I've read every book I could find, took the classes, watched the videos, babysat Parker two afternoons a week, practiced getting up in the dead of night from a sound sleep by blasting bagpipe music over the intercom at random intervals. In the six and a half months since Angela sat me down on the couch at the Jeffersonian and said, "we procreated," I have turned fatherhood into a veritable exercise, a new course to master. But tonight is like the final exam and I'm blanking out.
"You're doing great, Mrs. Hodgins," the doctor says encouragingly.
"Shut up," Angela instructs through gritted teeth. "And Montenegro."
"Pardon me?"
"My—gasp—last name—is—Montenegro!" the last syllable comes out like a curse and I take the opportunity to offer an update to Booth and Brennan. "Almost there," I announce. "Or at least that's what Dr. Cracked in there says. This, for our viewers just tuning in, is exactly the same thing he said three hours ago."
"I can sit with her for awhile," Brennan offers.
"Sure. Just don't take anything she says literally."
Brennan smiles in that way that she does when she isn't really sure what the hell you're talking about and goes into the room.
It occurs to me that I don't have anything to give the baby—nothing I can give to him the moment he enters the world, nothing for him to carry around and say, "My daddy bought that for me." It's ridiculous, but it seems important, impossibly important, as if everything in and after this moment depends on this present.
"Booth," I say, "You wanna go somewhere with me?"
We come back just before the baby is born. In my hand I have a small stuffed spider—biologically incorrect, but undeniably cute—purchased from a nearby Toys-R-Us.
"The baby is crowning. I think it has black hair," Brennan reports.
"Would you like to catch?" the doctor asks.
"Um…" The birth class teacher's voice pops into my head. Birth is an amazing experience! Be as involved as you can, dads! "Sure."
The doctor demonstrates how and where to stand and then steps back. Within minutes, I'm holding my screaming, purple, goo-covered, black-haired baby girl.
"It's a girl," I announce proudly, incredulously. We'd chosen to keep the gender a secret, but I always thought she was a boy. "It's a girl."
An hour and a half later, the room is quiet. Angela is sound asleep and I sit in the chair by her bed, holding our newborn daughter. She has springy dark hair and cloudy blue eyes—"They might change," the nurse said, "but she just might have her daddy's baby blues."—and her name is Marigold. No particular reason except for Angela's whimsy. I call her Mari. "Hey, Mari," I say softly. "Hey, Marigold, I got something for you. You wait here and I'll get it for you." I set her in her bassinette and reach for the bag. "See, Marigold? Spider. Brachypelma Emilia, I think. You can never be too sure with these stupid toys. That's for you. That's from your daddy."
Mari blinks and sighs, and even though it's impossible, I swear I can see her smile.
I've read every book I could find, took the classes, watched the videos, babysat Parker two afternoons a week, practiced getting up in the middle of the night by blasting bagpipe music over the intercom at random intervals, but nothing could have prepared me for the real thing, for the look on Angela's face, for the rush of love I felt, more intense than anything else I've ever known.
It wasn't all sweet and sunny, though.
Babies look a little like aliens until they're cleaned off.
Hell hath no fury like a laboring woman without pain medication for 12 hours.
Birth might be amazing, but it's mostly grotesque.
And I look at dirt, slime, and bugs for a living.