Updated Dec 4, 2025 • ~5 min read
Pregnancy was nothing like Savannah expected.
The first trimester was brutal—morning sickness that lasted all day, exhaustion so profound she could barely function, food aversions to everything she normally loved.
“I’m dying,” she moaned one morning, unable to get out of bed.
“You’re growing a human. You’re allowed to feel terrible.”
“How do people do this multiple times?”
“Temporary insanity?”
Barry was amazing through it all. Bringing her crackers and ginger tea, handling dinner when cooking smells made her nauseous, rubbing her feet when they ached.
“You’re going to be such a good dad,” Savannah said one evening. She was finally past the worst of the morning sickness, twelve weeks along.
“I hope so. I’m terrified I’ll mess it up.”
“We’ll mess it up together. That’s what parenting is, right? Constant mess-ups?”
“Very reassuring.”
They told their families at Thanksgiving. Waited until everyone was gathered, then made the announcement.
“We’re pregnant,” Savannah said, grinning. “Baby Dale arriving in May.”
Both mothers screamed. Both fathers teared up. Thaddeus looked smug.
“Called it,” he said. “I knew you’d be pregnant within two years of marriage.”
“It’s been less than two years,” Savannah pointed out.
“Still counts.”
The second trimester was better. Energy returned, morning sickness faded, the baby bump became visible.
“You’re glowing,” Emery said during a video call. She’d just found out she was pregnant too—due in July, two months after Savannah.
“I feel huge.”
“You look beautiful. How’s Barry handling everything?”
“He’s been incredible. Overprotective and hovering, but in a sweet way.”
“Randy’s the same. I think they read the same ‘how to be a good husband during pregnancy’ handbook.”
Christmas brought the anatomy scan. They’d decided to find out the gender—both too impatient to wait.
“Ready to know?” the technician, Marion, asked.
“So ready,” Savannah said, squeezing Barry’s hand.
“You’re having a girl.”
Savannah burst into tears. A daughter. They were having a daughter.
“A girl,” Barry repeated, voice thick with emotion. “We’re having a little girl.”
They celebrated with their families over FaceTime that night, showing off ultrasound photos and talking about names.
“What are you thinking for names?” Tricia asked.
“We’re not sure yet,” Savannah said. “Something that’s not in our typical name pool—we want her to be unique.”
The third trimester brought new challenges. Savannah’s ankles swelled, her back ached, sleeping became impossible. She was huge and uncomfortable and counting down days.
“I’m never doing this again,” she declared at thirty-six weeks.
“You said that last week too.”
“And I’ll say it again next week. This is terrible.”
But beneath the discomfort was excitement. Their daughter was coming. Soon they’d be parents. Their family of two becoming three.
They finished the nursery in March. Soft yellow walls, white furniture, shelves already filling with books.
“It’s perfect,” Savannah said, looking around. “She’s going to love it.”
“When she’s old enough to have opinions.”
“She’ll have opinions immediately. She’s our daughter. Strong opinions are genetic.”
April brought nesting instinct. Savannah cleaned obsessively, organized everything, prepared like they were going into battle.
“We have three of everything,” Barry observed, looking at their stocked diaper station.
“Better over-prepared than under-prepared.”
“We’re ready, Sav. We’ve read all the books, taken the classes, set up the nursery. We’re as ready as we can be.”
“What if we’re terrible at this?”
“Then we’ll figure it out. Together. Like everything else.”
At thirty-nine weeks, Savannah was done. Absolutely done. Huge and uncomfortable and ready to meet their daughter.
“Come on, baby girl,” she said to her belly. “Any time now.”
Two days later, her water broke.
“Barry!” she called out. It was two AM, and she was standing in their bedroom in a puddle.
He bolted awake. “What? What’s wrong?”
“My water broke. We need to go to the hospital.”
The drive was surreal. Contractions starting, hospital bag in the back seat, everything they’d prepared for finally happening.
“You okay?” Barry asked, holding her hand.
“Nervous. Excited. Terrified. All of it.”
“Me too.”
Labor was long. Eighteen hours of contractions and breathing exercises and Barry holding her hand through all of it.
“I can’t do this,” Savannah gasped at hour fifteen.
“You can. You’re doing amazing.”
“It hurts.”
“I know, baby. But she’s almost here. Just a little longer.”
At 8:47 PM, after one final push, their daughter arrived.
Perfect and tiny and screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Oh my god,” Savannah sobbed. “She’s here. She’s actually here.”
The nurse placed the baby on Savannah’s chest. Warm and wet and perfect.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Savannah whispered. “Hi, baby girl. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Barry was crying, leaning close to see his daughter. “She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“What’s her name?” the nurse asked.
Savannah and Barry exchanged glances. They’d narrowed it down to two options, but seeing her, the choice was obvious.
“Emilia,” Savannah said. “Emilia Mitchell-Dale.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
They spent the first hour just staring at her. Counting tiny fingers and toes, marveling at every feature.
“She has your nose,” Barry said.
“And your eyes. Or she will, once they change color.”
“We made her.”
“We really did.”
That night, Emilia asleep in the hospital bassinet, Savannah and Barry held hands.
“We’re parents,” Savannah said softly.
“Terrifying, right?”
“The most terrifying and wonderful thing ever.”
“We can do this though. Together.”
“Together,” she agreed.
The next morning, they called everyone. Sent photos. Announced Emilia Mitchell-Dale’s arrival—seven pounds, two ounces, perfect in every way.
“My granddaughter,” Tricia sobbed over FaceTime. “She’s beautiful.”
“Our baby girl,” Savannah confirmed. “Your first grandchild.”
They went home three days later. Terrified and exhausted and so in love with the tiny human they were now responsible for.
“Ready?” Barry asked at the front door of their house.
“No. But let’s do it anyway.”
They walked inside—family of three now.
Parents.
Together.
Always.
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