A Jamaican Experience: My first Child, Madison
By: Baron Stewart
In the quiet of a Sunday night in July 1988, the world as I knew it was about to shift. The bedroom was dark and still, and the deep silence settled when the day had let go. Then Berkeley’s urgent voice cut through it, panicked and sharp: “My water just broke. We have to go. Now.”
I was up in a flash, my heart pounding and adrenaline washing away my sleep. We’d rehearsed this moment in our minds, talked through it over dinner, during walks by the Hudson, in bed while the baby kicked gently inside her. But nothing prepares you for when your child announces, without words, that they are ready to enter the world.
We lived in Nyack then, in a small two-bedroom cottage on a hillside with a deck overlooking the vast, quiet Hudson River. It was our sanctuary, filled with art and laughter, early morning coffee, and the rhythm of a couple in sync. The basement belonged to Berkeley—her sacred space for painting, splattered with the colors of her world. Our landlords, a sweet older couple who lived next door, would soon become surrogate aunt and uncle to the baby we were racing toward.
The hospital bag was already packed. We grabbed it and headed for the car—our trusty BMW 320i, a compact rocket that felt like the safest vessel for this midnight mission. As I steered toward the George Washington Bridge, a thousand thoughts flew through my mind. Why were we going to Columbia Presbyterian in Manhattan when Nyack Hospital was just minutes from our house? But that’s where Berkeley’s doctor practiced, back when we still lived on 37th Street in the city. Familiarity breeds trust, especially when you're bringing life into the world.
The drive was surreal. The roads were mostly empty, and the city skyline in the distance was glowing softly under the night sky. Berkeley was breathing heavily beside me, alternating between deep concentration and cries of pain. Her plan had always been to deliver naturally—no drugs, no shortcuts. She wanted to feel everything, to be present, to greet her child in full consciousness. But by the time we arrived at the hospital, that plan was unraveling fast.
The staff whisked us into a private room. Nurses moved with a mixture of urgency and routine. Berkeley was in agony. "I need an epidural. I need my mother," she groaned. But the window had closed. It was too late. The baby was coming.
I held her hand through the worst of it, helpless in the way all fathers are in the birthing room—witness to something primal, powerful, and utterly beyond control. The woman I loved was transforming before my eyes, bringing our child into the world with a strength and vulnerability that shook me.
And then—he was here.
July 11, 1988. A Monday morning. Quiet, sacred, new.
I don’t remember the exact time, only the feeling: a strange mix of awe, terror, and joy. Berkeley was exhausted, her body finally still, her face soft with relief. Madison had arrived—our son, our miracle. The pain melted away into something transcendent, and as the nurses carried him off for cleaning and measuring, I just stood there—dumbfounded, grateful, changed.
For a while, I wandered the maternity ward while Berkeley rested. I found myself handing out cups of ice to thirsty mothers recovering in their beds. It was something small I could do while my head and heart were still catching up. The room was filled with hushed voices, newborn cries, and the quiet miracle of new beginnings.
It took a while before I held Madison in my arms. The nurses, Berkeley, hovered protectively over him, nurturing and fussing. I had to wait. And in that waiting, something in me shifted. I was used to being the center of my wife's attention, the driver of our shared life. But this? This was bigger than both of us.
When I finally held him, everything went still. He was warm and soft, his eyes closed, his mouth forming tiny reflexes. I stared down at him and felt the weight—not just physical but spiritual. A life. My son. This little being who would carry our name, our legacy, our love into the future.
The following day, I called Delta Airlines. Berkeley wanted her mother there—she needed her. It was one of her few explicit requests in the blur of labor. Usually, getting a mileage ticket would take a week, but when I explained the situation to the agent—told her my wife had just given birth, and all she wanted in this world was her mama—the rules melted away. A seat was found. Her mother was on a flight that day.
And so our home in Nyack transformed. Berkeley turned her focus toward Madison, her new love. Her mother, always full of energy and direction, took over the kitchen, the laundry, and the rhythms of daily life. I became a father and, for a while, a bystander in my house. I had to learn to navigate that—not with resentment but humility.
There were moments I felt like an outsider. But there were also many moments when I’d hold Madison against my chest and feel joy that had no language.
He was beautiful. Curious. Present. He felt like the future. My future.
Even now, decades later, I remember that moment in the hospital room: Berkeley asleep, Madison swaddled in cotton, the soft hum of machines and nurses’ shoes on the linoleum floor. I think about how unprepared I was for how much love could stretch, bend, and reshape me.
That Monday morning, I walked into a hospital as a man. I walked out as a father.
REFLECTIONS
When Madison was born, I stepped into a role I’d only imagined but never fully understood. I had no roadmap—just a quiet vow to be better than the man who had raised me.
My father wasn’t cruel, but he was distracted and distant. When I was young, I remember him threatening to leave me. I was still a boy, and he was my whole world. That moment stayed with me. I made a promise to myself, even then, that I would never put my child in that position. I didn’t know what kind of father I’d be—but I knew what not to be.
So when Berkeley told me she was pregnant, I wasn’t afraid. I was hopeful that I could give my child a different story. I was 41—as ready as I’d ever be.
But nothing prepares you for the emotional complexity of new fatherhood. I was unexpectedly jealous in those early hours after Madison’s birth—not of my son, but of the attention he now commanded. I knew it was natural, even logical, but still, it stung. Berkeley, who had been my partner, lover, and muse, was now wholly absorbed by this tiny human. Her gaze, her energy, her love—all redirected.
It didn’t help that during labor, her pain was so intense, I could feel her thinking, “You bastard. You put me in this situation.” I supported her as best I could—held her hand, stayed by her side—but I couldn’t take away her pain. That helplessness was humbling.
Madison was born with blonde hair and Berkeley’s eyes. Beautiful. Alert. Full of life. We named him after Madison County in Arkansas, a nod to Berkeley’s roots. She had wanted to name him after me—Baron—but I gently discouraged her. So he became Madison Appleby Stewart. A new name, a new beginning, but still tethered to family.
His spirit was adventurous from the start. As he grew, he became not just our son but our teacher, guide, and source of love and support. I’ve turned to him more times than I can count, and he has always shown up with wisdom beyond his years and a quiet strength that humbles me.
Not long after he was born, Madison had to have an operation. A small valve in his stomach wasn’t closing correctly, and it caused him to vomit with alarming force. I remember sitting in the waiting room with Berkeley, holding our breath with every tick of the clock. In that moment, we became a team on a new level—united not just by love but also by shared fear and fierce protectiveness. We were more potent because of him.
Looking back, I would tell my younger self: You did okay. You weren’t emotionally prepared, but you showed up. You stayed. You loved. And that made all the difference.
I want Madison to know that from the moment he arrived, he was the center of our universe. His birth reoriented my entire life. It pulled my attention away from me and mine to you and yours. That single shift changed who I was at the core.
To be a parent is to own your responsibilities. I don’t understand men who walk away. My father, flawed as he was, stayed. And in doing so, he taught me one thing I’ve never forgotten: be a good soldier. Show up. Do your part.
Men experience birth differently. We’re not the creators—we’re the protectors. We don’t feel the contractions or the kicking from within, but we feel the urgency to make the world safe, clear the path, and be ready. And in that readiness, we find our identity.
In those early days, I felt like a secondary character in my own life. I was patient but also quietly frustrated. Yet, over time, the roles recalibrated. Love made space for all of us.
Being Madison’s father didn’t just change my life—it gave it direction, depth, and legacy.
Recommendations for Readers
1. Show Up—Even When You're Uncertain
You don’t have to be perfectly prepared to become a parent, a partner, or a support system. What matters most is your presence, willingness to learn, and commitment to love through the chaos. Being there is the first act of great parenting.
2. Break the Patterns That No Longer Serve You
Don’t be afraid to rewrite the story if your upbringing left gaps. Know what not to repeat, and allow love and intention to guide your choices. Legacy is not just what we inherit—it’s what we choose to pass on.
3. It's Okay to Feel What You Feel
Jealousy, frustration, and insecurity don’t make you a bad parent or partner. They make you human. Honor those feelings, talk about them, and let them evolve rather than suppressing them. Emotional honesty makes space for deeper connections.
4. Ask for Help—and Accept It
Whether calling the airline for your mother-in-law or letting nurses guide you through those first hours, know that asking for help is not a weakness. It’s wisdom. Building a village—biological or chosen—is part of becoming a parent.
5. Support Looks Different at Every Stage
Sometimes, supporting your partner means holding their hand during labor. Sometimes, it means doing the dishes, managing logistics, or quietly witnessing their transformation. Stay flexible. Stay kind.
6. Parenting Begins With Listening
Your child won’t always have the words, but they will have needs, moods, and energy. Learn to listen beyond language. Be the parent you wished you had—or the kind you were lucky to have.
7. Let Love Redefine You
If you let it, parenthood will expand your heart, rearrange your priorities, and reshape your identity. That’s not a loss—it’s an awakening. Embrace it fully.
8. Own Your Responsibilities with Grace
Walking away is easy. Staying takes courage. Commit to being a “good soldier” not out of duty alone but out of devotion. Your presence—especially as a father—matters more than you’ll ever fully see.
9. Celebrate the Imperfect Magic of Family
No family is perfect. But each shared moment, each small act of care, becomes part of the sacred fabric that binds you. Don’t chase perfection. Show up for the magic in the mess.