“Are you kidding me right now? Fucking asshole!” Heath curses as a car cuts in front of us.

He’s been driving like a demon. I can’t check the speed, though, or look out the window, because I’m dealing with a pain of biblical proportions. Now I know why the snake cursed Eve with labor—this sucks, big time.

Colleen’s sitting in the front passenger seat, phone in hand, with a map on the screen. “If you take a left here, we can avoid the traffic. It’s a longer route, but it’s going to be faster.”

Thank God for technology. How else could we get information about real-time traffic conditions? What did we do in the age before apps?

I have no time to muse, though. Even breathing becomes a giant undertaking when my body feels like it’s about to rip into pieces.

“Breathe,” Jane says. “Remember all those videos we watched together? I want you to breathe just like that, okay?” Jane locks my gaze, then she inhales and exhales in a regular rhythm.

Maybe I should be more concerned about how Colleen is telling Heath what a nice car this is, and how she keeps trying to engage him in conversation when he’s obviously focused on driving.

But I don’t have any energy left to care about what’s going on around me. My world is pain—I know that sounds like something a Goth or emo kid would say, but I swear it’s true.

“Why are we stopping?” Jane asks, all of a sudden.

I glance around me, fat beads of sweat running down my face. My whole body hurts so much it’s taken me a while to even realize the car is not moving anymore.

“It’s the po-po,” Colleen says.

“I was speeding,” Heath says, clearly frustrated. “Fuck!”

Someone knocks on his window, and I don’t have to turn around to see that it’s a cop.

Heath lowers his window and says, “My girlfriend’s in labor. Could we make this quick, please?”

The cop remains quiet for a few tense seconds. All I can hear is my own heavy breathing. Or labored breathing—that word takes on a new meaning today.

“Forget about the ticket. Just go,” the cop says, to the relief of everyone in the car.

But just as Heath rolls the window back up, the cop knocks again.

Oh my God, what does he want? Can’t he see we’re in a rush?

“There’s a lot of traffic ahead. I’ll help you clear the way,” he says.

“Oh, thank you!” Heath says with a big, relieved exhale.

When the car starts gliding down the road again, there’s a police siren wailing in front of us. As far as I can tell, there’s no more stopping—for traffic, or even for the red lights.

But even with the police escort, it takes forever for the car to finally pull up and stop in the hospital driveway.

Colleen rushes ahead to find someone to help us while Jane helps me get up to a sitting position. I hear the other rear passenger door open and close, then Jane appears just outside mine and pulls it open.

I’ve been sweating the whole way in the car, and now the crisp, cold air feels good on my skin.

Colleen appears with a woman in scrubs who’s pushing a wheelchair. The effort they have to exert just to get me into it makes me feel like an elephant. Totally graceless.

“I’ll park the car and find you,” Heath says, anxiety written all over his face.

He drives off as I’m rushed through hospital hallways with fluorescent lighting and glossy, pastel-pink paint on the walls.

God, why are there so many humans in the world if giving birth is this painful?

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Maybe I shouldn't have accepted Heath's offer.

But it’s just a tiny bit too late for that. As I wheeze and groan from the pain twisting my insides, I ignore the stares from other patients and their loved ones.

“You’re okay,” Jane says nervously as her eyes dart around us, clearly freaked out by what’s happening. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

I don’t want to worry her any further, because even though I feel like I’m about to burst open and die, she’s probably right. I’m probably going to be okay.

I hold out my hand toward her as she scurries beside my speeding wheelchair. She takes my hand and I squeeze, hard. I look up at her and call out, “Jane.”

“Yeah? What do you need?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing. But my vag hurts like a bitch.”

* * *

“He’s perfect,” the nurse says as she holds up the baby who has just come out of me.  

I heard the nurse and I appreciate the compliment, but he really is not perfect—at least not objectively.

He’s still covered with so much blood and all kinds of mysterious bodily fluids that have congealed into a sticky-looking, yellowish-brown film that covers almost every inch of his skin.

He’s also crying up a storm—how can something that small produce such a loud noise?

Oh, and he’s purple. And his face is all squished up. And his eyes are just two horizontal lines because, according to all the baby books I’ve read, he won’t open his eyes much for the first couple of weeks of his life.

“Ten fingers, ten toes,” Heath says as he looks upon the goo-covered baby with pride shining in his eyes and a big grin stretching from ear to ear.

To be honest, I probably have the same look on my face. Sure, the baby is dirty, but all that gross stuff came out of me. And he did, too. A new human just came out of me—I still can't believe it.

I watch the nurse’s back as she cleans the baby in a big, stainless-steel sink. When she turns around with my baby swaddled in a blue, soft-looking fabric, he looks brand new—which he is, I guess.

He looks perfect as the nurse passes him to the doctor.

Out of nowhere, my whole body shakes.

“Are you okay?” Heath asks, taking my hand in alarm.

“It’s completely normal,” says one of the nurses as she gives me a kind smile. “We call those ‘the shakes.’ They’re caused by changes in your hormones.”

“Do you want to hold him?” another nurse asks.

I look around me. I’m still hooked up to so much hospital equipment I feel like a cyborg. A clear oxygen mask covers my nose and mouth.

I thought the first time I held my baby, I’d be able to scoop him up in my arms. But when the doctor puts him on my belly, squirming and crying, all I can do is just take a closer look at his tiny body.

I touch him as gently as I can. He looks so small and delicate, I’m worried I’ll hurt him. He quiets down as I caress his face with the tips of my fingers. He’s softer than clouds.

Heath pulls up a chair beside my bed. Gingerly, he reaches out toward the baby, looking so nervous it makes me giggle.

“He’s beautiful,” Heath says, staring at our baby like he’s never seen an infant before.

“He is.” I join him, taking in the sight of the baby, memorizing every little fold of his skin. I know we’ll have a lot of time to get to know each other, but I can’t wait to start.

This baby was inside of me for nine months. And now that he’s out, I crave more closeness. He’s lying on my belly, but this is still as far apart as we’ve ever been.

“Welcome to the world, little baby,” Heath says. “Mommy and Daddy have been waiting to see you, and now you’re finally here.”

Mommy and Daddy. When we visited the doctor for regular check-ups during my pregnancy, sometimes he or his nurses called us Mommy and Daddy. I thought it was silly, because we weren’t technically parents yet.

But now we are.

We.

Not just Heath.

And definitely not just me.

I don’t know if I can still blame hormones for this, but tears spring to my eyes, quick as a flash, and stream down my face.

* * *

Two hours later, we’re finally alone.

And by “alone,” I mean Heath, me, and our baby. Because we’re not just two now but three.

Jane and Colleen have stormed in, squealed over the baby, taken some pictures to upload to Instagram, and left. And Heath’s parents are already on their way here, so we don’t have much time.

(But most parents I know never have any time, so maybe I should just start getting used to this feeling.)

“You were amazing,” Heath says as he plants a kiss on my forehead. “You were screaming so loud I was afraid something had gone wrong. I was so scared. I’m not a religious man, but I prayed for you and for our baby.”

His sweet words make me smile.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass,” he says. “I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve paid more attention to what you wanted.

“I just… I don’t know. My dad’s illness makes me hyper-aware of mortality, of just how easily it is for someone to… leave.” Heath’s voice cracks. He pauses as he blinks down his sadness. “I was trying to protect the people I love, but I know now that I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, firstly, you shouldn’t curse around the baby,” I say, leveling my gaze at him.

“Oh, sh—” he stops himself before he finishes his word “—shucks.”

I burst out laughing. I stop myself mid-laugh, worried I’d made the baby uncomfortable on my chest. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse than regular cursing. It just sounds so weird, coming from you.”

“Well, get used to it, kitten.” Heath grins. “From now on, I’m the kind of guy who says ‘frick’ and ‘darn.’ Ducking get used to it.”

I giggle.

He remains silent, and a little sadness seeps into his eyes, turning them a darker shade of blue. “Forgive me?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I was just… I don’t know. I was afraid that you only saw me as a baby incubator.”

“What?” he asks with a deep frown. Then, his whole expression softens. His muscles relax, and he says, “I love you, and you’re my treasure. I tell you how I feel every day.”

“I know.” I take Heath’s hand and caress it with my thumb. “It was just hard to believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like me. You’re this big-shot guy and I’m a nobody.

“And all your rules made it seem like I was only there to carry your baby.” I notice Heath opening his mouth to speak and add, “I know that’s not true. And I knew it before this, too. It’s just that… sometimes, I had doubts.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Heath says. “But, kitten, I don’t understand why you don’t see how beautiful and lovable you are.” He sees me start to smile. “It’s true. It’s so easy to love you. You’re smart, you stand up for yourself, you have big ambitions, and you work hard to make your dreams come true. I respect all those things about you.”

Again, tears well up in my eyes. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve cried today.

“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that you have a cute ass—I mean butt, too.”

I giggle.

All my worries seem insignificant, even though they were plaguing me up until the moment my water broke (and probably destroyed the Ikea couch I was sitting on).

“I’m sorry, too,” I say softly as I gaze into Heath’s eyes. “I know now how it feels to want to protect someone. I mean, I want to lock this baby up in a padded room so he doesn’t get hurt. There are so many sharp things out in the world.”

“So many,” Heath agrees. “But he’s going to have to learn to fend for himself. Otherwise, he’ll grow up to become one of those whiny, rich guys who can’t stand up on their own feet.”

“Exactly.”

As we gaze into each other’s eyes, I realize we’re in complete agreement. I understand where he was coming from, and he sees things from my perspective, too.

I know people say having a baby doesn’t solve problems or fix relationships. But, at least for us, it turns out all we need to stop fighting is this baby.