bumpsandpushes:

bigbelliesandbirths:

thinking about trying to give birth in overalls

honestly though… overalls are cute, pregnant ppl in overalls are mad cute. but a pregnant person in overalls going into labour? trying to undo the buckles at the top of each strap because the contractions hit way harder and faster than they anticipated. nervous fingers fumbling over the clasps, slipping a couple of times before finally loosening them a little bit. water breaking while still stuck in the overalls, leaving an embarrassing wet patch that they can’t hide because the overalls are so form-fitting. the need to push is making it harder to concentrate on removing the clothes, but the loosened straps are giving them enough room to widen their legs and squat. trying again to reach up for the strap but they keep reflexively clutching at the bump and feeling for the bulge between their legs. one final attempt opens one of the buckles, the fabric is less constricting and they can slip a hand into it to feel their slit starting to be spread open. using the hand to push their briefs to one side. the head starting to emerge into their overalls and all they can do is just pant as they push, too late to take them off.

Imagine You’re the Pregnant CFO of a Successful Company

Hello! You can call me Ros B. First time posting a story here! Feel free to follow me over at @rosbar6678 if you’d like. Hope you enjoy my fic!

–

You shift in your chair, fighting the urge to let out a sigh. You’re 41 weeks pregnant, almost 42, and extremely uncomfortable. Your back has been hurting all day, your massive stomach feels rigid and tight, and there’s a strange growing pressure in your hips that makes it really difficult to sit comfortably at all.

You’re in a board meeting at your company, and your husband, the CEO, is currently presenting on the last quarter’s product line. What had started as an illicit affair between two executives just over a year ago had unexpectedly resulted in you pregnant and married. You still couldn’t totally believe it. It was just supposed to be a bit of fun between you two, something to help blow off steam at the end of a hard day at work (almost quite literally – there was a non-zero chance that your baby was conceived in this very meeting room), but you somehow managed to fall for each other.

You almost roll your eyes at how sappy and cliche it was, thinking about it now. Both you and your husband are very practical and logical people, it’s part of the reason why you both have had such successful careers, but being with him threw all that practically and logic out the window. While he was stern and stoic at work, he was actually a very sweet and thoughtful man outside of it. And when you discovered you were pregnant, you two didn’t even hesitate to go straight to the courthouse to make everything official. You both knew this was jeopardizing your jobs, but neither of you cared. And while you got sternly reprimanded by the board, they ultimately decided to keep you both on. The company had become hugelysuccessful since you both started working there, after all.

And now, your husband was presenting on exactly how successful the company had become, particularly in this last quarter, and you were to be presenting next.

You adjust yourself in the chair again, trying to ease any of the discomfort in your body, but it’s pretty futile. Your husband’s eyes dart over to you for a moment, narrowing imperceptibly as he spoke. He has been trying to get you to go on maternity leave for weeks now, but you’ve refused. Even this morning, as the two of you got ready for work, he tried to convince you to stay home.

“It’s not going to happen, love,” you said loudly as you hefted your now much larger breasts into a bra, pulling the straps on to your shoulders and hooking it around your back.

You heard your husband grumble from the walk-in closet.

“You’re overdue by almost two weeks,” he called out into the bedroom. “The baby can come basically any second. And I swear your stomach has dropped since yesterday. You really should stay home.”

You’ve managed to don a pair of sheer black pantyhose, pulling them up your legs and over your belly, before shimmying into a dark gray pencil skirt.

You certainly couldn’t deny anything your husband has said. All of what he said was true, and then some. For the past few days, it’s felt like more and more weight had descended into the bowl of your pelvis, and your belly definitely hung lower and lower. Despite it’s size, it had always been a fairly “perky” stomach, but that had changed significantly in the last few days. Plus, you had been dealing with your fair share of Braxton Hicks contractions lately, too.

But you wouldn’t be caught dead telling him that.

“I tell you what, my dear husband,” you replied, as you zipped up the back of the skirt, drawing it tight under your belly and around your hips. You turn to look in the mirror, admiring how it hugged your curves. 9 months pregnant and you still got it.

“I will go on maternity leave when you go on paternity leave.

More grumbling from the closet.

"I’m sorry, my love, what was that?”

“Isaid,” he shouted, clearly annoyed, “that I don’t want to go on it yet.”

“Well, neither do I.”

He stepped out of the closet, wearing a sharp navy blue suit and a gray tie with gold diagonal stripes.

“Oh, darling, now, really?” he demanded.

“What?”

“That skirt? Those stockings?”

You rounded on him as you finished buttoning up your white collar maternity shirt. “What’s wrong with my skirt and stockings?”

“Can’t you wear sweatpants like a normal pregnant woman?”

You felt anger flare in your chest. “I don’t wantto wear sweatpants,” you snapped. “Why are you suddenly so hung up on my clothes?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I just…want you to be comfortable,” he muttered, dropping his hand and looking away from you.

You softened a little at his admission, and approached him.

“You’re always so uncomfortable and I just wish…there was something we could do to help with that…”

Once you were close enough, you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him as close to you as your baby bump would allow.

He still wasn’t looking at you. You could see the tension in his jaw and shoulders.

“You know I could never be comfortable in sweatpants, love, especiallyat work,” you said as you reached up to adjust his tie.

He sighed again, closing his eyes and tilting his head down to rest against the top of yours. “I know, darling,” he said, resigned, his hands coming up to cradle your stomach. Your baby gave a solid kick against his palm.

“Look,” you began, smoothing his tie back against his shirt, “I promise I’ll go on maternity leave tomorrow.”

He pulled away a little in surprise, and you looked up at him, smiling.

“Really?” he asked, relief on his face.

“Yes.” You leaned up and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “I just really want to present at the board meeting today. I worked so hard to leave the company in a good place before we left! Let me just have this victory lap.”

“I know, I know.” He kissed you again, running his hands from your stomach to your hips and back again. “And you deserve a victory lap.”

“You’re goddamn right I do,” you said, grinning, pulling away from him. “I mean, who successfully negotiated the merger with Equiva?”

“You did.”

“And who saved the company almost 20 million dollars in the last three months?” you asked, pulling on a suit jacket to match your skirt.

“Youdid.”

This conversation continued in much the same way as the two of you gathered your things to leave for work…at least until, much to your husband’s chagrin, you put on your 3 inch stiletto heels.

That was several hours ago, but it felt even longer than that. Your husband has been watching you like a hawk all day and even in the middle of his presentation, his attention wasn’t totally diverted from you. You try to keep your face neutral, idly tapping your pen against your cheek.

He finally looks away from you, and you let out a small exhale of relief. You would not put it past him to stop this entire meeting in a heartbeat if he thought something was wrong.

The minutes tick past. You try to not squirm and shift around so much, but you can’t help it. You’re souncomfortable. The pain in your back is getting worse, and so is that incredible pressure in your hips. Your stomach has been cramping and tightening over and over again, intensifying that pressure. You attempt to spread your legs to ease some of the discomfort in your pelvis, but that pencil skirt you insisted on wearing doesn’t allow for much of that. Are these more Braxton Hicks contractions? Or are these…real–?

You quickly push that question out of your mind, huffing.

You try to pay attention to the meeting, but you can’t help it, your focus is turning more and more inward, the more and more your body tenses and twists against your will. Even your baby seems to be against you, kicking up a storm against your ribs. You try to keep your breathing steady and even, and you cup your hands underneath your belly and press up, weakly attempting to lift some of the weight off your straining back and hips.

Maybe your husband was right…maybe you should have stayed home…

You don’t know how much time has passed when you suddenly hear your husband say your name, startling you out of your thoughts.

“…our amazing CFO, who will now report on last quarter’s record earnings.”

Everyone applauds as you stand up and your husband heads over to his seat opposite yours, never taking his eyes off you. You just barely manage to suppress a groan as you haul yourself up on unsteady feet, a hand still cupping your heavy stomach.

You force a smile as you approach the front of the meeting room. It almost feels like your baby’s head is already wedged in between your legs, and you vainly try to not walk so bowlegged. You stand behind the podium, looking out at the two dozen other executives and board members, and begin your presentation.

You’re incredibly thankful that you practiced it so much that you could basically present it in your sleep. Standing has made your back pain even worse, and it feels like gravity is slowly pulling your baby deeper into your hips. You keep trying to spread your legs, but again, that damn pencil skirt keeps your thighs much closer together than you’d like.

You can feel sweat break out along your hairline, and you keep compulsively running your hands through your hair to try and subtly wipe it off. Your stomach feels like it’s permanently seized up, gone completely rock hard, and it seems to hang lower than even this morning. 

You can see your husband out of the corner of your eye. He’s leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed, his lips a hard line. You know that face. That’s the face he makes when he’s trying to figure out if something is wrong.

You swallow hard. You get a little flustered and you stumble over your words a bit, but you keep going. You are going to finish this presentation, dammit. 

You shift your legs again, trying to find some measure of relief. God, the pressure is getting so bad, it’s making the whole lower half of your body shake, and now you’re cursing your stiletto heels along with your skirt. You have one hand holding the remote to flip through the slides, but the other is gripping the edge of the podium so hard that you wouldn’t be surprised if you crushed the cheap wood in your grasp.

A terrible spasm shoots through you, making your voice catch for just a moment. It sends pain radiating up your back, down your thighs, and makes your vaginal muscles clench involuntarily. You almost groan at the sensation, as it felt like they were clenching down on…something…

You’re now flipping quickly through the last of your slides, just going over the very basic points for each one, and another sharp pain rockets through you. Your voice wavers as you resist the urge to moan. It takes all of your willpower to not just tear off your skirt right there and drop down into a squat behind the podium, to push your knees as far apart as they can go, to try to make some space within your pelvis to ease some of this maddening pressure. 

Fuck, this is all getting to be so much that you almost feel like you need to push…

You can’t help but notice that your husband is shifting around in his seat almost as much as you were. He knows this presentation almost as well as you, and he knows you’re rushing through the end of it. He looks like he’s about to jump out of his chair right when you shoot him a pleading look. Please. I’m almost done. Just give me a few more minutes. Please.

Your legs are pressing so hard against the sides of your skirt, you’re surprised the seams haven’t ripped. You’re so hot that you’re simultaneously both frustrated that you left your suit jacket on and grateful you did, otherwise everyone would be able to see you sweating straight through your white blouse. Your stomach has never felt heavier, and it’s hanging so low that the underside of it is peeking out from under said blouse, and you are confident it was definitely not doing that when you got dressed this morning…

“In conclusion,” you say, your voice straining slightly. 

The pressure inside you is climbing, climbing…your muscles are spasming and it feels like your baby’s head is so deep inside you it’s already trying to force your legs apart. You clear your throat, and take a breath.

“In conclusion, I –”

The pressure reaches it’s apex. You almost cry out from the pain. But instead, you feel something break inside you, and to your horror, fluid gushes out from between your legs to splatter audibly on the floor.

There’s a moment of shocked silence. You’re visibly shaking as you look down at the puddle beneath you.

“I – I think my water just broke,” you say softly.

There’s a moment of commotion from your colleagues, but then your husband is on his feet.

“Out!” he shouts. “Everyone, out!”

The small crowd of people quickly head towards the door as your husband rushes straight at you, looking furious.

“You’re in labor, aren’t you?” he demands. “God dammit, I told you that you should’ve stayed home!”

As soon as he’s close enough, you reach for him, barely paying attention to what he’s saying. You pull him close and press your head to his chest, gasping and moaning. The pressure is now the worst it’s ever been, becoming completely unbearable, and without hesitating, you grit your teeth, grab fistfuls of your husband’s jacket, and push.

That heavy weighty feeling deep inside you slides even lower, and you let out a guttural groan, almost of relief, as you finally give in to your body’s demands. You can barely hear your husband speaking to you over the blood rushing through your ears and the desperate noises you’re making (he’s saying something about getting to the hospital), but then realization seems to strike him and he demands, “Are you pushing?”

You can only nod in response as you stop for a moment to catch your breath, before wincing and taking in sharp inhales of air between clenched teeth as your stomach somehow tightens even more.

“Don’t! Don’t push!” he yells, panicking. 

“I can’t!” you grit out. There is so much pain and pressure and weight inside of you, wedged tightly inside your pelvis, and you need to get it out now!

“I can’t, hnngh, god, I can’t, oh god, oh, oh!”

You gasp, feeling something new… You let go of your husband’s jacket to reach under your skirt, and you cry out in shock as your fingers brush against your completely soaked stockings. Your labia is bulgingout from you – the baby’s head is right there!

“Help –!” you cry breathlessly, releasing your husband to reach behind yourself, fumbling with the zipper of your skirt. “Help me get this off!”

Your husband starts to object, but another contraction grips you, making you wail, cutting him off.

“There’s no time!” You grab his hand and force it underneath your skirt, between your barely parted legs. Your husband curses in surprise, his fingers pressing against your opening as it distends outwards from your child’s encroaching head. “The baby is coming now!”

He quickly reaches around to try to unzip the skirt. You fall back against the podium, still desperately trying to separate your legs to make room for your baby. He’s yanking on the zipper, but it doesn’t move.

“Fuck, it’s jammed,” he mutters, but before you can say anything, he slides his hands quickly up your thighs, rucking the skirt up your hips and underneath your enormous belly, allowing you to finallyspread your legs. That action alone makes it feel like your baby drops several inches, almost like it was about to fall right out of you, but was caught at the last minute by your seizing vaginal muscles, the sensation making you yelp in surprise.

You’re leaning back against the podium now, gripping the edge of it, in as wide a stance as you can manage in your heels, bending your knees slightly. You’re panting and whimpering, and all your muscles start to tighten and clench again in another contraction. You throw your head back with a groan, feeling your body heave against the hefty mass of your baby as it slid forward a bit more, and you quickly join in with a desperate push of your own.

You groan even louder as you feel yourself start to spread wide, your parting lips brushing against the fabric of your underwear as your baby’s head starts to crown.

“Oh god, it’s coming, it’s coming!”

You suddenly realize that you still have your panties and stockings on, but your husband is way ahead of you, already trying to tug your leggings down.

“Shit shit shit,” he mutters. The stockings aren’t budging – you hiked them up over your stomach when you were getting dressed earlier this morning, but your pencil skirt is cinched tightly around your hips, preventing them from easily sliding off your legs.

“Oh, get them off, please!” you beg, voice straining from your efforts. They’re so tight against you that they almost feel like they’re pressing the baby back in at the same time you’re trying to push it out.

Your husband lets out a noise of frustration, before dropping to his knees and bunching the stocking in the inside of your left thigh in both hands.

You stop pushing for just a moment, just to take a breath, but your pantyhose immediately drives the baby back into you, and you wail in anguish.

“Get them off, get them off!”

Your husband seems to be trying to rip them open, his nails digging into the fabric, but they’re sliding in his grasp from their sheerness and from being doused in fluids.

Another contraction takes you, hard and fast, and you can barely gasp in a bit of air before you’re pushing again, struggling to force the top of your baby to stretch out your skintight nylons.

“Please get them off!”

“I told you you shouldn’t have worn these!” he shouts, before finally ripping them apart, tearing a hole up towards the crotch. You jump when you feel him hook his fingers into your panties and tugs them to the side, the cloth once again brushing against your most sensitive parts.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. All the anger in his voice disappears instantly, replaced with shock. He stammers out your name, looking up at you. “I – I can see the head!”

You try to respond, but all you can do is nod. You can definitely feelthe head, hard and unforgiving, causing a terrible pressurized burn between your trembling thighs as you try to maintain the push, shrieking and crying out in agony.

The contraction mercifully ends, but you whimper in despair when you feel the baby slide a little back inside you, even without the stockings. You pant, your eyes sliding shut, trying to catch your breath in preparation for your next push. 

God, everything hurts. Your stomach hurts from the intensity of your contractions, your back hurts from the straining weight of your belly, your hips hurts from your baby filling the space between them with it’s seemingly massive body, your legs hurt from having to keep them so far apart, your feet hurt from those stupid high heels, even your throat is starting to hurt from all the noises you’re making.

You suddenly feel your husband’s hand gently rubbing the outside of your leg, startling you. You look down, and he’s gazing back up at you, eyes wide, his other hand still between your legs. Your normally calm, stoic husband looks uncharacteristically scared and excited at the same time.

“The baby’s almost here,” he says. “It’s almost here. You’re doing so great, darling.”

You can’t help but give him a shaky smile, but that quickly turns to a grimace as your uterus tightens painfully inside of you. You gasp as you feel the baby slip out of you a little more, even without you pushing, and you take a deep breath and bear down.

You almost immediately throw your head back, biting back a cry of pain. You’re being spread and stretched and pulled apart, and god, god, it burns so much. You want to stop, you want all of this to stop, but your body bears down anyway, indifferent to your suffering, forcing your huge baby through an opening far too small for it.

“Push! Push, darling!” your husband shouts.

“I can’t! Oh, god, I can’t!”

“Yes, you can! Push!”

You grit your teeth and do as he says, because what other choice do you have? Shutting your eyes tightly, you push with everything you’ve got, the burning sensation magnifying with every centimeter of ground your baby makes.

“Nnngh! Gah! F-fuck, oh god, it hurts!”

“Keep going, love!”

You take a deep breath and heave against your baby as hard as you can, when the burning spikes suddenly and horribly, and an anguished scream is torn from your throat.

“The baby’s crowning!” your husband yells.

You barely register what he’s saying as another sharp spasm immediately shoots through you, triggering you into another involuntary push. You almost instantly regret it, as your baby lurches down and a sudden lancing pain, the worst pain you’ve felt so far, jolts up from between your legs, feeling as if you were being cut open with fire.

“The head’s halfway out!”

You scream in sheer agony, arching your back, tossing your head, and standing up on your tiptoes in your heels. The contraction fades, but to your horror, the searing, stinging pain from your baby’s skull remains, splitting you so impossibly wide that you’re sure that at any moment, your sensitive flesh was going to tear right open. You can vaguely hear your husband yelling at you to breathe, but you can only let out another ear piercing scream and push, desperate to get the head out and end the agony.

Your inner muscles clench and spasm around your child’s enormous head, trying to find purchase, as you struggle to expel it from your tortured body without the aid of a contraction. You’re howling mindlessly from the pain, almost bucking your hips as if to shake the baby free, and for one terrifying moment you think it might be stuck. But then there’s a sudden popping sensation, like a cork from a bottle of champagne, making you gasp. Fluid sprays your inner thighs, and a sudden merciful release of tension and pain floods your system.

You slump back a little against the podium, releasing the edges to catch yourself on your elbows. Your legs are shaking wildly now, and it’s a small miracle you’re still standing up.

“The head’s out! It’s out!”

You try to lean forward to see, panting and gasping, but your stomach is in the way. Your husband has both hands between your legs and you can feel the backs of them brushing against your skin. Something heavy dangles uncomfortably from your body. You’re trembling from exhaustion and effort, you’re drenched in sweat, and your vaginal walls throb painfully against your baby.

“Check –” you manage to stammer out, remembering something from one of the many books you read in preparation for the birth. “Ch-check for the c-cord.”

Your husband grunts in acknowledgement, and you inhale sharply as he slides his fingers between your battered, sensitive lips and the baby’s head. You adjust your stance a little and feel your thigh brush against it, sticky and hot.

“Shit –” he mutters.

You gasp, feeling a contraction start.

“Shit, god dammit –” He says your name sharply, immediately grabbing your attention. 

“What?

"Don’t push.”

Panic grips you, almost as hard as the contraction.

“D-don’t?”

“I think the cord is around the baby’s neck, don’t push!”

You feel your husband’s fingers fumble around, and the pressure inside you starts to grow.

“Ah!” You pant, rocking your hips back and forth, but your husband stops you with one firm grip on your upper thigh.

“Hold still.”

You freeze, your inner walls pulsating and tightening around your baby’s heavy, squirming body as it rotates within you. The sensation is overwhelming, and you tilt your head back, mouth hanging open as you pant desperately.

“Hurry,” you manage to gasp out between breaths.

You’re fighting, fighting against that growing wave of unbearable pressure, with everything you have, but it’s not enough. Your muscles seize up, almost violently, and push against your will, and with the aid of gravity, you feel your labia start to spread apart again.

“Don’t push!" 

"I’m not, I’m not!” you cry breathlessly. “I swear I’m not – I – oh! Oh, god!”

Your body crushes down on the baby again, inching it out of you.

“Oh no, god, please –”

“Hold on –”

“Please, I need to –”

“Ok –”

“I need to push!”

“OK, push!”

And with a great guttural yell, you bear down once again, thrusting your hips forward. Mercifully, your baby starts to slide out of you, one shoulder popping out –

“Oh!" 

– and then the other –

"OOH!”

You shudder, your baby hanging halfway out of you, your body still gripping onto it stubbornly.

"You’re so close, darling, just one more –”

You push your knees apart, drop your hips into a slight squat, and give one final desperate push. There’s an incredible rushing sensation, startling you and making you shriek, followed by a torrent of liquids gushing out from between your legs, and suddenly, all of that pain and pressure is gone.

You’re still somehow standing upright, gripping the podium behind you for dear life. Your head is still tossed back, looking up at the ceiling, mouth hanging half open as you catch your breath. Your vaginal muscles are still weakly clamping and twitching around nothing, sending small shudders through your aching body.

Suddenly, you hear a cry.

Your head snaps down to look, and you see over your still enormous belly, your husband, kneeling on the floor in a puddle of milky pink fluids, the whole front of him completely soaked. 

But there, in his arms, is a baby.

It’s bright pink and wailing, kicking it’s little legs and flailing it’s little arms. Your husband looks up at you, looking completely shocked, and says, in a shaking voice,

“It’s a girl.”

You blink, the words slowly filtering into your mind.

“A – a girl?” you stammer, breathless.

He nods, holding the baby – your daughter– up to you, and as if on instinct, you quickly unbutton your blouse. Once it falls open, you gather your baby in your arms and cradle her against your skin, as she continues to cry in protest.

Your husband falls back onto his butt, resting his arms on his raised knees, his head hanging down. His shoulders are shaking, and you don’t know if he’s laughing or crying. As you watch him, dazed, you vainly attempt to comprehend the magnitude of what just happened. You just gave birthduring a meeting at your job, and your husbanddelivered the baby. You’re standing in 3 inch pumps, your stockings are torn open, your skirt is bunched up around your hips, and your breasts are completely out on display (although still in their bra). Your baby is wriggling against you, wailing loudly, still covered in blood and amniotic fluid and who knows what else, the umbilical cord dangling between you. You’re completely out of breath, your head is spinning from exertion and shock, and you suddenly say out loud to your husband, without even really realizing it,

“I ruined your suit.”

Your husband snaps his head up to look at you, looking absolutely incredulous.

“What?”

“I – I ruined your suit –” you say again.

He bursts out laughing.

“I really liked that suit –” you add, weakly.

He scrambles to his feet, still laughing, and as if in emphasis, wipes his hands on the back of his sleek wool pants, before bringing them to rest on your hips as he leans down to kiss you.

“I love you so much,” he says.

You start to respond, when suddenly the doors to the meeting room burst open and a group of EMTs rush in. Someone must’ve called 911. They all descend upon you and the baby, helping you onto a stretcher, examining the baby, and interrogating you with a myriad of questions (including one EMT, a woman, demanding in shock, “You gave birthinthoseshoes?!”)

You lose your husband in the chaos for a moment as you lay down on the stretcher with your daughter still resting on your chest. Panic grips you, and you call out his name. He’s suddenly there by your side, your hand in his, looking at you as if you’re the only person in the room.

“Don’t leave me,” you say, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable.

He kisses the back of your hand fiercely. “Never.”

“Hey, hey, Mr. Midwife!” one of the male EMTs says jovially, holding out a pair of scissors to your husband. “You did so well delivering the baby, we thought you might like to cut the cord!”

Your husband smiles brilliantly as he takes the scissors with his free hand. The EMT directs him to cut the cord between two clamps, just an inch or so from her belly button, and with a few quick snips, your daughter’s body is separated from your own.

They drape a blanket over you and your baby and wheel you out of the meeting room, past all your shocked colleagues and coworkers, into the elevator and then outside to the ambulance, your husband staying by your side the whole time. Your baby is still mewling and crying, and that same female EMT from earlier suggests that maybe she’s hungry.

Once in the ambulance, you shrug off your shirt and undo your bra, freeing your breasts, and you bring your daughter up to one dark nipple. She instantly latches on and begins nursing, and you gasp in surprise and joy.

You look up at your husband excitedly, who laughs and kisses the side of your head. Now that the shock has started to wear off, an overwhelming sense of love and protection for your daughter has replaced it. You can barely take your eyes off her, you count her fingers and toes over and over again as she nurses. You smooth her little wisps of hair back, the same color as her father’s, as she blinks up at you with eyes that match yours. Your husband traces the curves of her little cheek with his finger, before pushing that same finger against one of her palms, and her tiny hand closes around it.

He kisses you again, his hand stroking through your hair, as he says softly to you, “You were amazing, darling. You were so amazing. I love you so, so much.”

You turn to kiss him on the lips. “I love you, too.” You tilt your head forward to press against his, closing your eyes. “You were pretty amazing yourself. I can’t believe you delivered our baby.”

“Hey, I just caught her. You were the one who did all the work.”

At the hospital, your daughter is quickly whisked away for tests as you deliver the placenta. The lovely staff were kind enough to lend your husband a set of clean, dry, hospital green scrubs. When your daughter is returned to you, she’s all swaddled up, and given a clean bill of health, coming in at 9lbs, 13oz.

“Nine pounds?!” you exclaim as your husband takes her from the nurse.

“And 13 ounces!” the nurse adds, cheerfully. “22 inches long and a head 15 inches around.”

“Oh my god,” you say quietly, completely stunned. “No wonder that hurt so much…”

“You can say that again! Can’t believe you delivered her with no pain medication!”

Your husband sits down in the rocking chair next to your bed, cradling your daughter close as he starts speaking to her, not paying attention to your exchange with the nurse.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Hey, you gave us quite a scare today, showing up when you did.”

The nurse checks a few things before leaving you with your new family, insisting you get some sleep.

You lean back against the pillows as you close your eyes, your hands resting on your slightly deflated stomach, listening to your husband speak softly to your daughter. You’re exhausted. There are muscles in your body that you didn’t even know exist that are already starting to ache. You want to stay awake, to watch your husband interact with his first born child, but you can already feel yourself drifting off. Bits and pieces of their “conversation” filter in as you start to doze, but it’s his comment of, “…now that you’re here, Mommy is finally gonna take some time off and relax…” that grabs your attention.

You rouse yourself from sleep as best you can. “Not yet,” you say, your words slurring together.

“Hmm? What was that, darling?”

It takes you a moment to respond as you drift in and out of consciousness.

“’m not taking maternity leave yet.”

You hear your husband laugh.

“…didn’ finish…my quarterly reportsssss…”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“…need to finish ‘em tomorrow…”

He laughs again, but he sounds much more uncertain this time.

“You're…you’re kidding,” he says. When you don’t respond, he repeats more insistently, “Darling, you’re kidding, right?”

But you don’t reply, finally falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.