Page 126 of Pregnant in Plaid
Chapter 20
Patrice
"So, if the baby turns blue, that's bad," Trace says, taking notes like his life depends on it.
The CPR instructor—a cheerful woman named Linda who probably has the patience of a saint given how many panicked parents she deals with—nods encouragingly. "Yes, blue is bad. But babies are remarkably resilient. You're more likely to overreact to normal baby noises than miss an actual emergency."
"What constitutes normal baby noises?" I ask, because apparently I've forgotten every babysitting job I ever had as a teenager.
"Grunting, squeaking, hiccuping, snorting?—"
"Our daughter sounds like a barnyard," Trace mutters.
"—snoring, whistling, and occasional pterodactyl screams," Linda continues without missing a beat. "All completely normal."
I raise my hand like I'm back in school. "What about the screaming that sounds like she's being murdered but she's actually just mad about a diaper change?"
"Also normal."
"The screaming that makes you question every life choice that led to this moment?" Trace adds.
"Extremely normal."
"The screaming that makes neighbors call the police?" I offer.
Linda pauses. "That's... less common, but I've seen it happen. Just explain you have a newborn. They'll understand."
Trace and I exchange a look. We're sitting in the hospital's "New Parent Boot Camp" classroom, which sounds way more intense than it actually is. It's basically a conference room with a poster of a cartoon baby giving a thumbs-up and the cheerful slogan "You Got This!" plastered on the wall.
We do not got this.
"Now," Linda says, placing a disturbingly realistic baby doll on the table between us, "let's practice CPR. Trace, you're up first."
Trace approaches the doll like it might explode. His fingers hover over its tiny plastic chest. "How hard do I press?"
"About an inch and a half deep. Use two fingers, right here." Linda demonstrates. "Thirty compressions,then two rescue breaths. Repeat until help arrives or the baby responds."
"And if I break her ribs?"
"You won't. The doll will click if you're doing it right."
Trace starts compressions. The doll clicks. He looks simultaneously relieved and terrified. "This feels wrong. I'm assaulting a plastic infant."
"You're saving a plastic infant," Linda corrects cheerfully.
"It's the same plastic infant that peed on me yesterday during diaper training," I point out. "Consider it revenge."
"That was a water fountain feature, not actual pee," Trace argues, still doing compressions. The doll keeps clicking its approval.
"It shot three feet in the air and hit you in the face. That's pee trajectory."
"It's a design flaw."
"Babies are design flaws," I say. "They shoot bodily fluids in every direction without warning."
Linda's trying not to laugh. "Okay, Trace, now the rescue breaths. Cover the baby's mouth and nose with your mouth, and blow gently. You're not inflating a balloon—just enough to make the chest rise."
Trace leans down, hesitates. "This feels weird."
