Page 109 of Pregnant in Plaid
The weight of her settles against my sternum, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
She's so small. Four pounds, six ounces as of this morning—she's gained four ounces, which everyone assures me is excellent progress—but she still feels impossibly tiny against my chest. Her whole body fits between my collarbone and my solar plexus.
"How's that feel?" Jennifer drapes a blanket over both of us.
"Terrifying," I admit. "What if I drop her? What if I breathe too hard and she falls off?"
"You're not going to drop her. Just relax." She adjusts the blanket, making sure the baby's covered but not smothered. "Babies can sense tension. Take some deep breaths."
I breathe. Our daughter shifts slightly, making a tiny squeaking sound that absolutely destroys me.
"That's it," Jennifer says. "She's already settling in. See how her heart rate's dropping? That's good. That means she feels safe."
Safe. With me. This tiny human who arrived seven weeks early, hooked up to more monitors than seems reasonable, trusts me enough to feel safe.
No pressure or anything.
"I'll be back in thirty minutes to check on you," Jennifer says. "Press the call button if you need anything."
Then she's gone, and it's just me and my daughter and the quiet beeping of her monitors.
I look down at her. Her eyes are closed now, her breathing slow and even. One impossibly small hand rests against my chest, right over my heart. Her fingers are so tiny I'm pretty sure my pinky is bigger than her entire hand.
"Hey, raspberry," I whisper. It's what Patrice calls her—called her, when she was still in the womb. "It's your dad. We met the other day, but you were pretty busy being born, so I don't know if you remember me."
She makes another tiny sound. I'm choosing to interpret it as recognition rather than gas.
"Your mom's sleeping right now. She's exhausted. Turns out growing humans and then pushing them into the world is pretty tiring. Who knew?" I adjust my hand slightly, making sure her head's supported. "She's amazing, by the way. Your mom. Strongest person I know. You're lucky you got her genes."
The baby shifts, her hand curling slightly against my chest.
"I know I wasn't around for the first part," I continue, because apparently I'm the kind of guy who has full conversations with infants now. "That's on me. Well, technically it's on your mom for not telling me you existed, but we're working through that. The point is, I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, kid."
My throat gets tight. I clear it, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I'm probably going to screw up a lot. I've never done this before. But I promise I'll always show up. I'll always protect you. And I'll love you forever, even when you're a teenager and think I'm the worst person alive." I pause. "Please don't be a teenager for a very long time. I need at least twelve years to prepare."
Her breathing stays slow and even, her tiny body warm against mine.
That overwhelming, terrifying, all-consuming love hits me like a freight train.
I thought I understood it when she was born. When I first saw her in the incubator. But this? Holding her against my bare chest, feeling her heartbeat synchronize with mine? This is something else entirely.
"We need to name you," I murmur. "Your mom and I have been arguing about it for days. Everythingsounds either too common or too weird. But we'll figure it out. I promise."
I settle deeper into the uncomfortable chair, closing my eyes. The NICU hums around us—monitors beeping, nurses talking quietly, other babies making small sounds. But right now, in this moment, it's just me and my daughter.
And it's perfect.
Thirty minutes later, Jennifer returns to find me still rocking slowly, the baby asleep on my chest.
"How'd it go?" she asks quietly.
"Life-changing," I say honestly.
She smiles. "First time's always the hardest. Ready to put her back?"
No. Absolutely not. I want to hold her forever.
