"Train present!" Nimmy announces, presenting us with his locomotive. "Baby present!"
"That's very generous of you," I tell him. "The baby will love trains."
"Share trains. Good brother."
My heart melts a little more. "The best big brother."
August heat makeseverything sluggish except my very active baby, who seems determined to practice soccer moves against me. I'm enormous, uncomfortable, and convinced I'm carrying either a future athlete or a very restless scholar.
"Are you certain this is normal?" Ursak asks for the hundredth time as I shift positions on the couch, trying to find a spot where tiny feet aren't jabbing my internal organs.
"Perfectly normal. She's just running out of room."
"Perhaps she's ready to meet us."
"Two more weeks, according to the doctor."
Nimmy, now three and much more articulate, pats my belly with gentle reverence. "Sister sleeping?"
"Sister practicing her gymnastics routine."
"Wake up, sister!" he calls toward my midsection. "Time to play!"
As if responding to his voice, the baby delivers a particularly enthusiastic kick that makes me gasp.
"I think she heard you," I tell Nimmy.
"Smart sister!"
Labor starts three days later, at two in the morning, because babies have no respect for convenient timing. Ursak times contractions with scientific precision while calling Mrs. Patterson, our neighbor who volunteered to watch Nimmy.
"Seven minutes apart," he announces. "Should we leave for the hospital?"
"Not yet. First babies take their time."
"But the books said?—"
"The books didn't account for half-orc babies. She might be operating on an accelerated timeline."
An hour later, we're rushing to the hospital because apparently half-orc babies do indeed operate on their own schedule. Ursak carries our overnight bag while I focus on breathing through contractions that feel like they're trying to reorganize my entire torso.
"Almost there," he promises as we reach the maternity ward.
"She better be worth all this trouble," I pant.
Twelve hours later, holding our daughter for the first time, I can definitively say she's worth every minute of discomfort. She's perfect, tiny but sturdy, with Ursak's strong features softened by human proportions and my dark hair. Her skin has a faint green undertone that gives her an otherworldly beauty.
"Sable Dawn," I whisper, testing out the name we'd chosen. "Hello, beautiful girl."
Ursak sits beside the hospital bed, tears streaming down his face as he touches her tiny hand. "She's magnificent."
"She's got your grip strength," I observe as she latches onto his finger. "And apparently my stubborn streak."
"The perfect combination."
When we bring her home, Nimmy approaches with the reverent caution of someone meeting royalty. "Sister small," he observes.
"Very small. You'll need to be gentle with her."
