As part of the process, Porn will be interviewed before we can apply for a passport for Roman, which will entail a whole new set of laborious forms to fill in. When his citizenship is approved, we need to take the stack of documents to the passport office in another part of the building to lodge the passport application. This whole different set of forms includes the Amphoe office letter that Porn is responsible for, and will be lodged at the embassy. Trudy is thorough with her explanation, wanting this to go smoothly for us. She explains everything in detail, assuring us that from the minute we lodge Roman’s passport application, they will have the emergency one ready within two working days.
“And once you have this, off you pop, the three of you,” she says in her Australian accent.
We are anxious to bid farewell to this city, which starts to pall on us. We have been here for several weeks and would have gone crazy by now if we weren’t on a high with Roman’s birth.
Trudy stresses the need to stay under the radar with the press, considering Jayson’s media identity in Australia. She promises to keep us in the loop.
We adore her; she was fabulous in every way. She continued to be our sounding board, pointing us in the right direction throughout the next few weeks. After finishing the hour-long, entertaining meeting, we make our way back to the hospital to feed our little man, and it is my turn to bond with our child.
I am in awe and I can’t wait to get back to see him. At the hospital, I cradle and guard my son like the most priceless thing in the universe. Holding his body close to my heart, I stroke his miniature fingers and run mine through his tiny strands of hair. I can’t believe he is here, right in front of me. It feels surreal. I am this tiny human being’s father, his daddy. I sing to him quietly, kissing him umpteen times on the forehead, wondering at the same time if my goatee’s stubble would put a dampener on his peaceful slumber. He peeks out of his sleep several times to glance at me, sussing me out, perhaps wondering who I am to him.
I am in a state of euphoria for having been part of his exceptional creation. They say fatherhood changes people – for the better, that is. But the shift in me when I hold my son makes me realise one important thing about myself. I am no longer the same person. The remnants of my Peter Pan syndrome went out that hospital door for good. I am reborn.
I have become his unconditional love, for life, and he belongs to me. He is by far the most meaningful thing in my life. I have not only been waiting for him all my life, now I am holding him tight and wishing I could stop the hospital clock.
We wake up early and make our way to Phloen Chit, where we run around while carrying our baby’s sleeping capsule, clothes and sundries, trying to locate the translation office.
“You won’t miss it because it is the one with two desks and a filing cabinet. It is obvious to anyone that it is a translator’s office,” Kay had said to me on the phone the day before.
“I have no idea what a translator’s office look like,” I say to Jayson after a couple of minutes searching.
It takes twenty minutes of monotonous searching before we finally find the tiny office. There are two staff, a man and a woman, each at a desk and typing into a computer. The man speaks fluent English and tells me that for 400 baht, $15, he will have the birth certificate translated and certified, ready for pick up in about forty minutes. We decide to go grab a coffee and come back for the important document.
Once we have the certificates in hand, we rush back to the Phyathai hospital. We are expecting Roman’s discharge today. Thank goodness! We are over this “schlepping” to and from the hospital in the chaotic traffic twice a day, and we are unhappy to have missed his morning feed. Since his birth, we have been preparing his homecoming, decorating his room at the apartment with teddy bears and soft plush toys which we bought from Siam Paragon. We have neatly arranged these together with all the essentials, just as the baby whisperer ordered. We will use the baby sleeping capsule we have dragged all over Phloen Chit to bring him home from the hospital.
Of course, I can’t stop fretting about the long, mundane trip home to the Ascott during the lunchtime peak, with the busy chaotic traffic and crazy taxi drivers jerking every five minutes, making me feel sick while my newborn is on board. My heart will be in my mouth. I will grip him hard, notwithstanding the proper baby car capsule.
When we get to the hospital with the capsule and other things Roman needs to get home with, the hospital medical team informs us that Roman has to stay for a few more days because he has jaundice.
“Jaundice! What do we do now?” I ask one of the parents there.
I shouldn’t have asked; never had I seen such turmoil in the gay dads’ ward. All the worried faces congregate to partake in a serious discussion on “jaundice”. It is as if a disaster has just happened. One minute we are stricken pink with joy and now we are worried about our children’s liver health. When the paediatrician tells the other gay parents about the jaundice and that they, like us, can’t be discharged, they become perplexed. We have “shock horror” expressions on all our faces as we try to ascertain what jaundice means.
“Drama Mama.” There are sobs and tears, while the nurses are giggling from under their breath. Because Bonnie Rose had been discharged, we don’t have her dad, Dr Scott to explain the phenomenon of jaundice.
We all get on our phones to google “jaundice”. After five minutes of searching, we discover jaundice is very common in newborns, and the reason our babies are yellow today is due to the immaturity of the baby’s liver, which leads to a slow processing of waste products in the blood. It commonly appears at two to four days of age and disappears by one to two weeks of age.
The baby whisperer had prepared us for this before we left, saying, “But it’s nothing some ultraviolet light can’t fix.” She warned us. I remember this now the initial fright has worn off.
We ask the nurses where our babies are and they confirm they are in a separate room, receiving ultraviolet light therapy. This causes more unsettling of nerves in the gay group. First-time parents are in hysteria about the mild jaundice.
We have to wait a few days until the jaundice disappears before we can take Roman home.
We hail a cab back to the apartment. These hour-long visits, one of us at a time, are driving us crazy, and having to sit the entire hour with a party of gay dads is wearing me out. I can’t be personal with my child with them around. I am uncomfortable singing to him or talking baby to him in their presence. I just want to be myself. At this moment, it should be about us three, our new family and when we can start bonding. Everything is slowly starting to get to me.
We go to the embassy the next morning, this time to lodge the 118 form, Roman’s citizenship by descent application. I have meticulously filled in every piece of information required on the form. It had to be validated, true and correct for Immigration. Any gap or error would delay the application being processed and consequently add further delays to our return home.
We get in early to beat any unwanted queues.
“Do not camouflage anything. It is best to tell the truth.” Sam’s words ring in my head. The truth leaves no room for exclusion; in reality, Roman is my son. It made me smile when I filled this in on the 118 form. I felt special to be his father and involved in such a big way. Jayson’s name is written throughout the application forms, including the DNA test he underwent in Sydney. At least today I feel important too. I double- and triple-check every piece of information on the form. It had already been signed by the Justice of Peace in Sydney, who knew me from my frequent visits to his pharmacy in Kings Cross.
“Yes, hello Aaron, what have you got for me today?” he would ask, intrigued that these two men he frequently saw in the papers were having a baby.
“Another signature, mate, bloody oath.”
“What a cracker! Many more of these to go?”
But today, after all the energy and time I have spent on the forms, the scrutiny and invasion of our privacy and our dealings with the surrogat
e exposed, it has paid off. The counter clerk takes barely five minutes to process the application, stamps every piece of paper, one after the other, and when she finishes, she looks up at us to say, “Flawless paperwork, well done. I wish all my clients did the same.”
I smile when I hear the comment and Jayson pats me on the back.
“One big major step has concluded,” I tell Jayson.
“We are one step closer to home,” he says.
It will take three to four days before we get news. The next step is to take Roman to get a DNA test to prove he is the biological son of Jayson. Once this is determined, Porn will be interviewed by the Immigration Department to release her consent for his return home and then we need an “Emergency Passport” to bring him home.
We return to Phyathai hospital, this time to collect Roman, as he will be discharged today.
The English-speaking paediatrician comes out of the nursery ward to speak to us.
“Mr Brunsdon and Mr Elias, your son is well and he has recovered from his jaundice. He can go home today.”
“That’s great news,” I reply.
“However, I need to inform you that your son has a deficiency, a G Six PD deficiency,” she adds, to Jayson’s and my slight alarm.
“What’s that? Is it serious?” Our hearts are sinking to the floor.
“No, it’s not serious but he is allergic to several types of medication including aspirin. He will not be able to eat several types of food, fava beans is one of them. Some G Six PD deficient patients grow out of it but it’s too early to tell. Your son will grow up healthy, if you are worried,” she says.
“Thank goodness! But we are worried.” Also relieved she said “grow up healthy”.
“Nothing to worry about. We are getting your son ready to go home. Enjoy him.”
Later, we read the facts on G6PD. It is common in children with Sephardic heritage. He would have got it from my side of the family.
Roman is wheeled out to us, sleeping on the hospital’s plastic cot. He is dressed in hospital clothes – a long-sleeved pyjama with matching mittens and swaddle blanket. They are monogrammed in Phyathai hospital’s logo. He looks fresh and smells divine, after just having had a bath. “I could have eaten him.” Surrounding him are presents from the hospital – a large hamper with milk bottles, tins of formula, bath lotions, soap – everything a newborn needs. There is another bag containing some cotton tips and alcohol to clean his belly button; the umbilical cord from birth is still on him and will fall off soon.
“Oh, this is so sweet!” I exclaim.
“Yes, we wish you three all the best, and enjoy fatherhood! It is the best time,” the paediatrician replies.
We are given some paperwork, discharge forms and some literature on G6PD. We had paid the hospital bills yesterday, and for the services rendered the costs seem minimal.
We place Roman in the capsule. He is small and delicate, disappearing into the padded mobile snooze bag. He is fast asleep, oblivious to the commotion and noise of our surroundings. Jayson carries the capsule and beams with pride.
“Our son goes home today,” he tells the security guard and several nurses. We bid them goodbye, thank everyone and make our way to the taxi stand. It is going to be the longest taxi ride home ever, even though it should only take thirty minutes to get from the hospital to the apartment.
We sign language the taxi driver to go as slow as possible. There is no mandatory baby capsule law in Bangkok, and finding a taxi with the installed apparatus is just wishful thinking. We hang on tight to Roman, clenching him hard, hoping nothing will happen. Once again, the blazing heat strikes and the peak hour afternoon traffic is ridiculously predictable, relentless, jammed with cars. Fortunately our taxi driver understands the sign language “slow, slow, please, mister”. I stress again and worry about the safety issues. He drives in the most cautious manner, bless him. We persevere through the humidity and mounting traffic. Slowly he drives through each busy suburb of Bangkok. We are in the midst of it all for more than an hour, sweating like pigs, tense from the vehicle’s lack of movement, until finally we arrive at the apartment.
When the taxi door is opened by the concierge, the apartment’s lobby behind him comes to a standstill and we feel the entire staff’s curious eyes upon us. They are wondering where the baby came from. Just this morning, we were alone with several bags in tow only. A few hours later, we have a baby with us. Confusing perhaps! No one dares say anything but we sense the wonder at the new guest. We hold our heads up high and proudly walk past the concierge into the lobby with baby Roman. We ignore all the prying eyes of guests and staff.
We are happy and proud parents, and we don’t care what the rest of the world thinks. For us, it is a glorious time. We are not embarrassed and never will be. There is nothing to be ashamed of. We have no doubt that for the rest of our lives, people will stare, wonder, ask questions and try to work out the complexities of our relationship, but this is their personal complex, not ours. We like to think we are perfectly fine, having broken down barriers and norms, but some people struggle with the idea. We have never been bothered about what people think, or about gossip for that matter. Everyone is free to make whatever assumptions and judgements they want. I am a strong believer in this freedom.
In the apartment, we settle Roman by placing him in the master bedroom, surrounded by stuffed toys. He lies in the capsule on the king-sized bed like a little prince, peacefully asleep. We run in and out throughout the rest of the day – checking on him, placing our ears on his chest, hearing him breathe and watching every little expression he makes, like the little glances he gives with half-opened eyes.
“Babies astral travel,” my mother often says. “Angels guide them. When they smile or cry in their sleep, they are talking to angels. They tell them everything about the lifetime ahead.”
We lie on the bed next to him, the three of us together, getting used to being a family. We love it more and more with every passing second. It feels beautiful.
We had a full day with him today. Tomorrow our night nanny, Sara, starts work. There won’t be much sleep tonight but we are prepared. Our lives are dedicated to his care from now.
That night we stay awake all night, feeding him every three hours.
“I can’t believe there is a baby in our room, our baby,” Jayson says over and over.
Several times, we have intermittently forgotten.
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Baby Roman
The first five days as parents are an experience, an unforgettable one, and I feel fortunate to have Nanny Sara with us during the nights, someone with know-how in case we fall short. We want to sleep well so we have our wits during the day, to tackle immigration and citizenship paperwork.
In the day, we are hands-on dads, playing active roles in Roman’s care. We wash, change, clean, sterilise bottles and feed him 90 milliletres of formula every two to three hours, six times daily, from as early as 6am to 8pm until Sara comes.
Sara, our nanny, studies nursing in Bangkok. She lives an hour and a half away from the city, and commutes daily by bus, boat and skytrain to college. In the evenings, she looks after our newborn son and while he is asleep she studies. She gets paid minimal wages, a small fraction of what a nanny in Australia makes, most of them going to supplement her tuition fees.
Sara is twenty-three, tiny-framed, shy and demure and could easily be mistaken for a child. She speaks moderately good English with a soft voice. When I received Sara’s references from the agency I could see they were impeccable. Her former employers, including an Australian couple with two young children and an English family, swore by Sara’s outstanding qualities as an nanny: “Exceptional work”, “Committed enthusiast” and “One you can no doubt trust”.
When Sara arrives at our door on day two, it feels like a godsend. It isn’t because we are incapable; but sleep deprivation is unimaginably exhausting. The minute she held him she was completely immersed and stayed with us for the three post-birth weeks
in Thailand. It makes life a whole lot easier because we can step out to dinner and sometimes watch a video at home. She never leaves his side at night. She teaches us how to swaddle and rock him calmly.
“He can tap into your emotions, even at this age,” she says. “If you are stressed, your baby will be stressed too. If you are calm, he will stay happy and calm.”
Roman hardly cries or gives us many problems in these three weeks. “The dream child” we call him. During the day, we bond with him. Splitting our fatherly duties in two, we’re a formidable team, like the “yin and yang” of parents. Our personalities work well with Sara’s and she is perfect. Roman grows and changes in appearance and size, and stares blankly at me when I speak.
“Who does he resemble?” I ask Jayson daily. It’s a Jewish thing; elders in my family tend to scrutinise the baby to determine which side’s genes predominate. I put my money on Jayson: mouth and cheeks like his father, even familiar facial expressions and skin colour; no doubt he has the Brunsdons’ pale skin. I see some of me in him. Everyone agrees he has my dimples and my large dark eyes, and my side earns points as well for the jet black hair.
During the pregnancy, Leona thought it would be a beautiful combination if he had my olive skin, and piercing blue eyes like Jayson. “He will be a tropical cocktail,” she jokes. “Heartbreaker when he grows up.”
But instead, he may have inherited the reverse, eyes like mine and skin like Jayson’s, still a beautiful combination. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter one bit to us – he is ours to keep, the most beautiful baby in the world.
We sing him songs; tone deaf though I am, I am still able to sing and make up words to nursery rhymes. With my favourite, “Baa Baa Black Sheep”, I swap the recipients of the “bag of wool” from the Master, Dame and little boy who lives down the lane to Daddy, Papa and Roman. There are kids’ songs I remember my mother sang to me. God knows where they came from, but suddenly the music and lyrics are alive. I churn them out one after the other on repeat, and now and again a new one pops out. The “One Little Duckling I Once Knew” is his favourite and he stares at me every time he hears the “quack, quack quack” part of the song. He hasn’t learnt to smile yet.
Designer Baby Page 27
