Page 115 of Pregnant in Plaid
"I'm not terrified," Trace says, sounding terrified.
Gage claps him on the shoulder. "You're about to handle human feces that somehow weighs more than the human producing it. You shouldbe terrified."
"Gage," Tessa admonishes.
"What? I'm being supportive."
Jennifer has Brooklyn positioned on a small pad outside the incubator on a changing table, ready for battle. "Okay, Trace. First, you'll want to open the new diaper and have it ready to go. These preemie diapers are tiny, so they're a little finicky."
Trace opens the fresh diaper with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb.
"Good. Now, gently undo the tabs on the current diaper. Support her legs with one hand—that's it—and fold the front down."
He does all this with his face almost level with the diaper. Brooklyn immediately pees and it splashes him directly in the face.
Gage loses it. Full-body laughing, doubled over, gasping for air.
Tessa's phone is absolutely getting all of this.
I'm trying very hard not to laugh because I'm supposed to be supportive, but my face is doing that thing where I'm biting my lip so hard I might draw blood.
"That's—" Trace sputters, wiping his face with the cloth Jennifer hands him. "That happens?"
"All the time," Jennifer says calmly. "It's actually a good sign. Means her kidneys are working well."
"Fantastic," Trace mutters. "My daughter's kidneys work great. So glad we confirmed thatwith my face."
"Keep going," Jennifer encourages. "You're doing fine."
He takes a breath, steadies himself, and reaches for the clean diaper he'd carefully positioned. His hand knocks it and it falls through the incubator portal onto the floor.
"I'll get another one," Jennifer says, trying not to smile.
While she's getting a fresh diaper, Brooklyn apparently decides this is the perfect moment for a bowel movement. And not just any bowel movement. A biblical event.
"Oh my god," Trace breathes. "How is there this much? She's four pounds!"
"Physics don't apply to baby poop," Gage says, still laughing. "I tried to warn you."
"You really didn't."
Jennifer returns with a new diaper and somehow maintains her professional composure. "Let's get her cleaned up. Use the wipes—yes, that's it. Support her bottom, wipe front to back?—"
"There's so much," Trace says again, like he's processing a traumatic event. "It's everywhere. How is it on her neck?"
"Babies are talented," I manage to say, my voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
It takes four more wipes, another near-miss when Brooklyn decides to pee again, and Trace's intensefocus that I've only seen when he's chopping wood. Finally—finally—he gets the new diaper secured.
"Done," he announces, straightening up with visible relief. "We did it. Crisis averted."
"You did great," Jennifer says warmly. "All new parents struggle with the first few diaper changes."
"When does it get easier?" Trace asks.
"About eighteen years."
His face falls. "You're kidding."
