Page 105 of Pregnant in Plaid
"It's the tiniest, most adorable thing I've ever seen. I may have teared up when the nurse put it on her."
"You cried over a hat."
"It has ears, Patrice. Little fuzzy ears." He shows me another photo, and sure enough, our daughter is wearing what appears to be a miniature bear hat. It's absurd. It's perfect. It's making me cry again.
"I can't stop crying," I say, wiping my eyes.
"Join the club." He's crying too, both of us staring at this tiny human wearing a bear hat who came into the world too early and scared us half to death.
The guilt hits like a freight train.
"This is my fault," I say, and my voice breaks on the last word. "I did something wrong. I shouldn't have fought with you. I shouldn't have gotten so stressed. I shouldn't have?—"
"Stop." Trace sets the phone down and takes both my hands. "Patrice, no. This isn't your fault."
"But the stress. The fight. I was so upset, and?—"
"It's mine," he interrupts. "I pushed you. I argued with you when you were already dealing with so much. I made you upset when I should've just?—"
"Stop it. Both of you."
We both jump. The nurse—the same one who checked on me earlier, Brenda—is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed with our guilt spiral.
"I've been doing this for twenty years," she says, walking over to check my monitors. "And I've heardevery version of 'It's my fault the baby came early.' You know what? Sometimes babies come early. It happens. Premature birth happens. You didn't cause this."
"But—" I start.
"No buts." She gives me a look that suggests she's dealt with way too many anxious new parents to tolerate any nonsense. "Did you do drugs? Drink heavily? Engage in some extreme sport I should know about?"
"No," I mutter.
"Then it's not your fault." She finishes with the monitors and makes a note on her chart. "Babies have their own timeline. This little one just decided to show up early. It happens more often than you'd think."
Trace and I look at each other. He looks as unconvinced as I feel.
Brenda sighs. "Look, I get it. You're scared. You're exhausted. You want someone to blame because that feels better than accepting that sometimes things just happen. But beating yourselves up isn't going to help anyone. Your daughter needs you both present and functional, not drowning in guilt. Got it?"
"Got it," we say in unison, like scolded children.
She softens slightly. "Good. Now, Dr. Martinez will be by in a bit to talk about next steps. In the meantime, how's your pain?"
"Manageable," I lie.
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm lying but appreciates the effort. "I'll get you moremeds later if you need it. Try to rest. You're going to need your strength."
After she leaves, Trace and I sit in silence for a moment.
"We're terrible at not blaming ourselves," I finally say.
"The worst."
"Should we work on that?"
"Probably." He brushes hair back from my forehead. "But maybe later. When we're not both running on zero sleep and maximum anxiety."
"Deal."
A different knock on the door announces Dr. Martinez's arrival. She looks exactly as calm and professional as she did during labor, which seems unfair. Shouldn't she at least look a little tired? I just pushed a human out of my body. She should have to show some solidarity exhaustion.
