Page 108 of Pregnant in Plaid
I start humming again—that same melody from last night, the one my mother used to hum. Trace joins in, and for a moment, in this quiet, dimly lit room full of too-small babies and worried parents, it feels like maybe we're going to be okay.
"We need a name," I whisper, watching her tiny fingers curl and uncurl. "We can't keep calling her 'baby girl' forever."
"We do," Trace agrees.
"Something that means she's strong. That she's a fighter."
"Something that honors where she came from."
We stand there—or rather, he stands and I sit in the wheelchair—watching our unnamed daughter, and I realize naming someone is terrifying. You're choosing who they'll be for their entire life when you barely know who they are yet.
But we have to start somewhere.
Chapter 17
Trace
The first thing I learn about the NICU is that it runs on a schedule more precise than anything the Army ever threw at me.
Feeding times. Diaper changes. Temperature checks. Weight measurements. Visiting hours. Everything happens according to a protocol designed by someone who clearly never met an anxious new parent who just wants to hold his kid.
"You can't just walk in whenever you want," Jennifer, the day shift nurse, explains on day four. She's patient with me, which I appreciate since I've asked her the same questions approximately seventy-four times. "The babies need consistent routines. But you're welcome during visiting hours, which are?—"
"Eight to ten AM, one to three PM, and six to eight PM," I recite. "Got it. Memorized it. Tattooed it on my brain."
She smiles. "Good. Now, have you done kangaroo care yet?"
I blink. "Have I done what?"
"Skin-to-skin contact." She gestures to my shirt. "You take your shirt off, we put the baby on your bare chest, cover you both with a blanket. It helps regulate her temperature, heart rate, breathing. Plus, it's excellent for bonding."
My brain short-circuits somewhere around "take your shirt off."
"You want me to take my shirt off," I say slowly, "in a hospital full of people, and hold my daughter against my bare chest?"
"That's the general idea, yes."
"And this is... medically recommended?"
"It's one of the best things you can do for a premature baby." Jennifer's already pulling the privacy curtain around the incubator. "Dad's heartbeat is calming. Your warmth helps her maintain body temperature. And honestly, it's incredible bonding time."
I look down at our daughter through the incubator's plastic walls. She's awake, her tiny eyes blinking at nothing in particular. Four days old and already I'd throw myself in front of a grizzly bear for her.
Taking my shirt off in a hospital? Easy.
"Okay," I say. "Let's do this."
Jennifer helps me get situated in the rocking chair beside the incubator—which, for the record, isdesigned for people approximately half my size. My knees practically hit my chest.
"Comfortable?" Jennifer asks.
"Not even a little bit."
"Perfect. Now stay still while I get her ready."
She opens the incubator with practiced efficiency, checking monitors and adjusting wires. Our daughter—god, we really need to name her—barely stirs as Jennifer carefully lifts her out.
"Support her head," Jennifer coaches as she transfers the baby to my chest. "That's it. One hand behind her head, one under her bottom. Good."
