“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You grew a human and are about to push her out. That’s something.”
The hours blur together. Contractions getting closer, stronger. Natalie squeezing my hand until I lose feeling in my fingers. Me talking her through each one, getting her ice chips, adjusting pillows, doing everything I can with one working arm.
Blair and the others come in and out to encourage and distract her. Wyatt gives me a fist bump and tells me I’ve got this. Stella takes approximately eight thousand photos that I’m sure Natalie will hate later.
And then, finally, Dr.Nelson comes in.
“All right, Natalie. Sounds like you’re ready. So unless you’d like an audience, I’d say everyone out except dad, and let’s get this baby out.”
Everything shifts into high gear. Nurses repositioning her, setting up equipment, giving instructions. I watch as Natalie gives everything she has and then…a cry. Sharp and indignant and perfect.
“She’s here!” the doctor announces.
I’m crying. I don’t remember when I started, but tears are streaming down my face as they lift this tiny, screaming creature and place her on Natalie’s chest.
Our daughter. She’s perfect.
Natalie’s sobbing, her hands cradling the baby, and I’m leaning over both of them, my forehead pressed to Natalie’s temple, staring at the miracle we made.
“Hi,” Natalie whispers to her. “Hi, baby girl. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The baby’s cry softens to a whimper, then settles as she feels her mother’s skin, her heartbeat. Her hair is dark and wet, her eyes squeezed shut.
“She’s beautiful,” I manage. “She’s so beautiful.”
A nurse lifts her back up before we get too comfortable and she’s calling me over to cut the cord.
“Do you want to hold her, Dad?” a nurse asks.
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Yes, please.”
They help me, showing me how to support her head with my good hand, how to cradle her against my chest despite the cast. She’s so small, so light, and yet she feels like the weight of the entire world.
“Hi,” I whisper to her. “I’m your dad. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
She opens her eyes—just a little, just enough for me to see they are a dark blue—and my heart explodes.
“Say hello to your little girl,” the nurse says, smiling.
I look up at Natalie. She’s watching us with tears streaming down her face, her hand reaching out to touch the baby’s tiny foot.
“Hello,” I say to our daughter. “Welcome to the world.”
thirty-eight
. . .
Natalie
Isla isasleep in Blair’s arms, completely unbothered by the chaos of eight adults and two other children crowded into Jake’s living room.
Our living room, I remind myself. I’m still getting used to that.
It’s been three days since Isla was born, small but healthy, her lungs strong despite arriving a month early.
We spent two nights in the hospital while the nurses monitored her temperature and feeding. She struggled a bit with breastfeeding at first, needing help latching, and they wanted to make sure she was gaining weight before sending us home. But yesterday afternoon, they cleared us both, and Jake drove us home to our house.
