Page 117 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Have we, though?"
"I survived Ranger training. You survived corporate finance. Surely parenting can't be harder than quarterly earnings reports."
That startles a laugh out of me. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"None whatsoever," he agrees cheerfully. "But we'll figure it out."
Brooklyn finishes her feeding, and the nurse comes to disconnect the syringe and check her vitals. We watch in silence as she notes the measurements, adjusts the monitor, and makes soft cooing sounds at our daughter.
"She's doing so well," the nurse—Amanda, according to her name tag—says. "Really thriving. You two should be proud."
Proud. As if we've done anything other than panic and occasionally remember to eat.
But looking at Brooklyn, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily, her little fists curled near her face, I feel something other than terror.
Pride. Love. Bone-deep exhaustion. And underneath it all, a fierce determination that this tiny human will be okay.
Because she has to be.
After Amanda leaves, Trace does something unexpected. He starts singing.
It's not a lullaby I recognize. The melody is simple, almost improvised, and his voice is rough and definitely off-key. But the words?—
"Go to sleep, little raspberry. Your dad has no idea what he's doing. But he loves you more than breathing. And your mom is the bravest person he knows."
My throat closes up completely.
"Tomorrow we'll mess up the diapers again," he continues, still in that terrible singing voice. "And probably mix up the bottles. And definitely panic about everything. But we'll figure it out together, little raspberry. Because you're worth every sleepless night."
"You have a terrible singing voice," I manage to say.
"I know." He doesn't stop, just keeps that awful melody going. "But Brooklyn doesn't care. She's going to love me anyway. Because I'm her dad. And I'm showing up every single day."
Before I can think better of it, I join in. My singing isn't much better—I couldn't carry a tune if it had handles—but I add a harmony to his terrible melody.
"Your mom's here too, little one. Still terrified. Still figuring this out. But not going anywhere. Because you're stuck with us now."
We sound ridiculous. We're definitely breaking several hospital quiet policies. But Brooklyn's heart rate on the monitor is steady and calm, and Trace is looking at me like I'm singing the most beautiful song he's ever heard.
"We're going to be the most embarrassing parents," I say when we finally trail off.
"Absolutely," he agrees. "But we'll be embarrassing together."
Amanda pops her head back in. "Just so you know, that was adorable. And also, Dr. Martinez wants to see you both. She's in her office."
My stomach drops. "Is something wrong?"
"No, no. She just wants to talk about discharge planning." Amanda smiles. "It's all good news."
We find Dr. Martinez in her small office, surrounded by papers and coffee cups that suggest she's been here as long as we have.
"Have a seat," she says, gesturing to the chairs across from her desk. "I wanted to give you an update on Brooklyn's progress and talk about next steps."
We sit. Trace's hand finds mine again, and I'm grateful for the anchor.
"Brooklyn is doing remarkably well," Dr. Martinez begins. "She's gaining weight consistently, her breathing is stable, and she's regulating her temperature without assistance. All excellent signs."
"That's good," I say carefully. "So... one week?"
