If it hadn't already come to your attention, Schmidt hated messes with a passion hotter than the flames in the deepest bowels of hell.
And, if it hadn't come to your attention, childbirth is somewhat of a messy process, and therefore Schmidt wanted no part of it.
So when his wife, Cece, fell pregnant, he was dreading the end of those nine months. Well, not the end, because, y'know, mini-Schmidts didn't seem like such a bad idea, but more the process of bringing those mini-Schmidts into the world.
And while Schmidt loved his wife and unborn child to the moon and back, he was ridiculously apprehensive about everything. Parenthood, birth….just everything. Schmidt was terrified.
Absolutely terrified.
So when Cece went into labor, and her water broke in the car ("Sweet holy God, Cece, what is happening?Is that supposed to happen? Are you dying? Cecilia?!") Schmidt was having a panic attack that could be compared to "someone projectile vomiting anxiety onto my face" (-Schmidt).
And holy hell, when active labor began, Schmidt nearly passed out. All of the...ugh, fluids. Just...everywhere. How? Why? Schmidt didn't know.
Finally after nearly sixteen hours of (painful, agonizing, and all together stressful) labor, Schmidt had a daughter.
A perfect blend of Cece and Schmidt.
They named her Luna Rose, and when Schmidt first held her, all of his fears melted away. He would never, never, let anything bad happen to this little girl in his arms.
And for the first time, Schmidt was grateful for a mess. The mess that had brought him his daughter.