Isn't She Lovely?
by Sammie
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
SUMMARY: Andrew and Margaret have their first child...complete with corny gooey-ness, maudlin sentiment, and stiletto-thumping threats.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I don't normally put in such desultory bits, but I wanted to kill off those plot bunnies, so this story tends to careen in style. Sorry.
With apologies to Stevie Wonder for his title.
"I swear, if you ever even touch me again, I will cut off your hands and feed them to you the next day on a platter."
"Love you too, pumpkin."
"I'm sure she doesn't mean it," whispers a nurse a little too loudly. After all, the woman is still clinging to her husband's hand with a death grip.
"If I wanted your ill-informed opinion, I'd ask for it!"
The hapless nurse looks shocked.
The man shrugs an apology.
"This is ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT!"
"How is this entirely my fault? If I remember right, you were a pretty willing and eager participant in the proceedings."
The woman lying on the bed pauses in the contemplation of her pain to give her husband a soul-withering glare.
"Well, you were," he insists.
"And it's your fault I didn't get an epidural!"
"How is it my fault that your blood pressure is too low to allow you one?"
"I didn't have low blood pressure 'til I got PREGNANT!"
"Again...it takes two to make a thing go - "
"She's YOUR DAUGHTER!"
"That second X didn't come from me. Men don't have two X chromosomes, hon."
"Actually," pipes up the irrepressible nurse, "some men have two X chromosomes and a Y. It's Klinefelter's syndrome, and it makes the men who have it effectively infertile."
Husband and wife pause in the contemplation of their "argument" to stare at her with twin expressions of baffled discomfort.
The nurse blinks. "Um. Just thought I'd share."
"How is that even helpful?" the husband mutters.
The doctor opens his mouth to speak. "Now, ma'am, if you could pu - " he frowns, stopping mid-sentence at the man who is vigorously shaking his head from behind his wife, making a "cut-stop" gesture at the doctor.
"IF YOU WANTED ME TO PUSH, D-MM-T, YOU SHOULD'VE GIVEN ME AN EPIDURAL!"
'Warned ya,' mouths the husband.
The squalling baby arrives - thankfully - after just a few hours of labor. It's all rather fortuitous, considering that (1) this was the first child for the mother, (2) the mother was a little more advanced in age, and (3) if the baby hadn't come when she did, the mother would soon beat the doctor to death with the stiletto heel of the Louboutin shoe which she hasn't worn in the last few months because of swelling ankles. (The swelling ankles are her husband's fault, too, along with her labor pains and global warming.)
The doctor frowns, then hands the baby to an attending nurse rather than to the baby's mother. He turns his attention back to the woman lying on the birthing table. "She's bleeding a little more than we'd like," the doctor murmurs to the nurse nearest him, unaware that he is overheard.
The father's face turns ashen. "It's not - is it - " he trails off, then swallows, unable to finish.
"No, no, your wife'll be fine," the doctor assures him confidently. "It's not good, but it's certainly not life-threatening. Go see your daughter; we'll take care of your wife."
A nurse ushers him over to where they are finishing up the cleaning, the baby still protesting loudly. She is wrapped securely in one of the warm, gold foil "space" blankets as the doctor works on her mother.
"Would Daddy like to hold the baby?" He looks at the nurse awkwardly for a moment, as if not quite understanding what she's asking. The nurse gently sets the child into her father's arms, the foil used to keep the baby warm crinkling at the movement. The wailing continues for a little bit longer, than stops to a few mewling sounds.
The teasing expression the man had worn minutes before - replaced by the temporary panic for his wife - now turns in surprised awe when he sees his daughter. She is tiny, and his arms tense and scrunch together awkwardly, as if afraid she will fall through them. The nurse adjusts his stance so that the baby rests comfortably and securely in the crook of his left arm, with his right arm helping to support. He lifts his right hand, brushing the back of his index finger gently against the child's cheek. The newborn scrunches up her face, reacting to the touch, and quiets. A tiny, unconscious smile crosses his lips.
He has no idea how long he's been standing there, in his own world, until the nurse clears her throat. "What would you like on the birth certificate, sir?"
"Anne Grace Paxton."
"That's Anne with an 'E'," reminds a voice from behind them. "Don't forget the 'E'."
The father turns; the doctor rolls his eyes at him as he steps away. The eye-roll says everything: the woman's now fine and clearly has enough energy to keep up the criticism and directing.
The husband's good humor returns in even greater portions now that both his daughter and his wife are safe and well. "I'll do the birth certificate in a second." He turns towards his wife with the tiny bundle in his arms. A nurse hovers as the baby carefully transfers to her mother; the nurse gently adjusts the mother's arm to a better holding position, and to her surprise, the mother gives a nod of thanks and acknowledgement.
The father turns to head out out to complete the birth certificate. He's barely ten steps away when his wife suddenly speaks up. "Make sure the nurse doesn't switch the first and the middle names. As much as I love your mother, her name is not going first. There's no way in hell my daughter's going through life with the initials of some overpriced, overrated clothing store."
"MARGARET. STOP TALKING. Just enjoy our daughter." Despite his words, the man looks more amused than not as he heads out of the delivery room.
It is an hour before everyone gets settled in, and after all the obligatory phone calls by the new father (listening to his mother and his grandmother screaming over the phone - including some unintelligible comments about the quilt - and then to his father giving a warm but decidedly non-screaming congratulations), the man heads up to his wife's hospital room.
He is greeted by a sweet sight - not two words generally used in conjunction with his wife. He moves to the side of the bed that has more room and carefully lies down on it, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to jostle the occupants.
"Does it hurt?"
"No. Just a - pulling." His wife has a small smile on her face. She gently runs the pad of a long, thin, manicured index finger over top of the one tiny, exposed fist, which opens; the owner tightly grips her tiny fingers around her mother's. The only thing the parents hear are, dimly, distant monitor beeps and low voices from the hallway - and more clearly, the sounds of their child nursing for the first time.
He is not sentimental, but he has to admit to an overwhelming sense of - he doesn't know what - at it all.
He settles in so that his wife and his daughter are carefully tucked into his side. His large hand cups his daughter's head gently, protectively, nearly enveloping it like a large hat. His other arm wraps his wife. She looks up at him, a thoughtful expression on her face, and gives him a quiet smile. He studies her face for a long time, as if seeing her entirely anew; he then leans forward and they share a long, tender kiss.
They break it when their daughter hmphs grumpily and pauses in her meal, then picks up again. The mother carefully readjusts the child in her arms, and the father just chuckles in amusement. He presses his lips against his wife's hair, inhaling deeply; he then tightens his arm around her, his fingers tracing small circles on her arm. His wife adjusts her daughter and then her own position, resting her head back in the hollow of his shoulder. She sighs, her eyes closing in peaceful exhaustion; he watches her and their daughter.
"Oh, where's my little great-granddaughter! Oh, Margaret, you look fantastic!" A huge hug from the speaker, who is careful not to crush the small bundle in the arms of her granddaughter-in-law. "Let's see your little girl. Oh, look at her," Grandma Annie coos as the baby slides from one pair of arms to another. "Oh, isn't she just precious. Oh, look at my little great-grandbaby! She's perfect!"
The suitcases bump and bang against the walls as the others come in. Margaret watches, amused, as her husband and her in-laws came bustling in, pulling along all the things that Gammy clearly has left downstairs in her haste to get upstairs.
"Grace, come look!" and the two men - and all the luggage - are abandoned at the doorway.
"Oh, look at her," Grace sighs. She gives her daughter-in-law a big hug. "Oh, Margaret!" She gives the new mother another hug, and then her mother-in-law slides the baby girl into her arms. The baby scrunches her face up for a moment but doesn't cry. "Oh, she's so beautiful - my grandchild!" she murmurs, and she sounds like she's going to tear up.
"Oh, Grace!" Annie scolds, yet without the requisite force. "Come sit down before you drop the poor thing." The new grandmother seats herself in the rocking chair, gently rocking her new grandchild back and forth; the new grandfather comes over silently, an unconscious smile on his face.
From a few feet away, the proud father watches with a grin as his parents interact with his new daughter. He steps over to his wife, who is watching the same scene with a small smile, and slides his arm around her waist.
"So when's the next one?"
Exit sweet. Cue awkward.
The new parents turn ever so slowly to face the speaker, who is just looking at them with a look of sweet innocence. At the parents' shocked looks, Grandma Annie shrugs. "Well, Grace is baby Annie's grandmother," she explains in a 'duh' tone. "Who am I supposed to hold while Grace has Annie?"
There's a stunned silence. Joe Paxton, now amusedly watching his son and his daughter-in-law, makes no effort to intervene.
"Kevin?" Margaret offers weakly.
"Oh, don't be silly. He's too big now," Gammy pooh-poohs the suggestion. "And I want another sweet little great-grandbaby! The second one will be just as beautiful as this one. Andrew, honey, you have to give Margaret enough time to recover from the birth, but as soon as - "
"Gammy!" groans her grandson, trying to stop the horrifying nightmare-come-true of his grandmother discussing his love life. If he thought she was a little too open on Margaret's introductory weekend, Grandma Annie has gotten progressively more free with the advice and hints since then.
"- but as soon as you've recovered, Margaret, both of you ought to try for your second child. And of course, since it's less likely to conceive while you're breastfeeding, you need to start planning soon."
Margaret has frozen on her face the same horrified expression she has whenever Ramone appears. Andrew has his eyes shut; perhaps if he can't see his grandmother he won't hear her speaking, either.
"You do have the apartment space for a second child. Perhaps one of each - you've got a little girl, so a boy next?"
"Well, we, um, hadn't planned yet - that is - " the articulate, high-powered editor-in-chief is, ironically, at a complete loss for words.
Her articulate, high-powered editor husband makes no attempt to help her find any.
"The two children shouldn't be too far apart in age. And they say that it's ideal for a woman to have her second within three years, for both the mother's own health and for the ease of raising both kids. Though," Gammy gave a sweet and cheeky smile, "I don't think I'd have to wait three years, now, would I?"
The younger Paxton couple make no attempt to speak, which they have quickly found to be a losing proposition. Not that they have anything to say; they continue to stare in awkward horror at dear, sweet Gammy.
"You don't want poor baby Annie to be an only child, do you? I mean, think of all the pressure and expectations a single child faces from his family!"
"Feelin' it right now!" Andrew mutters.
"So - "
"OK, Ma." Joe finally takes pity on the couple (either that or he can't stand to hear any more advice himself) and intervenes. "Didn't you have something for the baby?" he asks, directing his mother towards the suitcases.
"Oh, right. Now which suitcase was it in? I can't remember if I put it in with the dress or in the other suitcase with the quilt we made for baby Annie."
"Well, we'll look. Now come on." As the spry elderly lady moves off, Joe Paxton comes back to stand before the couple. "Do whatever you want," he says hurriedly, his embarrassment evident. "Just ... please ... I don't want details."
"Got it."
"No problem."
The day of Annie Grace Paxton's birth, as recorded by the instant messenger at Colden Books.
IT'S HERE.
Isn't she about due?
I don't know how she even manages heels.
At least it's not the stilettos.
I want to know where she got tailored maternity business suits.
Perhaps the baby will come tearing out like in "Species." That would confirm everything we've suspected.
*Later*
Her PA just fainted flat on the floor!
He is so canned.
Jordan to the rescue...why is he carrying towels?
Here comes Drew.
He makes running in a suit look good.
I will never understand how a guy like him ended up with somebody like her.
How did Colden get stuck with her and Andrew get sent to another imprint?
Sounds like the baby's on its way.
God bless baby Paxton. One day of peace in this town!
The Pax Paxtona?
Not funny.
Only Margaret Tate Paxton wouldn't let a hot guy like her husband carry her out of the building.
She could be dying and she wouldn't let the EMTs wheel her out. What's childbirth in comparison to death?
I don't know why she just doesn't order that baby to stay put until she gets to a hospital. She could do it.
*Later*
Baby's 6 lbs, 1 oz. Girl. Mom and baby are fine.
Of course they're fine. Would you expect less from Margaret Tate Paxton?
If they weren't, she would order them to be fine.
I don't know if I'm happy that a nice guy like Andrew Paxton has kids or scared that Margaret Tate reproduced.
Do we get the kid a suit as a gift?
A book?
Cinnamon light soy latte?
A publishing company?
Psychiatric help?
I'm really curious to see how this kid turns out.
Like split personalities?
Jordan's venturing into the lion's den. Drew asked him to bring some stuff.
Praying that the Lord closes the lion's mouth...
Good night...the Tate-inator's reproduced. Oh, the horror! The horror!
ANDREW PAXTON: You do realize I can see everything on here.
Oh, crap.
END