Page 107 of Pregnant in Plaid
"She looks a little better." Or maybe I just need to believe that.
"The nurse said her oxygen levels are good," Trace offers. "And she's tolerating the feeding tube well."
We approach the incubator, and I reach through the port like I did last night, touching her tiny arm. Her skin is warm, soft, perfect.
"Hi, raspberry," I whisper. "It's Mom again. I know we were just here, but I couldn't stay away. I needed to make sure you were still okay."
Trace reaches through the other port, his much larger hand dwarfing our daughter's entire body. "Hey, baby girl. Dad again. I keep coming back to check on you. Can't help it."
I look up at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted. "Have you slept at all?"
"A little. In that chair." He gestures vaguely back toward my room. "But I keep thinking about her down here. All alone."
"She's not alone. The nurses are with her."
"I know. But still." He traces a gentle finger along our daughter's arm. "I just want her to know we're here. That we're not going anywhere."
The weight of it all hits me again. This tiny human who came too early. Who we don't even have a name for yet. Who's living in a plastic box while we stand helplessly by.
"We still haven't named her," I say, voicing the thought that's been nagging at me.
"I know." He looks at me. "Any ideas?"
"Not really. Everything I think of feels either too generic or too weird. Like, we can't name her something basic like Mary, but we also can't name her something that sounds like we're trying too hard."
"What about family names?"
A nurse approaches with kind eyes. "You two are back. How are we doing?"
"Exhausted. Terrified. The usual," I say.
She smiles sympathetically. "That's pretty standard. But she's doing well, if it helps. Her vitals are stable, and she's responding well to the feeding tube."
"When can we hold her?" Trace asks, and there's something almost desperate in his voice.
"Probably in a day or two. We want to make sure she's stable first. But you're doing great right now—talking to her, touching her. She knows you're here."
After Jennifer moves away, Trace and I look at each other.
"Should we keep talking to her?" I ask.
"Jennifer said yesterday that she can hear us."
"Right." I turn back to our daughter. "Okay, so. What do we talk about now? We already did the introductions last time we were here."
"Tell her about... I don't know. Something normal?"
"You mean like my terrifying spreadsheet skills?"
"Those aren't terrifying. They're organized."
"Terrifyingly organized." I manage a small smile. "Fine. Hey, baby girl. Your mom is very ambitious. And stubborn. And sometimes a little controlling. You're probably going to inherit all of that, and I apologize in advance to your future teachers."
Trace grins. "And your dad makes furniture and is weirdly obsessed with wood grain patterns. I promise to only bore you with that stuff on weekends."
"We have no idea what we're doing," I say, watching our daughter's tiny chest rise and fall.
"Not a clue," Trace agrees. "But we're figuring it out."
