Chapter 20
Patrice
"So, if the baby turns blue, that's bad," Trace says, taking notes like his life depends on it.
The CPR instructor—a cheerful woman named Linda who probably has the patience of a saint given how many panicked parents she deals with—nods encouragingly. "Yes, blue is bad. But babies are remarkably resilient. You're more likely to overreact to normal baby noises than miss an actual emergency."
"What constitutes normal baby noises?" I ask, because apparently I've forgotten every babysitting job I ever had as a teenager.
"Grunting, squeaking, hiccuping, snorting—"
"Our daughter sounds like a barnyard," Trace mutters.
"—snoring, whistling, and occasional pterodactyl screams," Linda continues without missing a beat. "All completely normal."
I raise my hand like I'm back in school. "What about the screaming that sounds like she's being murdered but she's actually just mad about a diaper change?"
"Also normal."
"The screaming that makes you question every life choice that led to this moment?" Trace adds.
"Extremely normal."
"The screaming that makes neighbors call the police?" I offer.
Linda pauses. "That's... less common, but I've seen it happen. Just explain you have a newborn. They'll understand."
Trace and I exchange a look. We're sitting in the hospital's "New Parent Boot Camp" classroom, which sounds way more intense than it actually is. It's basically a conference room with a poster of a cartoon baby giving a thumbs-up and the cheerful slogan "You Got This!" plastered on the wall.
We do not got this.
"Now," Linda says, placing a disturbingly realistic baby doll on the table between us, "let's practice CPR. Trace, you're up first."
Trace approaches the doll like it might explode. His fingers hover over its tiny plastic chest. "How hard do I press?"
"About an inch and a half deep. Use two fingers, right here." Linda demonstrates. "Thirty compressions, then two rescue breaths. Repeat until help arrives or the baby responds."
"And if I break her ribs?"
"You won't. The doll will click if you're doing it right."
Trace starts compressions. The doll clicks. He looks simultaneously relieved and terrified. "This feels wrong. I'm assaulting a plastic infant."
"You're saving a plastic infant," Linda corrects cheerfully.
"It's the same plastic infant that peed on me yesterday during diaper training," I point out. "Consider it revenge."
"That was a water fountain feature, not actual pee," Trace argues, still doing compressions. The doll keeps clicking its approval.
"It shot three feet in the air and hit you in the face. That's pee trajectory."
"It's a design flaw."
"Babies are design flaws," I say. "They shoot bodily fluids in every direction without warning."
Linda's trying not to laugh. "Okay, Trace, now the rescue breaths. Cover the baby's mouth and nose with your mouth, and blow gently. You're not inflating a balloon—just enough to make the chest rise."
Trace leans down, hesitates. "This feels weird."
"It should feel life-saving," Linda says.
"It feels like I'm kissing a doll."
"Would you rather kiss a doll or watch your daughter choke?"
"Doll. Definitely doll." He does the rescue breaths. The doll's chest rises obediently. "How do I know if it's working on an actual baby?"
"You'll see the chest rise, just like this. And hopefully, the baby will start breathing again."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Keep going until paramedics arrive. But honestly, if you're doing it right, most babies respond quickly." Linda turns to me. "Patrice, your turn."
I slide into Trace's spot and stare at the doll. It stares back with dead plastic eyes. "This is deeply unsettling."
"Just remember: thirty compressions, two breaths, repeat. You got this."
I got this. Sure. I'm a woman who color-codes her closet and alphabetizes her spice rack. I can handle infant CPR. Probably.
I start compressions. The doll clicks. Good doll.
"Harder," Linda coaches.
I press harder. More clicking. I'm basically a doctor now.
"Great! Now the breaths."
I lean down and immediately understand Trace's hesitation. This is weird. But I do it anyway because the alternative is my daughter not breathing, which is significantly weirder and infinitely worse.
The doll's chest rises. I did it. I saved a plastic life.
"Excellent work, both of you," Linda says, making a note on her clipboard. "You're now certified in infant CPR. Hopefully you'll never need it, but you're prepared if you do."
"What about choking?" Trace asks, because apparently we're not done catastrophizing.
"Different technique. Let me get the choking doll—"
"There's a choking doll?" I interrupt.
"There's a whole collection of emergency dolls. This one's my favorite." Linda pulls out another doll, this one with a removable grape lodged in its throat. "So if your baby is choking and can't cry or cough—"
"How do we know she's choking if she can't make noise?" Trace asks.
"When she gets older, she'll make the universal sign of choking." Linda demonstrates, hands at her throat.
"Our daughter is three weeks old. She can't make hand signals."
"Fair point. Look for these signs: unable to cry, turning blue, weak or no cough, difficulty breathing." Linda flips the doll over and demonstrates back blows. "Five back blows between the shoulder blades, then five chest thrusts, repeat until the object dislodges or help arrives."
I watch, taking mental notes, trying not to think about all the ways my daughter could die despite my best efforts.
"Any questions?" Linda asks.
"About a million," I say. "But I've forgotten them all because I'm too busy panicking."
"That's normal too. You'll both do great." She hands us certificates that officially declare us capable of not killing our child. "See you at the feeding class in an hour."
The feeding class is taught by a lactation consultant named Suzy who has the energy of someone who's had way too much coffee and the passion of someone who believes breast milk can cure world hunger.
"Breast is best!" she announces, entirely too loud for a hospital conference room. "But fed is best, and we support all feeding choices here."
She doesn't sound like she supports all feeding choices. She sounds like she's about to stage an intervention if anyone mentions formula.
"Now, let's talk about feeding schedules," Suzy continues, pulling out a chart that looks like it was designed by someone who's never actually met a baby. "Newborns eat every two to three hours. That's eight to twelve times per day."
"Per day?" Trace repeats.
"Yes. Including overnight."
"So, we're never sleeping again," I clarify.
"You'll sleep in shifts. Power naps. Cat naps. Any naps you can steal." Suzy doesn't sound concerned about our impending descent into zombie-hood. "Now, Patrice, how's pumping going?"
"It's going," I say, which is the polite version of "I'm a dairy cow and I hate everything."
"Excellent! You're doing amazing. Trace, are you supporting her pumping journey?"
Trace looks like he's been asked to explain quantum physics. "I... bring her water?"
"Perfect! Hydration is key. What else are you doing?"
"Uh." He glances at me for help. I offer none. "I... tell her she's doing great?"
"Emotional support! Yes!" Suzy makes another note. "What about helping with bottle washing, storing milk, managing the pumping schedule?"
"I didn't know there was a schedule."
"Oh yes. Every three hours, even at night, to maintain supply."
Trace's face does something complicated. "Every three hours?"
"Around the clock."
"So, Patrice feeds the baby every two to three hours, and pumps every three hours, which means she's basically attached to either a baby or a machine twenty-four seven?"
"Exactly!" Suzy beams like this is wonderful news. "Although once your supply regulates, you might be able to stretch it to four hours at night."
"Might," I repeat.
"Every woman is different."
"This sounds like torture," Trace says.
"This sounds like motherhood," Suzy corrects cheerfully. "Now, let's talk about output goals. You want to aim for—"
"I'm going to stop you right there," I interrupt, because if I have to hear about ounces and hindmilk and let-down reflexes one more time, I'm going to scream. "Can we just acknowledge that this is hard and weird and I'm doing my best?"
Suzy softens. "You're doing an incredible job. Brooklyn's gaining weight, you're producing plenty of milk, and you're both learning. That's all that matters."
"Thank you," I say.
"Although I do have a handout about power pumping if you want to increase supply—"
"I'm good," I say quickly.
"And another about breast compressions—"
"Also good."
"And this one about proper flange sizing—"
Trace gently takes the handouts from her and sets them aside. "We're good. Thank you, Suzy. You've been very... informative."
We escape before she can distribute more literature.
By the time we finish the diaper-changing refresher, the bathing workshop, and the "Understanding Your Baby's Cries" seminar—which basically concluded that all baby cries sound the same and we're all just guessing—it's late afternoon and I'm exhausted.
"I need coffee," I announce.
"You're breastfeeding. Can you have coffee?" Trace asks.
"I can have caffeine in moderation. Which means I'm having all the coffee."
We head to the hospital cafeteria, which has transformed into something resembling a party. There are balloons. A banner that says "Congratulations!" Tessa's grinning face. Gage looking mildly uncomfortable. Marnie from the general store holding a gift bag roughly the size of a smart car.
"Surprise!" Tessa yells.
"What is this?" I ask.
"Your going-home party!" She bounces over and hugs me. "Brooklyn's being discharged tomorrow, so we're celebrating!"
"In a hospital cafeteria?"
"It's the only place Dr. Martinez could meet us. She's on shift." Tessa gestures to the table where Dr. Martinez sits, looking amused and slightly concerned about the number of balloons.
"You threw me a party," I say slowly.