Page 114 of Pregnant in Plaid
Chapter 18
Patrice
Brooklyn gains two ounces overnight.
I know this because I'm the kind of person who now celebrates weight gain in measurements smaller than a stick of butter. Two ounces. That's it. That's the threshold between "holy crap, my baby might die" and "she's doing great!"
Parenthood is weird.
"She's up to four pounds, ten ounces," Jennifer announces during morning rounds, checking Brooklyn's chart with the kind of cheerfulness that should be illegal before coffee. "That's excellent progress. At this rate, she'll be ready to go home in about a week."
A week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours until we take this tiny human home with us. Alone. Without nurses. Without monitors. Without anyone who actually knows what they're doing.
I must make some kind of strangled sound because Trace's hand finds mine and squeezes.
"That's good news, right?" he asks Jennifer, though his voice suggests he's equally terrified.
"Very good news," Jennifer confirms. She adjusts Brooklyn's feeding tube with practiced efficiency. "She's breathing well, eating well, maintaining her temperature. All the signs we look for."
"And then we just... take her home?" I hear myself ask. "Like, you hand her to us and wave goodbye?"
Jennifer laughs. "We'll make sure you're both comfortable with feeding, diaper changes, and basic care first. Plus we do a car seat test before discharge."
"A car seat test?"
"We put her in the car seat for ninety minutes to make sure she can maintain her oxygen levels and doesn't have any breathing issues." Jennifer makes a note on her tablet. "Standard protocol for preemies."
Trace and I exchange a look. Our daughter has to pass tests and we don't?
"Speaking of diaper changes," Jennifer continues, completely oblivious to our mounting panic, "have either of you done one yet?"
"I've watched," I offer weakly. "From a distance. While someone who knew what they were doing handled the actual changing part."
"Well, today's your lucky day." Jennifer gestures to the incubator where Brooklyn is currently awake andstaring at nothing in particular. "She needs a change now. Who wants to volunteer?"
Trace straightens in his chair. "I'll do it."
Of course he will. Former Army Ranger, survived combat deployments, built a cabin with his bare hands. Surely he can handle a diaper.
"Excellent." Jennifer starts setting up the changing station inside the incubator—which is apparently a thing, because of course you can't just take a four-pound baby out and plop her on a regular changing table. "Patrice, you should watch. And actually—" She glances at the clock. "Visiting hours just started. Are Tessa and Gage coming today?"
"They should be here any minute," I say.
"Perfect. They can watch too. It takes a village, right?"
That's when I know we're doomed.
Ten minutes later, we're all crowded around Brooklyn's incubator like we're about to witness either a miracle or a disaster. Possibly both.
Tessa has her phone out. "This is going in the baby book."
"There is no baby book," I point out.
"There will be. I'm making one. It'll be seventy percent photos of Trace looking terrified."
