Labor was exhausting.
Overwhelming.
Monitors beeped constantly.
Nurses moved around the room.
Doctors spoke in quick, controlled voices.
The contractions became so intense that I could barely recover before the next one began.
During one particularly painful contraction, I cried out.
Eric leaned toward me.
For a second, I thought he was going to encourage me.
Instead, he whispered,
“Could you be a little quieter?”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You're stressing me out. Everyone can hear you.”
Even one of the nurses paused.
She looked at him.
Then at me.
I did not have enough energy to respond.
Hours later, our three daughters arrived safely.
Lily.
Emma.
Sophie.
Three tiny girls.
Three perfect faces.
Three lives that depended entirely on us.
I thought holding them would bring back the excited man who had spent months talking about fatherhood.
Instead, Eric looked overwhelmed almost immediately.
He held Lily for less than five minutes before handing her back.
“She feels too small.”
The nurse smiled gently.
“That’s because she is.”
He did not laugh.
When Emma started crying, Eric looked irritated.
When Sophie needed a diaper change, he suddenly had to make a phone call.
I noticed.
But I was exhausted.
I told myself he needed time.
That was becoming my favorite excuse for him.
He needs time.
He is adjusting.
He is nervous.
He is overwhelmed.
Every explanation made his behavior easier to tolerate.
None made it better.
We stayed in the hospital several days.
The girls needed observation because they had been born early.
I barely slept.
Every few hours, a nurse came in.
Blood pressure.
Medication.
