Editor’s Note: September is ​Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) Awareness Month, designed to honor families who have used these medical facilities and the health professionals who care for them.

My son starts preschool today.

It doesn’t seem like that long ago when I was sitting in the NICU snuggling his entire tiny body on my chest.

My son was a preemie, born at 34 weeks. Those were some long and tough days for us. My wife felt guilty but it certainly wasn’t her fault. She had a normal, healthy pregnancy. We don’t know why he came early and we’ll probably never know. But it happened and we dealt with it.

He was being held in NICU because his lungs were not fully developed just yet. He was hooked up to all kinds of machines … feeding tube through his nose for a bit, a heart monitor and more. I will never forget the alarming sound the monitor would make when his heart rate dropped, and the doctors and nurses came rushing in. They called it a “bradycardia,” or abnormally slow heart action, and it was one of the scariest moments for us.

During our daily rounds with the doctors, they told us that for him to come home he had to have three straight days without any “bradys or spells,” as they referred to them. We would call each morning, crossing our fingers, to see how he did overnight. Then we would pack our lunch, grab coffee and fight traffic each day while heading to the hospital to spend a few hours with him. It was a strange feeling to come home each night and not have our newborn son with us. My wife was in tears at times because we didn’t know how long he would be in the NICU and she was worried about spending her entire maternity leave in the hospital.

Fortunately, her boss was very supportive and gave her extra time off. There were other dads there and I would see them each day and we’d give each other the nod. We became a club; each waiting for our turn to go home with our child. I know we were fortunate. Our situation could have been much worse. There were some parents there with twins, one of whom got to go home and the other one didn’t. Some babies were there for 3 months or longer. In total, we spent five weeks in the NICU.

Today, my son has caught up and except for a slight speech delay, he has met all of his milestones. He is now a tall, active and healthy 3-year-old who loves fire trucks, Paw Patrol and pancakes.

So, it’s an exciting day and I’m a happy dad. My once tiny NICU baby is going to meet his new teachers and make new friends. He’s going to laugh and learn and play and he’ll have a big smile on his face … and so will I.

My son starts preschool today!

About the author

Lou Marino, shown with his wife and two children, is a member of our Boston/Providence Dads Group.

Photos: Contributed by the Marino family

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This post, which first appeared in 2018, is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Blissful. That’s pretty much how it felt to hold my baby son in my arms after such a stressful 37 weeks of a pandemic pregnancy.

He is here, healthy and strong, and my wife, Stef, is doing well after having a beautiful labor experience in the comfort of our own home. His birth was a sigh of relief from so much anguish and worry that kept me from exhaling for so long.

We went through so many challenges during this pandemic pregnancy. First, we thought our baby wasn’t going to make it full-term. What started as weird pregnancy symptoms eventually became a medical concern for pre-term labor. Coupled with my wife’s lupus, we thought perhaps he wasn’t going to be able to make it.

We started the second trimester with my wife on medical-ordered bed rest. It was a moment in my life where I was really struggling to be OK amidst everything going on. I needed to be there not only for my wife, our unborn child, and our preschooler daughter, but also for myself and my responsibilities. Many times I questioned the timing of everything.

We went through other sad moments during this time, like the death of two people close to our family. And the struggles of mental health, as I was learning to cope with generalized anxiety and seeking therapy for what I had noticed become unhealthy behaviors in my thinking and increasing patterns of worrying. Then amidst a move to a new house and a job change for me, we got hit with the pandemic.

A pandemic pregnancy. Reports from China showed that COVID-19 affected pregnant women by causing pre-term labor, something Stef was already at-risk for. Then when the virus was ravaging through New York, we were so uncomfortable with the stories of mothers having to labor alone – or worse; having to be separated from their children because they were born with the virus.

Stress, anxiety, a dislocated shoulder

We had just bought a house and I had started a new job that now didn’t seem guaranteed. Our rental properties had tenants who were getting laid off and couldn’t pay rent. We chose to have an extensive self-quarantine. No grocery trips. No visitations. We had midwives come to check up on the baby instead of going to a clinic for appointments. And in the span of 13 weeks of self-quarantine, we had to learn how to be OK in a home that we couldn’t finish furnishing and with a preschooler that has always enjoyed socializing and being anywhere BUT home now having to do online classes at age 3. I became obsessed with the virus, at one point worrying if I was to catch it from just being outside in our yard.

But alas. 37 weeks. That’s the magic number they give for a pregnancy to be considered full-term and for it to be legally OK in Florida to have a baby at home. Then, the day after we get the all-clear, I dislocated my shoulder during an at-home workout. I had such a fear of the hospital that we first tried to pop it back using YouTube videos to teach me how. I ended up having to go to the ER, where I thought I would for sure I’f be bringing back the infection and possibly miss out on my son’s birth.

But something happened in that ER. I was there alone. Not only did it ease my fear of exposure to the virus, but it also reminded me that there was a world outside our home. That soon it was my job to raise a little boy in a way he deserved.

I thought of conversations I had with my wife regarding the mental impact this must be having on our daughter – and that soon she was about to go through a major change in her life as she became one of two kids. I don’t know what it was, but it clicked for me that I just needed to enjoy whatever was in front of me, regardless of a situation I couldn’t control. Being this affected hadn’t allowed me to enjoy the moment. My wife had hit 37 weeks. Both she and the baby were healthy. My daughter was happy and an incredible being. And that in itself should have been enough. I got my shoulder popped back in, with good wishes from the amazing medical staff who together had given me more social interaction than I had in months.

From then on, my outlook changed on everything. We left our house for the first time. We decided to go to a plant nursery and see what it was like to go to a place with other patrons. We became OK with walking on a golf course in our neighborhood. We recorded our first TikTok video, which was a great deal of fun and got us enjoying the beauty that was my wife being pregnant. Each day was the last we could be as a family of three, and we were milking it.

Pandemic pregnancy to beautiful birth

Just five days after my shoulder injury, our little boy made his debut to the world in a crazy short two-hour labor. The labor was beautiful. Stef woke up to strong contractions around 1:30 on the morning of May 24. I called the labor team of two midwives, our doula, and a doula-photographer who were going to be making their way over from all parts of Orlando.

At 3:32 a.m., I had the opportunity to catch him as he made his way to the world. The oxytocin that must’ve formed after seeing my wife lovingly breathe our baby out could have been why my shoulder and arm seem to work fine and all I could feel at that moment was the silence of the world as I laid eyes with my son.

I had not enjoyed this pregnancy the same way as I did our first. I didn’t bond with my baby in utero as I did with my daughter. I was worried most of the time, in fear of missing out on the moment of being able to ever hold him. And here he was, all 6.4 lbs of human in my hands. It was one of those moments where everything stops and the meaning of life gets just so simple. The world stops spinning amidst things happening right in front of you, but instead of the past flashing before your eyes, it’s little glimpses of all your dreams of the future, bundled in a physical manifestation of love.

None of the worries I had seemed to matter. Not the quarantine, not the effects of labor, or the stresses of the pregnancy. It was bliss. A moment of perfection where everything just seems to be right.

And now here we are – still in a chaotic, non-ideal planet for so many reasons, but in a state of happiness with our boy. We’re getting ready to reintegrate into society once more. And while we don’t know how that looks like yet, we are enjoying this little bundle of joy, seeing my daughter take on her role of big sister, and experiencing everything that comes forth as I become a dad once more to another living being. Another little miracle. One with the potential to leave his own mark on the world.

A version of this pandemic pregnancy story first appeared on Being Papa. All photos contributed by Marlon Gutierrez.

Editor’s Note: Longtime NYC Dads Group member Larry Interrante of Queens writes this special post about being the recipient and giver of generosity in the matter of a child being born premature. 

My wife, Kate, and I were not prepared when she gave birth prematurely to our son in 2011.

We had a car seat and a bassinet for our child, Peter, plus some basics like diapers and wipes that friends and family bought for Kate’s baby shower. But there was one missing item I remember worrying about most: “How was I going to afford a stroller?”

My wife had been out of work for a while and her unemployment had expired. We were struggling to keep up with the bills. When looking at strollers, I couldn’t believe how expensive they were. Crazy expensive.

After Peter’s birth, my co-workers threw us a baby shower. When Kate and I arrived to my office, it was amazing: cake, balloons, baby-blue streamers and a bunch of signs reading, “Congratulations on your baby.” There were also lots of baby gifts. Diapers, bottles, clothes, gift cards — you name it.

But no stroller.

The last item we received at the shower was a card. It contained money.

Lots of money.

Enough to cover the cost of the stroller we wanted.

I cried because I could not believe my colleagues loved me so much and could be so generous to my family. I vowed to myself that I would pay it forward someday to someone in my office.

That finally happened this year.

My co-worker Barbara Rodriguez gave birth to a baby, also premature. Although my Peter came only three-and-a-half weeks early, Barbara’s son Mathew arrived three months before his due date.

Like my wife and I, Barbara was really not prepared. One thing she did not have was a stroller.

This past May, I worked with some of my fellow NYC Dads Group members at the New York Baby Show as part of the “Dads Lounge.” Our group runs the lounge every year, offering parents a place to relax, change their child’s diaper and seek advice from longtime dads like me while our members talk about the services, support and camaraderie NYC Dads Group offers. It’s always an awesome experience meeting these anxious new and expecting fathers.

While there, our group met representatives from Guzzie+Guss, a Canadian maker of baby strollers. One product stood out — the Connect stroller. Thomas Deumier, director of sales for Guzzie+Guss, talked to me about its open-frame concept for easy walking, the front and rear suspension system, the adjustable handles for comfortable pushing, the reversible and adjustable seat, and many other features. I found the Connect to be unique and awesome.

So I told Thomas my story. Then I told him about my friend, Barbara.

At the end of the two-day baby show, Thomas gave me the stroller for Barbara.

The next day, I contacted Barbara. When I told her I Guzzie+Guss had generously donated a stroller to her, she was very quiet. Then she said, “What? Did I hear you right?”

Then silence again.

A week after the New York Baby Show, Barbara came to our house to pick up the stroller. She was in awe. I showed her all the features Thomas had shown me and she learned them easily. She said it was the nicest, coolest stroller she had ever seen. The smile on her face and the appreciation she showed was very gracious and thankful, not just toward me but toward Guzzie+Guss.

Barbara recently sent me a picture of her baby in the stroller. The caption she wrote read:

“Thank you for my chariot. It is so comfortable and my mommy loves it. She could see me while we walk.”

That made my day knowing that they are both enjoying their new stroller.

Both are our stories are different yet the same. Generosity comes in different shapes and forms but one thing, for sure, generosity can make a difference in someone’s life when it is needed.

Disclaimer: The author received no compensation for writing this post. He did receive a stroller which was given to a friend in need. The author wishes to convey his thanks and gratefulness to Thomas Deumier and Guzzie+Guss.

Sounds had become muted. Screaming. My vision was flooded. Screaming. I could only try, and fail, to stem an unbidden river flowing down my face. Screaming.

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I was about to learn what fear really was.

“Get her in surgery! Now, now!”

I thought I knew what it was to be scared. I have been in fights, car accidents, and have been told by doctors that I would die. But I was never scared before. Not really.

“Sir! You have to stay here, sir!”

The pregnancy had gone well so we expected the birth of our child to go smoothly. Robin ran marathons and triathlons. She was always running, biking, swimming, or climbing the Empire State Building every morning. She was in great shape, and it allowed her to carry the pregnancy well.

“Here’s a chair, sir. Sir, here’s a chair.”

We did everything right. We saw the doctor. We took birth classes. Robin would read aloud how the baby had developed every week, and recorded her progress with pictures. I wrote silly blogs about the classes.

“Just sit down, sir.”

The due date came and went but the baby was comfortably ensconced. About a week later, it was decided labor would be induced. We spent the night in the hospital, waiting for the labor process to run its course.

And then something went wrong.

Roxanne, our nurse, was standing by Robin with her hands on my wife’s belly when I returned with some ice. She turned to me and in an overly calm voice said, “Sweetie, I need you to go to the desk and get the residents.”

Years ago, delirious and woozy, I was brought to the Emergency Room by a friend who, as it turned out, was correct in his concern for me. What followed next was two solid months in the hospital.

I’d had no real idea how serious my condition was, but I was rushed in immediately by the triage nurse and the examination room filled up with doctors, all speaking in the same overly calm voice Roxanne had just used. I knew there was something seriously wrong then. Even through the thick delirium in my brain.

So when our delivery room began filling up with hospital staff early that morning I began to feel my first twinge of fear. Real fear.

“Not liking the readings.”

The stereotypes say you get a chill down your spine. Cold sweats. Numbness. Invisible icy fingers. Many allegories equate fear with frigid temperatures.

“Can someone page the doctor?”

The nice doctor who had been assigned to us came sprinting into the room right then, out of breath. She shouldered her way through the half dozen people surrounding my wife.

“Let me see, let me see!”

Fear feels like there is a bubble in the middle of your head that was not there before. It expands immediately, and it pushes all of your thoughts and emotions out of its way. It becomes difficult to think, and impossible to experience any other emotion.

“The baby’s heartbeat is down.”

It is as if you have a balloon in your head. Not light-headedness exactly, as I could imagine pressure pushing out from the inside of my skull. My body had gone numb insofar as I was no longer considering it at all.

“We need to go for a C-section right now.”

I began to lumber up from my seat but by the time I was standing, they had rushed Robin out of the room. I plodded after them to see them disappear through double doors and that’s when a nurse stopped me.

The balloon in my head was screaming. Incoherently. Unrelentingly. It was taking maximum effort to not lose it completely. Screaming in my head. Screaming. Screaming.

As the nurse led me to a chair I could see a group of young med students. In mid-tour, they had witnessed the whole thing. They were new at this and none of them had the practiced calm of the veterans. Some flushed red, some drained pale. All reflected how I felt.

Sounds had become muted. Screaming. My vision was flooded. Screaming. I could only try, and fail, to stem an unbidden river flowing down my face. Screaming.

A nurse had come out of the Operating Room and was telling me to follow her. She had scrubs for me. Before I could change into them, another nurse had appeared.

“Mr. MacDonald, the baby is out, everything is fine.”

This is where I felt the chill. The balloon in my head popped, and like a sudden rush of air, the screaming shot down through my body, dusting me with snow. I had to concentrate on keeping steady.

I wanted to ask if she was sure; if Robin was OK; can I see them; what happened; how does our son look? But my mouth wouldn’t work. Instead I made a vague twirling with my finger next to my head. She smiled and said the baby would be right out.

And then he was in front of me. Liam. Emotion flooded back into the shell that was my body. Another river. But no screaming, so that was OK.

The students were still standing there. All of them were beaming. I walked with Liam past them to their congratulations. Some of them were crying with me.

Robin is fine. When our doctor came to tell me the good news, we embraced long and hard. I made a point to find Roxanne later to thank her. Without her sharp eye, maybe I don’t have a son now, maybe not even a wife.

The whole incident from start to birth, took about five minutes. It turned out to not be that big a deal, actually. We were in the hospital in case anything went wrong, and the staff there reacted quickly and knew just what to do.

While it was natural to feel fear, it didn’t help the situation, and made the whole thing seem a lot worse than it was. And those feelings of fear were melted away by the love for our son. That was far stronger.

This morning, as I left for work, Robin was holding Liam gently. Our fat cat, Mickey, preened in the sunbeam that flooded them with gold.

It is a snapshot in my mind I will treasure forever.