"Both require planning and resource management."
"Miles." She cups my face, making me look at her. "We have time. We'll figure it out together. But right now, you need sleep."
"But—"
"Sleep. The baby research will still be there tomorrow."
She's right. I know she's right. But my brain won't stop cataloging all the things I don't know yet.
She takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. "Come on. Bed."
I let her lead me to the bedroom, but I'm already thinking about tomorrow's research topics. Pediatricians. Childcare options. Baby-proofing strategies.
Emma settles back into bed, and I lie beside her, staring at the ceiling.
"Miles?" she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For caring this much. For wanting to be prepared. For being terrified but excited."
"I'm more terrified than excited right now."
"That's normal."
"Is it?"
"Completely normal." She turns toward me. "But we're doing this together. You don't have to know everything by tomorrow."
"I just want to be ready."
"You will be. We will be." She rests her hand on my chest. "But right now, sleep."
I close my eyes, trying to turn off my brain. But all I can think about is car seat installation angles and diaper genie mechanisms and the fact that our blueberry is currently forming tiny hands.
"Miles?" Emma's voice is muffled against my shoulder.
"Yeah?"
"How many parenting articles did you read tonight?"
"I don't want to answer that."
"Miles."
"Approximately a thousand."
She laughs. Actually laughs. "You're insane."
"I'm thorough."
"You're obsessive."
"I prefer 'detail-oriented.'"
