“You’re going to fucking push now, okay? This is not like the last time. The only thing you’re going to live through is a life with a perfect child. So, fucking push. Bring this baby into the world.”
I scramble into the hospital bed and get behind her, sprawling my legs against hers, cradling her body against mine. I pull her leg up and motion Patrick to keep his hold.
“Push, Katrina,” I whisper. “Push.”
And she does.
Then I add, “I’m told you’re supposed to push like you’re pooping. So, push out of your butt. Like you’re taking a giant shit.”
“Fuck you,” she mutters. “That’s so gross. I swear to God, if I poop, I’ll kill you.”
Before she can rip me apart for that advice, the obstetrician heralds my words, and then Patrick’s eyes get crazy wide when she strains like mad.
“What’s wrong?” Katrina asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” As Patrick’s speechless, I answer for him with a huge smile. “They set up a mirror. I can see your baby’s head.”
Katrina perks up, and her voice is wonderfully joyful now. “A head?” She leans back against me, exhilarated, and I hug her in tightly, happy my advice helped.
Thank you, Google.
The OB smiles. “Keep pushing, Mom!”
But I can also feel how literally tired she is. Her body is spent, so I shake her and holler and cheer her on,This is it!
After Katrina pushes twice more, the doctor asks for Patrick to cut the umbilical cord. He moves in awe, and soon, we hear the perfect infant cry. Seconds later, she’s got a baby against her chest. He’s wet and kind of bloody and gross, but still so perfect.
“A boy? What just happened?” Katrina asks as she clutches her child and looks around. “It was supposed to be hours, wasn’t it? Labor ishours.”
“No reason. All labors are different. And you deserved a really easy one,” the OB says.
Patrick eases over to his wife’s side. “A baby boy? He’s so…cute. So everything.”
A nurse leans in. “Can I grab him for a minute? Weigh him and clean him up? Only if that’s okay with you.”
Katrina nods and watches, still nervous. “What’s his Apgar?”
Patrick makes a confused face, but before either of us can say anything. Katrina explains. “It’s a sort of score chart that measures newborn stuff. It stands for appearance, pulse, grimace, activity, and respiration.”
The OB does a few easy tests. “I don’t know. Probably a nine?” The OB shrugs, like she feels as though this isn’t a big deal. But this number is a major goddamn deal to moms. Especially moms who have been through terrorizing traumas.
I snap my fingers until I get her attention, then give her a severe eyes-to-eyes stare and mouth to her,It’s a fucking ten.
The doc finally gets me and looks at Katrina. “Your kiddo is a ten. And coming to you in a minute.”
“Warrior,” I declare. “Both of you.”
She tightens her hands against mine. “And warriorcoach.”
Katrina collapses back into me. As I hug her, I feel her heartbeat. Rhythmic, absolute. Peaceful.
She stays on the bed as I maintain my spot while the OB massages her stomach and delivers some icky afterbirth, placenta stuff, which Patrick look at studiously. He is very glued in to it all and then seems taken aback when Katrina and I exchange faces.
“What?” he asks. “I wanted to see where he lived for nine months.”
Katrina and I are both so decidedly not interested and pretty grossed out. After that’s over and he’s finished his weird investigation of the birthing things, Patrick is still trembling, but now also beaming. I force him to take a seat in the dad lounge chair the hospital has provided, and Katrina gives me the okay to hand him their son once her husband is settled. As anxious as he’s been, I think we’re both surprised to see how he immediately changes his body language, his demeanor, when his baby is actually in his arms. The calm is instant. As though he’s been waiting for this all his life.
“We have a baby.” He’s in wonderous disbelief.
