m., we met Nurse Baylee. In just 6 hours, we were on our third nurse. First was Anna, who we were blessed to know for about 45 minutes before she left for vacation in Lake Tahoe, then was Gabby, and Baylee who was cool, she came in to let us know the step is another misoprostol, or if the cervix is thin enough Kimberly could start Pitocin. Kimberly, feeling like she was being squeezed by a giant invisible hand, mentioned that the contractions were getting "real serious." She even hinted at getting the epidural soon. Baylee gave her the news: "Once you get the epidural, you won’t be walking or moving around anymore because your legs will be numb." So, if Kimberly had to be stuck in the hospital for another 48 hours, she’d basically be in bed, immobile, playing the role of "human potato." Kimberly, ever the strategist, decided to wait it out and see what the doctors had to say about progress. We were supposed to see them at 7:30, but their changeover was at 8 p.m. so Baylee told us to expect them closer to 8:30. Meanwhile, Kimberly’s contractions were playing a game of let’s get real and started coming every 2 to 4 minutes, each one more serious than the last. She rated the pain a solid 6/10.

At 8:20 p.m. we were introduced to Dr. Mcwhorter who came in with Baylee. She completed a cervical check and confirmed that the water broke at 5:00 p.m.. The new code was "2, complete, and -1." Two centimeters dilated, the cervix was completely thinned and Emma was at a -1 in positioning. For reference, +5 is crowning. Kimberly decided she didn't want to do the epidural just yet because she didn't want to be in bed for another 48 hours. They let us know that Baylee would be back with Pitocin. She would be back soon to start medicine. By 9:30 we had not yet seen Gabby, but did receive the gift of another labor popping off in room 8, the other room next to us.

By 9:55 p.m. Kimberly decided she was no longer interested in feeling the contractions, and we still hadn't seen Gabby. We called the nurse's station and requested the anesthesia team. She had been going every two or three minutes, and the contractions were to the point that she needed to grab my arm and squeeze to take her mind off the pain. Marcie, nurse number 4 came to our room and let us know that Baylee is attending to some new moms that experienced some spontaneous deliveries. (Rooms 8 and 10). She also let us know that the anesthesia team was unavailable. "Oh my god." I thought. Not immediately, anyways, she said. "They will be here in about an hour, until then I will give you some Fentanyl for the pain." It was 10:15 when Kimberly was administered Fentanyl through her IV. As Marcie pushed the medicine in, I noticed Kimberly's eyelids quickly get heavy and her eyeballs relaxed. "Oh that was quick!" she said. Marcie started laughing, "Yeah it works fast she said."

Around 10:40 p.m. the anesthesia team showed up. Kimberly was prepped and the area was steralized. I sat in front of her and was able to watch the epidural get placed in the reflection of the TV that was in the corner of the room. I watched as Kimberly's contractions would happen on her monitor, which unfortunately she started to feel again since the Fentanyl. It was perfect timing for the epidural, Kimberly said the contractions moved from a 6 to a 9 quickly on the pain scale. It took about an hour for the team to c omplete the placement of the epidural. I don't know /why, but I imagined the epidural as just a needle that went into the spine and came back out. Turns out, it’s more like a port or catheter that stays in her back. They pretty much installed a little “pain-free” plug in her spine and handed her the remote. At the same time, Marcie had to move Kimberly's IV placement to her left hand because she felt the IV on her right hand was just not cutting it. After about 15 minutes, Marcie came back in to check on Kimberly. She checked her legs for what she could feel and what she couldn't with the epidural. Kimberly had more pain on her right side than her left, so Marcie had her lay on her right side. Because the epidural works with gravity, it all settles the direction the patient is leaning. Around 11:50 Marcie was finishing up and Kimberly got incredibly cold, to the point she was shivering and had goosebumps. We brought a fuzzy blanket and a heater pad that were perfect for this scenario. I continued to watch the monitor, as her contractions peaked, and Kimberly didn't flinch at all. I was so happy she chose to do the epidural sooner rather than later. Marcie let us know she would be back in a while to help Kimberly with a catheter now that she couldn't stand to walk to the restroom, and we asked her to check progression while she was at it. She let us know, at that time they would probably start Pitocin since they still hadn't. It was around 12:30 a.m. when Marcie returned to place Kimberly's catheter and check her progress. She took a look, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Hmm... You don’t feel any pressure?"

Kimberly, looking totally unbothered, replied with a casual "Nuh uh."

Marcie paused for a moment, then gave us the news: "You’re at a 10. Well, we’ll say 9 1/2 because I still feel a bit of the cervix at the top."

Kimberly, now genuinely curious, asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Marcie said, "you're dilated to 9 1/2. You’ll be having a baby today."

She glanced at the clock like she was watching a timer count down to something.

At that moment, I felt every ounce of blood leave my face and my heart started racing. Shit. Just. Got. Real. Marcie casually let us know the doctors were "a little busy"—which, in labor and delivery, I assume means there were plenty of babies making their entrance into the world. She suggested Kimberly skip the Pitocin for now and advised us to get some rest before the real work began because the baby was "coming soon." Sure, Marcie, no biggie. Just snooze away while waiting for a human to emerge.

Shockingly, Kimberly and I actually managed to fall asleep. I guess when you're running on adrenaline and hospital vibes, even the occasional baby wailing in the background becomes white noise.

Around 3 a.m., we woke up to an entourage entering the room: Marcie, Dr. McWhorter, and a couple of other people who looked very official and very awake for that ungodly hour. Kimberly started doing some practice pushes, which felt like the warm-up for a marathon no one trained for. The team was so awesome, telling Kimberly how perfect her practice pushes were, a compliment almost as cool as our IVF doctor letting us know she has a "pristine uterus." Emma was at +2 now—basically incredibly close to exiting the body. They decided to start Pitocin to make contractions come closer together so Kimberly wouldn’t lose her progress in pushing. At that point, we realized this was it. We were officially in the final stretch, and Emma was about to make her grand entrance. I looked up at the clock—3:16 a.m.—the moment Kimberly started actively pushing. There were no screams, no grunts, not even a grimace. Kimberly was the picture of grace, cracking jokes with the delivery team during active labor, as if she were hosting a stand-up special from her hospital bed.

At one point, she paused, let out the rest of her breath after a contraction and pusing, rested back into her pillow, and announced with confidence "Piece of cake." The room erupted into laughter. And let me tell you, Kimberly was not funny before she got pregnant. That’s right, her newfound humor is 100% the result of carrying a baby with my genetically superior sense of humor. Emma Jo Bolinsky was delivered at 3:29 a.m. thirteen minutes after Kimberly began pushing. She was announced to be 5 lbs 2 oz and 18.2 in long. We later found out looking through pictures I took on the camera that she was 5 lbs 15 oz on the scale, which was much better.

We were moved to the Mother and Infant unit where we figured we would spend the next 48 hours as first-time moms, but Emma is absolutely perfect and the hospital let us out on good behavior just 47 hours after we arrived at the hospital for intake. As we settle into life as a family of three, we’re excited to share more about our adventures in motherhood, our dream of transitioning to country living, and the joys (and challenges) that come with it all. For now, we’re soaking in every precious moment with Emma and cherishing the little things—her sleepy smiles, her tiny stretches, and the way she has already filled our lives with so much love.

Thank you to everyone who has supported us along the way. Your kindness, encouragement, and love have meant the world to us. We can’t wait to share more of our journey with you as we embark on this beautiful new chapter.

Welcome to the world, Emma Jo. You are so loved.