Page 124 of Paternal Instincts
It took Bryn to shake my hand before I snapped out of the shock and tumbled back to earth.
Quaid was on his feet, his baby blue eyes glassy but focused as the doctor explained how to cut the cord. When the nurse handed Quaid the instrument, my husband caught my eye. “Cut it with me.”
Together, hand over hand, we set our baby girl free into the world. The nurse glanced between us, then to Bryn as though unsure if she should put the baby on Bryn’s chest or take her to be cleaned up and weighed.
“They’re her dads,” Bryn explained, tears filling her smiling eyes. “She needs to be with them first and always.”
In the end, the nurse smiled and spoke to the baby. “Let me clean you up while your daddies decide who will hold you first. Shirts off, gentlemen.”
Quaid had read me something called kangaroo care. It was a form of encouraging initial bonding between newborns and fathers. It boasted the importance of skin-to-skin contact in the first minutes and hours of life. So, while our baby girl was weighed, measured, and cleaned, I helped Quaid remove his shirt and settle him in the recliner Bryn had used during labor.
The nurse brought the baby over, unwrapped, wailing, tiny limbs flailing, and wearing only a knitted pink hat. She lay her on Quaid’schest before draping a warmed blanket over them. The baby quieted instantly, squirming and squeaking as she took in her environment with squinty eyes.
“Hey, princess,” Quaid said, his voice soft and thick with emotion. “Welcome to the world. I’m your daddy.”
The nurse nudged me. “Are you Papa then?”
“I am.” I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the spectacle. My heart wanted to burst with joy watching the man I loved experience something he’d wanted his whole life. He held our daughter like she was the single greatest thing in the universe.
And she was.
My knees wanted to give out with the profundity of emotions taking me over.
“Shirt off then,” the nurse said. “The chair’s plenty big enough for both of you.”
Stripped from my shirt, I squeezed onto the recliner beside Quaid as our new daughter peered confusedly into my husband’s face for the first time. Did she recognize his voice? Did she know who he was? She puckered her rosy lips, blowing spit bubbles.
I peeked under her hat at the mess of dark hair. It matched her deep brown eyes. Tracing a finger along her chubby cheek, I admired every part of her, this miracle, this gift.
“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“She is.” Quaid broke down and cried.
I didn’t know for how long we stayed like that, the three of us together in the chair, skin to skin, heart to heart, getting to know one another with soft conversation. The nurse brought us an introductory bottle of formula to feed her, barely a few ounces, and instructed Quaid through the process.
It took the baby a while to figure out how to suck, but eventually, she figured it out, and the nurse seemed satisfied. “Does she have a name yet?” she asked.
I glanced at Quaid, who looked at me with anticipation. Since the nurse hovered, waiting for an answer, I asked her to give us a second.
“No problem. Take your time.” She checked on Bryn, who was involved in aftercare with a second nurse. Someone had found Arden, so she wasn’t alone.
“So?” Quaid peered at our daughter, stroking her cheek and touching her fragile fingers. When she grasped his pinky, more tears rolled down his cheek and spilled over his smiling lips. “You’re supposed to name her since she’s a girl. Are we calling her Moonbeam?”
I chuckled. “No, Quaid. It was a joke.” I brushed the backs of my fingers over our daughter’s silken cheek, unable to stop touching her. “I had a better idea, but I wanted to hold off and be sure she was a girl before broaching it.”
“What?”
I dug deep for the strength to present the name I’d chosen, unsure how Quaid might feel, fearing it might be too painful, even now. “I think we should call her Juniper.”
Quaid didn’t respond and continued to peer into our little girl’s face. Fresh tears welled in his eyes, clinging precariously to his lashes. The baby looked quizzically back at him. I could see Quaid doing all he could to hold himself together. Twice, he opened his mouth to respond and closed it again, clenching his jaw.
When a single tear fell free and rolled down his cheek, I caught it and wiped it away, kissing where it landed. “We don’t have to. I understand if it’s too much. It was just a suggestion.”
“I… We should ask my dad first.”
“I already did. He said he would be honored if we wanted to do that.”
I didn’t tell him that Abraham had gotten choked up. I didn’t tell him how his father had needed to excuse himself for a solid ten minutes to pull himself together in the bathroom. I didn’t tell him how none of that had mattered because he’d cried in front of me anyhow as he hugged me with trembling arms and said yes.
