Page 33 of Pregnant in Plaid
Trace and I look at each other.
"No," I say at the same time he says, "Up to you."
"I want to be surprised," I add. "If that's okay."
"Perfectly okay." Dr. Martinez makes some final notes, takes some measurements, and then wipes the gel off my stomach. "Baby looks great, Patrice. You're doing everything right. Let's schedule you for a follow-up in two weeks, and we'll keep monitoring progress."
She leaves us with a stack of pamphlets aboutbirthing classes and breastfeeding and approximately eight thousand other things I haven't thought about, plus a strip of ultrasound pictures that Trace immediately picks up like they're made of gold.
"We'll take them," he tells the nurse who appears to schedule my next appointment.
"Take what?" I ask.
"All of them. The birthing classes. Hospital tour. Everything."
"Trace—"
"We're doing this right," he says firmly. "Which means preparation. Planning. Being ready."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's being overbearing again. But the truth is, I'm terrified. I have no idea what I'm doing. And having someone here who wants to learn with me, who's taking notes and asking questions and actually showing up?
That's not the worst thing in the world.
The hospital tour is led by a cheerful nurse named Beth who's probably in her sixties and treats the labor and delivery wing like it's her personal kingdom. She shows us the spacious rooms with beds that can be adjusted a hundred different ways, the monitors that track contractions and the baby's heartbeat, the private bathrooms with massive tubs for water birth if that's what I want.
"This is where you'll come when you go into labor," Beth explains, gesturing around one of the rooms. "We encourage partners to stay for the wholeprocess. There's a fold-out chair that's surprisingly comfortable—we upgraded last year—and we can bring in extra pillows and blankets. Some partners even sleep here after delivery if they want to stay close."
Partners. She keeps saying partners, and Trace doesn't correct her. Neither do I.
We see the recovery rooms, smaller but still private, with space for the baby to stay in the room instead of going to the nursery. Beth shows us the nursery anyway—rows of tiny bassinets behind glass, currently empty but clearly well-maintained and ready.
"We're a small hospital," Beth says, "but we've got everything you need. Dr. Martinez is excellent, and we've got two other OBs on staff who can step in if needed. Plus we're connected to the hospital in Anchorage if there are any complications that require specialist care, though that's rare. Most of our deliveries go smoothly."
"What about pain management?" Trace asks, his phone out again, taking notes.
Beth walks us through the options—epidural, IV meds, nitrous oxide, natural methods. She explains what an epidural involves, when it can be administered, how long it takes to work. Trace asks follow-up questions about side effects and recovery time, and Beth answers everything patiently like she's done this a thousand times before.
Which she probably has.
As we walk back through the hallways toward the exit, we pass several people who recognize Trace.
A doctor in scrubs stops mid-stride. "Trace! Hey man, how's it going?"
"Dr. Reeves. Good to see you." They shake hands with the easy familiarity of people who know each other well. "This is Patrice."
"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Reeves smiles at me, then glances at my stomach with the practiced assessment of someone who sees pregnant women regularly. "Congratulations to you both. When are you due?"
"About eight weeks," I manage.
"Exciting time. Well, you're in good hands with Dr. Martinez. And if you need anything—" He claps Trace on the shoulder. "You know where to find me."
Further down the hall, we pass a maintenance guy pushing a cart.
"Trace!" He grins. "Roof's still solid. No leaks through that storm last week."
"Good to hear, Jim. Stay warm out there."
"Always do." Jim tips an imaginary hat at me. "Ma'am."
