It's funny, Brennan thinks. Of all the things she's done in her life – all the murders she's helped solved, all the things she's studied, all the digs she's been on, all the places she's seen, even all the books she's written and all the publicity she's gained – she finds this the single most amazing thing she has ever done. Something that millions of women before her have done and millions after her will continue to do. It was the first thing she thought when they handed her this tiny, screaming little baby: This is the most amazing thing I have ever done. It's what her body was designed for. It's one of the commonalities between women of all cultures and all time periods, something that anthropologically has not changed very much other than cultural rituals associated with the process.

She never wanted to be a mother. Then again, she never wanted to be a lot of things (for example, Booth's partner, a wife) that were now important to her. And now that their little girl is in her arms, only hours old, she already can't imagine her life any other way. The pregnancy had been a surprise, yes, but her life had changed, she had changed, so much since the time she decided that she didn't want to have children that it wasn't an entirely unwelcome surprise.

"I don't know how to be a mother," she had admitted to Booth during one of the many times they discussed the situation. She knew it weighed on him at first, worrying about how she felt about the pregnancy, the baby, knowing it wasn't something she had ever wanted. "My own mother abandoned me at fifteen, it's not like I have a good role model to work from."

"She was a good mother up until then, wasn't she?" he asked her. And he was right. "You go with that, and by the time our kid gets to be fifteen you'll have it figured out. Promise."

She hoped that he was right. The baby in her arms was depending on her, she knew that. She knew that this child needed her to take care for it. Be the protector, the provider of every basic need the child needed to have met. She knew that this child would need her when she came home from school and the boy she liked had done something cruel like tape a Brainy Smurf to her locker (and she knew from firsthand experience Booth would be useless in understanding that, so it was up to her).

Their daughter was only hours old – five hours, to be exact, and seventeen minutes – and yet she could already see that she was going to look like her father. Booth thought she was crazy, but she could see it.

"She has symmetrical features similar to yours, and a similar bone structure," she had told him, and only he hand noticed the odd look on the nurse's face.

It was quite amazing, really, that this person who had lived inside of her for 37 weeks (or, to be precise, 36 weeks and six days) also looked so much like Booth. It was the two of them put together in one actual living, breathing human being. Until she had their daughter here, in front of her, she hadn't realized, really, how powerful that was.

"A miracle," she immediately says aloud.

"Huh?" Booth asks, turning to her. He has the remote in his hand and had been fiddling with the muted TV, trying to find out the score of the game he missed last night while his daughter made her way into the world, kicking and screaming (just like her mother).

She was a little jarred to realize that she had said her thought out loud, but so be it. "Two," she gestures between them, "become one," she gestured at the baby.

He remembers the conversation to which she was referring and smiles. "A miracle. Yeah, Bones. Our little girl is absolutely a miracle."

Brennan smiles and looks down at their daughter again. "It really is amazing how natural protective instincts immediately develop to insure that a mother protects her offspring."

Booth studies her for a minute. "That's squint talk for saying you love her."

"I suppose my feelings could be effectively stated in that manner as well, yes." She looks to Booth and admits, "I just hope I can be… what she needs."

He puts down the remote and focuses all of his attention on his partner. "Look. I've never once seen you step into a role you haven't taken by storm. You know? You can't just be a forensic anthropologist; you have to be the top forensic anthropologist in the nation. You can't just be an author; you have to be a best-selling author. You can't just be my partner; you have to be part of the team with the highest success rates in solving crimes in America." He smiles a little. As he adds, "You can't just be a wife, you but have to be the most amazing wife in the world. So the way I see it, Temperance, is that not only are you going to be a mother, you're going to be a fantastic one. She's a lucky little girl."

Brennan blushes a little, overwhelmed by all the praise. "Thank you. Although I think your description of me as a wife is more based in personal opinion than facts."

"Mmhmm. Now hand her over, you should rest."

"But, Booth…"

"You've got to be tired. Just watching what you did wore me out." She'd refused the idea of drugs right away, saying that giving birth was a natural process and that she wanted to actually experience the process of giving birth and that often times women become so drugged that it is difficult for them to push. And she wouldn't be Temperance Brennan if she hadn't added in a bit about drugs only being part of the ritual of giving birth recently from an anthropological time frame. She wasn't like most women, and Booth couldn't imagine himself with anyone else in the world.

She is still protesting her exhaustion. "I slept a little, earlier. I just want to hold her a while longer."

"You're exhausted. I can see it in your face. Now hand her over, she's part mine too, ya know."

"I know," she says, and he's not sure if she misses his sarcasm or she's ignoring it. "The structure of her cheekbone suggests that…"

"Stop admiring her bones and hand her over," he teases, and Brennan gives in, carefully shifting the baby from her arms to his. She realizes that the Tylenol the nurse had given her earlier is wearing off.

"Are you sore?" Booth asks, as if he's reading her mind.

"Just a little. I'm okay."

Booth nods. "Rest. I think the Sandman's paid you a couple visits already."

"I don't know what that means," she says sleepily, as she allows her eyes to flutter closed.

He chuckles to himself and looks down at their daughter, thinking of the things her mother is going to teach her. She won't have a clue who the Sandman is but she'll probably walk into kindergarten knowing a handful of Greek and Roman gods. It's okay, he figures. He can teach her about the Sandman and show her cartoons and movies without a basis in reality, like those with talking animals and her mother can take care of the rest.

They'll make a good team.