Page 29 of All or Notching
This fucking hurts. Whoever said childbirth was beautiful clearly wasn’t a woman trying to squeeze a watermelon out of her vagina. “Ahh!”
“Okay, take few deep breaths. On the next contraction you’re going to push really hard.”
I’m sure I look like an owl blinking at the doctor sitting on a stool between the stirrups where my socked feet are propped. What the fuck does he think I’ve been doing this whole fucking time?
Tristan uses a small hand towel to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
I could not have endured this pregnancy if it wasn’t for this remarkable man. When we weren’t physically together, he texted me. He’s been at every appointment, every ultrasound. He loves to watch and feel the baby move. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about him moving in with me, but it worked out in the end. We seem to fit together so well. The age gap is no longer an issue for me, though I bring it up occasionally to drive him nuts. I love watching the array of expressions play over his face when he gets indignant.
Mostly I love how it pushes him to love me harder.
My sisters adore Tristan. They tell me I seem much happier now. I’m not sure if it’s him, the baby, or a combination of the two, but I must admit, I find myself humming and smiling more often than not. Sally thinks it’s cute. I’m closer to my sisters now than ever because I finally have something in common with them.
Oh crap, here comes another one. I use Tristan’s strength to raise my upper body.
“This is it, honey. Let’s bring this baby of ours into the world.”
I peek at his face and catch him staring at me – Tristan, the man I love, not Doctor Tessler. He smiles, the love he feels for me radiating from every pore. His eyes glow with it. The one look of pure love empowers me to push with all my might. And I keep pushing. I push through the pain, the feeling of being ripped open until this strange sensation of something sliding out from inside me and the urge to push is over. Relief takes its place.
“You did it, Laurel.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “Thank you,” he whispers.
A loud scream of outrage splits the air.
We both look down as the Doctor looks up. “You have a girl.”
“A girl?” I squeak and look up at Tristan. “But…”
The Doctor lifts the screaming, red, wrinkled little human and leans over to place her on my chest. “She’s beautiful. Congratulations.”
While the rest of the process is taking place, I let the professionals do their thing. I stare at the little person in my arms, watching with wonder as she repeatedly blinks, trying hard to focus. Her little mouth opens in a wide yawn, her eyes squeezing shut. She’s got some hair, not much but a little. I think it’s blonde, though it looks darker right now with all the goo in it.
“I’ll have to let Shelia know she was wrong.” Tristan laughs the error off.
“Are you disappointed?”
“That he’s a she?”
I nod, a tingle of worry snaking up my back. What if he had his heart set on a boy?
“Oh, honey, I’m not disappointed at all. I love her already.”
I glance back down at my daughter, my heart and throat so full of emotion I can hardly breathe.
A few hours later, we’re settled into a room, the baby’s been fed, and the nurses have finally left us alone. There’s a tiny hospital bassinet for the baby, but I haven’t wanted to give her over to anybody since she was first placed in my arms. When they took her to clean her up, the anxiety I’d never experienced before choked me. While the doctor attended to me, Tristan took a few moments to call our families with the news; I kept my eyes glued to the team handling my baby, counting the seconds until she was safely back in my arms again.
Now, Tristan is wedged between me and the edge of the bed, and we’re both staring down at the cutest little girl with her tiny hands clenched together and tucked under her chin as she snoozes. She’s less red and pinker now but still wrinkled like she’s spent hours in a pool. They put a little pink and white striped hat on her head and swaddled her in a white blanket. My love for her is so intense and overwhelming that it almost hurts.
“She looks like you.”
Tristan skims his gaze over our little girl. “You think so? I think she looks like you. She has your nose.”
“She has your eyes.”
“How can you tell? They’ve been mostly closed.”
“I know. She has your coloring.”
“I’m blotchy and wrinkled?”