The contractions come in waves, and I count them silently, matching my voice to hers as she exhales and groans through each one.
“Almost there,” I whisper. “You’re doing amazing. Look at me. I’m right here. Every breath, every push, we’re together.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one that has a whole ass human coming out of her right now,” she growls.
“Fair point,” I concede.
Time loses all meaning. Hours compress into minutes. Every second stretches and curls around me. Nurses and midwives move with calm efficiency, guiding, coaching, and encouraging. I feel helpless at times, but I refuse to let it show. My fingers never leave hers. My eyes never leave hers.
And then the moment comes. The room shifts, the urgency of the medical team rising.
“One more push,” the midwife instructs. “Come on, dear, a nice big one, ok.”
Pippa screams, a primal, terrible sound that I feel in my chest. I suddenly understood what Robbie Williams meant when he made his quote, ‘Watching your wife give birth is likewatching your favorite pub burn down to the ground’. I squeeze her hand, whispering to her.
“You can do this. I’ve got you. We’ve got this.”
The baby’s head emerges.
“Nearly there,” I shout excitedly.
The whole baby slips out, I wait for the crying to start but there is nothing. No crying, no sound, just the silence of absolute fear. My stomach drops.
“What’s happening?” I hear myself yell. My knees feel weak.
“My baby. Is my baby ok?” Pippa screams hoarsely.
A nurse grabs the baby, whisking him or her to the other side of the room. My chest constricts. What the fuck is going on? My hands shake. I am still holding Pippa’s hand, but I can’t offer her any comfort now. The only thing that will comfort her is our baby, alive and healthy.
And then it happens. The thin, angry wail fills the delivery room. It is the most beautiful sound in the world. The tension breaks like a dam. Relief floods me in a tidal wave so intense I can barely breathe. Tears sting my eyes, and I laugh through them, shaking.
“Pippa,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “It’s ok. It’s. ok. Our rabbit is ok.”
Pippa exhales shakily, tears streaming down her face. I lean close, brushing her hair from her damp forehead.
“You did it,” I say. “You did it. You were amazing.”
The nurse walks over, holding the baby wrapped in a blanket. “Congratulations,” she says with a smile. “You have a healthy little girl.”
“A girl,” Pippa says.
“Daddy’s girl,” I add.
The nurse hands the baby to Pippa first, placing her on her chest. I watch as she gazes down, her eyes wide and radiantwith awe, her pain eclipsed by joy. She coos, whispering soft, trembling words. And then she tilts her head toward me.
“Rhett,” she murmurs. “You hold her.”
I step forward, my heart exploding as I take my daughter – oh wow, my daughter – into my arms. I cradle the tiny, warm, wriggling miracle in my arms. The weight is impossible and perfect all at once. I brush my lips across the baby’s soft forehead, tears freely sliding down my cheeks.
“Hello, little rabbit,” I whisper, my voice rough with emotion. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”
Pippa smiles up at me, exhausted but glowing, and I feel a swell of love so immense it threatens to split me open.
“You’re incredible,” I breathe.
“Sophie,” Pippa says suddenly. “She looks like a Sophie to me. What do you think?”
“I think Sophie’s perfect.” To be honest, I didn’t care if Pippa wanted to call her Bertha or Gwendoline.
