by Bret Baier
“What’s a hamper?”
“Yes, that’s my favorite football sweatshirt! It stays!”
Amy and I had purchased a condo in Georgetown preconstruction, and workers were still finishing up projects around the place until just a few hours before we moved in. With barely enough time to pull it off, I lit a few candles, placed some flowers on the counter, and met Amy at the elevator. At 4:47 p.m. on a windy October afternoon in Washington, I carried my completely adorable, gold-medal neat-freak dream girl from Chicago—my wife—across the threshold and into our first home at 3303 Water Street in Georgetown. By 4:48 p.m. I was happily enrolled in Amy’s graduate-level continuing education course on the nuances and intricacies of “a thing for every place, and a place for every thing.”
Chapter Three
Complicated Heart
Winds of change were blowing across the National Mall and all through Washington in January 2007. After twelve years of Republican control, not only did Democrats win back the House of Representatives in the midterm elections, the nation got its first-ever woman Speaker of the House in Nancy Pelosi of California, a truly historic exchange of the gavel. While Speaker Pelosi and her colleagues were glorying in their expanded responsibilities and upgraded office space on Capitol Hill, the Baier condo in Georgetown was undergoing some pretty significant changes, too. The truly historic news around our house was the fact that Amy was pregnant with our first child, a boy.
Amy and I were over the moon with joy when we found out we were going to become parents. We both love children, and having a family was something we talked a lot about even before we got married. Obviously doing a little more than simply talking about it, Amy and I were equally nervous and excited when we learned the news. Any soon-to-be first-time parents know the unique alchemy of extreme joy and severe trepidation that occurs as you anticipate the arrival of that first child.
It’s one thing to be a young, fun couple with great jobs, friends, and family, living in an exciting town, going out to dinner every night, and all the rest. But during your late-night, alone times, all those things, as wonderful as they are, fade away when you realize not only are you bringing another human being into this world, you are personally responsible for that baby’s survival and well-being. That stark dose of reality jolting you awake at three in the morning is the ultimate wake-up call for first-time parents. Having a baby—our son—was definitely the proverbial final frontier for us, but Amy and I had confidence we were up to the challenge and were really looking forward to becoming Mama and Papa Baier, no matter how daunting it sometimes seemed.
About the same time Amy and I were contemplating our big step into the world of parenting, more news landed on our doorstep. After I’d spent five years at the Pentagon, Fox News had officially named me the network’s chief White House correspondent. Whether overtly or subliminally, I think I had been navigating toward the White House briefing room ever since my days at DePauw and Ken Bode’s course on presidential politics. I had admired many White House reporters over the years, so being chosen by Fox to be part of that storied tradition was a great honor.
Although it was a logical professional leap for me to take across the Potomac from the Pentagon to the White House, that decision wasn’t as easy as you might think. Over the past five years I had made something like twenty-three trips to Afghanistan and Iraq and had many opportunities to meet some of the best, brightest, and bravest young people this nation has to offer. Talking to many of those soldiers who voluntarily and selflessly put themselves in harm’s way for the rest of us had been a humbling and moving experience. It convinced me that the Greatest Generation should not be a designation reserved for heroes of the past. Even though I was definitely ready for a new career challenge to keep the professional juices flowing, I left the Pentagon beat with a fair amount of emotion. I was a changed person for having been there.
Now that I was fully embedded at the White House, and with Amy fully embedded with our first child, these were exciting days for us. Along with covering the final two years of the Bush presidency, apparently I was also going to have to read a few position papers on swaddling, diaper changing, and surviving on little or no sleep. Having been a journalist all of my adult life, I think I had number three pretty much nailed. But I was definitely going to need a few tutorials on points one and two on that list.
To be honest, I felt a little guilty having this huge new job at the White House at the same time my wife was going through her first pregnancy. But knowing how much I loved presidential politics, Amy supported me a hundred percent and was excited for me—for us. Commissioned with our marching orders for 2007, Amy and I both threw ourselves into our new responsibilities with as much energy as we could muster.
While I was still getting my legs under me at the White House, Amy was knocking it out of the park with her pregnancy. A little morning sickness here and there, but she seemed to take it all in stride, with few complaints. Working out seven days a week, Amy was probably in the best shape of her life. She looked absolutely fantastic and definitely had the traditional glow of the expectant mother.
Not only was Amy doing great, but Paul Francis, named after Amy’s dad, seemed to be coming along just fine, too. Every time Amy had a checkup or sonogram, the doctors told us everything looked perfect. No matter where you are on the planet or whatever your personal circumstances, all a new parent wants to know is if the baby is healthy—and ours was. We couldn’t have been happier.
During one of Amy’s early checkups a doctor thought he might have heard a slight heart echo, but we were relieved when he determined it was just a problem with the machine. We felt extremely blessed that all the indicators told us our son was perfectly healthy, right on schedule, and would be playing golf with me as soon as I could find him the right size clubs.
Early in the summer Amy bought the perfect child seat for the back of our car, and every time we drove around town and saw that empty seat we smiled, knowing it wouldn’t be too many days before there would be a living, breathing little person sitting back there.
Activating the reliable and age-old through-the-belly communications network, every chance I got I would talk to Paul and tell him how exciting it was going to be to finally meet him. I strongly suggested it would be just fine with me if he wanted to hurry things up a little. Occasionally I even slipped in a few prodigy-nurturing tips on his yet-to-be-developed golf game. Excitement doesn’t come close to describing my feelings as Amy’s delivery date approached.
As we got closer to the date, like most couples, Amy and I worked out our plan for getting to the hospital when the time came. My car navigation system appropriately programmed for Sibley Hospital, and several dry runs under my belt, I was as prepared as any non-NASA mission controller could be. And just as if we were both working back in the Atlanta bureau, Amy and I had our go-bags packed and ready for the big day or night.
One night, thinking Amy might be going into labor, we made a hurried dash to Sibley, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Chalking it up to freshman jitters, we knew we were getting close, so we considered that trip a good dress rehearsal for the real thing, which we were convinced was just around the corner.
Then, one muggy Thursday evening after I got home from the White House, Amy and I went for one of our regular walks in our Georgetown neighborhood. One day earlier, Amy had experienced a few labor pains, but nothing like dress-rehearsal night. After we finished our walk and returned home, Amy started feeling like something newsworthy might be going on inside her. Right at the nine-month mark, this seemed like the real deal, so we decided to officially launch Operation Sibley.
After all my practice runs and having gone through the get-to-the-hospital scenario a thousand times in my head, I, of course, totally freaked. I started running around the condo like the proverbial headless chicken—pretty nervous, unprofessional stuff from someone who used to love driving directly into the path of hurricanes. Thankfully, Amy did stay calm and immediately started
with her breathing exercises. This was a very good thing, because it helped me to remind her to start with her breathing exercises. All packed up and ready to go to Sibley, we grabbed our bags and headed for the elevator.
Getting an early jump on the weekend, one of our condo neighbors had been having a late-night party. I remember hearing bass sounds thumping through the walls, not exactly the harmonious, serene music you might hope for at a time like this. On the other hand, maybe Paul heard the ruckus, thought it was his welcoming parade, and decided it might be a great time to make his grand entrance on planet Earth.
Still a little rattled by all the bass-thumping and just about everything else going on around me, I jumped on the elevator with my ready-to-pop, nine-months-pregnant wife, and here comes my party-throwing neighbor, Rob Jewell, who had no idea we were on our way to the hospital.
Rob, a great guy and super-successful dotcom entrepreneur, started to approach Amy with what appeared to me was going to be a huge, blubbering, party-style, frat-boy, body hug of an innocent neighborly greeting. Thinking that his impending bear hug just might pop Paul Francis out right there in that Otis elevator, I hollered, “Don’t touch her. She’s pregnant!”
We laughed about this later, but Rob immediately begged forgiveness, realizing he had invaded our not-so-calm departure for the hospital and Amy’s delivery. Up to that point Rob’s entrepreneurial claim to fame had been creating the highly successful website FreeCondoms.com. The irony of that elevator episode didn’t hit me till later.
Despite my fears that our son might be born somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors of our condo building, once we actually got to the Sibley delivery room Paul decided to play hard to get and take his good ole time about things. It was a very long night for Amy, and steering clear of the collective smirks and rolled eyes of an army of dues-paying mothers from coast to coast, I will refrain from uttering a single word about how long a night it was for me.
I have often thought if cosmic roles were reversed and men were the ones having babies, there would be national laws requiring us to be put into medically induced comas at about the third week of pregnancy, lasting through the delivery, past the diaper-changing years, and lasting to about the time our child was stepping onto the soccer field or baseball diamond for the first time.
Spirituality and sacredness of the moment temporarily aside, there’s no way to sugarcoat it. Amy was having a very rough go of it there in the delivery room. Worrying. Eating ice chips. More worrying. Extreme pain. Praying. Waiting for the signal to push. More ice chips. False confidence from me. And then the entire cycle would repeat itself.
After several hours of this, Amy was finally told she could begin to push.
The numbers on Paul’s heart monitor immediately started to drop, and I could see a level of concern on the doctors’ faces. I was trying my best to project a cool, calm, everything-is-fine air of confidence for Amy to see, but that was a little difficult to do since the dial on my own worry meter had pegged into the red zone at about ice chip number two.
Suspecting Paul might be in a bad position for delivery or the umbilical cord might be kinked up, and with his heart rate still dropping, the doctors seriously considered performing a C-section. Suddenly, about a hundred twenty-seven separate things started happening at once, so there wasn’t much time for me to whip out my press pass and start asking questions.
Everyone in the delivery room seemed to know exactly what their role in the choreography was, and eventually the doctors were successful in using a suction device to get Paul out without having to perform surgery. He was a bit purple and did cry a little, but it was nothing like the big booming stuff you see in the movies.
The doctors seemed somewhat concerned, but suddenly Paul’s color improved and everyone in the room started breaking into big smiles.
Relief all around. Paul was now looking great and had a good steady heartbeat. The nurses placed Paul in Amy’s arms and she started to cry. Then I started to cry. And now Paul started to cry, too. I remember thinking that delivery room cacophony sounded as sweet as any Brahms concerto ever performed.
The flood of emotions I felt at that moment was overwhelming. My son was finally here in this room, with us, right now, and there was nothing but love going on. Love for my son. Love for my wife. Love for our families and friends. Love for God. Love for anyone who helped us get to this sacred place, including Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and all the Rolling Stones.
Amy and I had shared the most intimate experience this life has to offer, and there we were with our son, a life created because of Amy’s love for me and mine for her. And now we, all three Baiers, were together at last. Simply spectacular.
The doctors in the room didn’t seem particularly concerned about anything, but they decided to give Paul a few tests. The nurses cleaned him up a bit and took him away for a few minutes. Before long our pediatrician came in and told us the only thing you ever want to hear—he said Paul was fine.
No problems. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Breathing well. Heart sounds good. Paul was perfect, head to toe. The range of emotions during the past ten to twelve hours had been extraordinary. But hearing that report from our pediatrician sent our souls to the top of Mount Everest. Our spirits could not have soared any higher.
Starting with Paul’s birth at 12:34 p.m. on a Friday, June 29, 2007, the next twenty-four hours at Sibley were a wonderful, blissful blur of activity. Amy was perfectly fine to be alone in the room nesting with Paul, but being the newsman in the family I felt compelled to get this huge story out there.
So just a few hours after Paul’s live shot audition in the Sibley delivery room, I sent my first news flash to family, friends, and Fox News colleagues:
June 29, 2007, 4:32 PM, Friday
Subject: It’s the THREE Baiers NOW!!
Papa Baier, Mama Baier—and NOW…
Paul Francis Baier HAS ARRIVED! And he’s just right.
He was born here in Washington at 12:34 PM at Sibley Hospital. He’s 6 lbs., 12 oz., and 19 1/2 inches long.
Mama and Baby Baier are doing great…and Papa Baier is amazed at the whole process!
Thanks for all of your kind words and wishes.
Attached find a pic of Paul on his first day on earth.
Paul was staying with Amy and me right there in the room, and it was awesome. I felt like I was walking on air the entire time. Over the course of my career in journalism I had traveled on hundreds of trips to some really exotic locales all around the world, even some recent ones on Air Force One with the president of the United States. But I never, ever had more excitement flowing through me than I did that day as I anticipated spending the night with my wife and son in the cramped confines of our little nest of a room in the Sibley maternity ward.
Amy’s mother and father, Barbie and Paul Hills, and her younger brother, J.P., flew in from Chicago to share in our joy and excitement. Everyone in the family wanted in on this huge story, and it was a wonderful time of taking photographs, holding Paul, and sharing our joy. Being with family and having my son right there in the room with us, I was truly counting my blessings.
The pure joy I had in my heart from meeting my son for the first time reminded me of an incident just a few years before during a trip I took to Afghanistan. At a Forward Operating Base with some soldiers just back from the fight along the Afghan-Pakistan border, I was sharing a computer room with a young soldier I had been with in the field for several days.
These were the earliest days of Skype and of being able to visually communicate real-time over the computer. While I was in the middle of writing up a news story for Fox, I couldn’t help but see and hear the soldier next to me being introduced to his newborn son for the first time right there on the computer. It was such a joyous and momentous event for him, he began to weep. Caught up in the moment I also began to tear up.
Thinking about that soldier, I realized that being able to be with my son physically during his first hours on earth and being su
rrounded by loving family members was a blessing not everyone enjoys. I had never been more grateful about anything in my entire life.
Also, on that first day at Sibley with Paul and Amy, I had a few opportunities to show off everything I had learned from all those position papers on swaddling and diaper changing. The swaddling went perfectly fine—it was even fun. But that first diaper change was—how to put this delicately—disgusting! There is no book, training session, or position paper that can prepare you for something like that. There were colors in that diaper I never imagined existed anywhere in the known universe.
Like any reporter faced with a totally unique story situation for the first time, I quickly started flipping mental pages to see if I could come across something—anything—from my experiences that might help me come to terms with what I was witnessing. Cleaning up an oil spill on any beach in the world would surely be better duty than this. The only reference point I could possibly use to gauge the primordial concoction before me was from one of those bloodcurdling scenes I remembered from the first time I saw the movie Alien.
Early Saturday morning, after the three Baiers’ wonderful overnight Sibley campout, and having survived the premier performance of The Diaper from Outer Space, Paul apparently had some unfinished business down the hall when a nurse came to take him to be circumcised. I went along for moral support but, looking down at Paul, and with all the courage I could muster, I whispered, “Sorry, pal.” I have sometimes wondered if Paul’s one-day’s-worth of life experience ever suggested to him that this might be payback for that first diaper.
After the circumcision and when Paul was back in the room with us, Amy’s folks returned, and it was picture-taking time all over again. Amy’s dad, Paul Francis Hills, perhaps exercising the unwritten rights associated with having a grandson named after him, started calling the baby Paulie. We laughed about that, thinking Goodfellas and The Sopranos might have already cornered the Paulie market. But before long we were all calling our little guy Paulie. The naming rights came with a cost for Amy’s dad, who immediately became either Big Paul or Franpa.
