“I promise, it’s not a big deal.”
We walk through the busy crowds, my feet thankful when Owen hails a cab. I quickly get in and sit next to him. “I was thinking,” I tell him. “Once she’s old enough, I should take her out to visit my parents in France. I mean, it’s probably too soon to make all these plans, but I want to have things to look forward to.”
“I’m sure she would love that, your parents too.”
“I thought if you wanted, you could come. I mean, I’ll ask everyone else to come too, but I definitely want you there.”
He grins. “I’d love that, Lottie.”
I’m still smiling like an idiot when a strange sensation like I’ve just peed my pants hits me. I look down, mouth agape when I see water covering my pants and the seat below me.
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
“What?” he asks, before his eyes widen when they land on my legs.
“Driver, can you get us to Royal London please?” he instructs, quickly going into takeover mode. I see the driver’s eyes glance into the rearview mirror before widening and going back to the road.
“It’s too early,” I say, knowing a week early is okay, but the reality of what is happening crashing down on me. I’m about to have a fucking baby!
“Hey.” He cups my face, our gazes locking. “You can do this. You’re ready. There is nothing more to prepare for, okay? You don’t have to be scared, Lottie. I’m here.”
I nod, trying to keep my breathing even as we drive. Owen calls my mum for me and texts the group to keep everyone updated. I know some people don’t want to tell anyone until the baby has come, but I’m not that girl. I need my people with me.
We make it to the hospital in quick time, Owen wasting not a second to get me checked in. I’m in a gown and into a bed and before I know it, the contractions begin, my labor coming along faster than expected. My friends and family still aren’t here when it’s time to push, my face sweaty and hair sticking to it.
“You can do this, love,” the nurse says next to me, attempting to calm me down.
“Okay, Lottie, start pushing,” the doctor says, preparing for the arrival of my baby girl. I shake my head, suddenly petrified that I indeed cannot do this.
“I don’t want to do this alone.” I begin to cry to Owen. Thankfully, he lets me hold his hand in a death grip. I try inhaling deep breaths like they taught at the one Lamaze class I went to, but fuck that shit. Who has time to focus on their breathing in these types of moments?
“I’m here. You’re not alone. Neither of you will ever be alone, you hear me?”
I nod, but another wave of pain takes over and I scream out. Fuck, no one ever told me it’s this bad.
“Okay, love, you need to start pushing. Give us a big push,” the nurse with the Cockney accent says.
And boy do I push, using all my strength again and again until I hear it. The loudest little cry wails from the end of my bed, the doctor holding her up for me to see.
A sob catches in my throat at the sight of her, all pink, covered in white shit. She’s fucking perfect. And all mine.
“Does Dad want to cut the cord?” Her question is directed at Owen, whose face has gone a whiter shade of pale.
“Uh…” His hold on my hand begins to loosen, as if he somehow doesn’t belong, but I tighten my grip. His gaze snaps to mine as I nod, motioning my head toward the baby and nurse.
The nervous Owen from months ago when he first burst into my life reappears as he walks over and grips the scissors. I can’t look away from him as he does it. He’s been here through everything. If anyone should be doing this, it’s him.
“Perfectly healthy baby girl,” the nurse tells me, placing my daughter’s crying red body on top of my own. I quickly put my hands on her to keep her supported, her wails calming.
Owen walks back over to me, a sheen of liquid coating his eyes.
“She’s perfect, Lottie. Absolutely perfect,” he whispers from next to me, awe overtaking his voice. I just nod in agreement. Stroking her skin, I try to comprehend how I managed to create such an important, beautiful little life. How I got so lucky.
Eventually they have to clean her and wrap her for me. My soul already misses her presence.
“So, Mummy, do you have a name?” the nurse asks as she brings her back to me, my arms impatient to hold her again. She’s all wrapped up like a little burrito as I hold of her again, something deep inside of me settling.
I nod. “Rosie. Her name is Rosie Knight.”
Rosie’s scream wakes me up exactly three hours after I put to her bed. It’s been like clockwork—every three hours she needs to be fed, changed, and cuddled.
I groan as I look at the clock, which is telling me it’s only three a.m. Ever since we got home from the hospital last week, I’ve been attempting to get used to my new routine, yet I mainly feel like a zombie. Like all the bloody time.
I pull myself out of bed and go to her, each cry a little louder than the one before.
“Shhh, shhh, Rosie, Mummy’s here,” I say as I pick her up. Her face is bright pink while her mouth trembles with each wail.
I situate myself on the rocking chair before she begins to feed, latching on without any issues and quieting instantly. Her tiny little hand rests atop of me while I run my free hand over her blonde hair. I never knew a baby could have as much hair as Rosie. With big blue eyes and the mop of hair, she’s a little replica of
