“Think of it as a Battle of the Births remedial activity,” Stu answered.
And her heart rate shot back up. “So, as of right now, we’re not even on pre-parenting grade level?”
“Parenting can’t be graded, Georgie. It’s more of a spectrum of skills,” Lenny said, drawing a bell curve into the air with his hand.
She stared at the invisible line. “Where would we be on that spectrum?”
The man pointed into the air at a spot decidedly below and far, far from the top of the curve.
“Yikes!” Jordan exclaimed. “We’re not even close to the bell?”
She shook her head. They couldn’t be that terrible.
“We’ve tried to figure out what skills we need. I googled parenting books and got two hundred and sixty-eight million different results.”
“And I searched the phrase ‘how to be a good parent’ and got six hundred and fifteen million results,” Jordan added.
She threw up her hands. “Where do you even start? We’d read part of one book only to have another tell you to do the opposite.”
Seriously! What did people do?
“The thing is, Georgie and I want to be the best parents we can for our child,” Jordan said softly, and his words went right to her heart.
She pressed her hand to her abdomen. She wanted that, too.
Jordan and his father had butted heads after his mom passed, and she’d loathed her mother for parading her around at pageant after pageant for a good chunk of her youth. Sure, they were in a better place with their parents now. Jordan and his dad were doing great, while she and her mom were getting there.
Well, getting there might be pushing it. She was, of course, still trying to decide how and when she wanted to spill the beans to her mother about the little bean growing in her belly.
But that unease churning inside wasn’t her craving a little pineapple salsa, and it wasn’t even her uncertainty on when to share the baby news with her mom. No, what had her chest tightening and her mouth growing dry was that she didn’t want their alien blueberry peanut to view them as heavy-handed or insensitive.
There had to be a book or a course or some parent voodoo out there that could teach them how to keep their child alive and make sure they didn’t become mega-asshat parents.
The answer had to be there. Except, there was a decent chance it was buried in the internet soup of over sixty gazillion child-rearing results.
Lenny’s features softened. “There is a lot of information out there. That’s why we’ll implement an FBI. Stu and I will curate a hands-on learning opportunity that will ease you into parenting and also have you interacting with real babies. We’ll also put together a list of narrowed down parenting resources so you can educate yourselves on the nuts and bolts of caring for an infant.”
“And we can center the FBI activity around your places of business. A gym and a bookshop are great venues for young children—if structured safely,” Stu finished.
She nodded. Okay, this is what they needed. Some direction. Some guidance.
Lenny opened a folder and slid out a sheet of paper. “Take this. It’s a go-bag checklist. We know that you’re only at the end of your first trimester, but it’s never too soon to have your hospital bag packed and ready.”
“Have you chosen where you’re going to deliver?” Stu asked.
If she weren’t pregnant, she’d do a cartwheel because she knew the answer to this question!
“Ding, ding, ding! Good job, good job! I did a good job! I know the hospital!” she sang out.
Lenny and Stu cocked their heads to the side while Jordan gave her what-are-you-doing-superfreak eyes.
Another note to self: under pressure, only Stu is allowed to break out into song.
In the blink of an eye, she channeled a composed Jane Eyre. “We’ll be having our baby at Rose Medical Center,” she answered, doing her best not to look insane and really glad she’d read the pamphlet Joyless Joyce had given her with the hospital info.
“Rose is also Georgie’s favorite color,” Jordan added with the hint of a smirk.
“Pink is your favorite color?” Lenny asked.
Oh no! He did not just equate the color rose to pink.
“Rose isn’t pink. It’s rose. The color between red and magenta,” she answered, biting back a smirk of her own.
The color rose had quite an impact on their wedding, and it appeared to be playing a part in this phase of their lives as well.
“You picked a hospital because it was your favorite color?” Lenny asked, and boom, they were back to looking like inept expectant parents.
“No, no, not at all. Rose Medical Center is where my obstetrician has hospital privileges,” she finished, crossing her ankles in a demur little move to appear—again—not insane.
“We’ll make sure to add an FBI activity that incorporates Rose Medical Center,” Lenny said, taking out a notepad from his pocket and jotting down the information.
Jordan leaned forward. “Can’t you guys tell us exactly what we need to know—what we need to do? We’re up for the challenge. Our whole relationship is basically built on challenges.”
The parenting experts watched them closely.
“And love,” she blurted, not wanting Lenny and Stu think they were a pair of lunatics who only wanted a baby as a challenge.
“Yes, absolutely! Tons of love, but also a decent amount of challenges,” Jordan said, amending his statement but still managing to step in it.
Lenny chuckled. “You two will be great parents. But every parent is different, and every child is different. You’ll have to figure out what works for your family.”
Family.
There it was. A family unit. Their own tribe. A party of three.
“You can retrieve Faby now. We’ve kept you long enough,” Lenny said, cutting into her thoughts.
She glanced at the dolls, who all looked like Faby.
“We’ll be in touch in the next week or so with a facilitated baby intervention activity,” Stu added as he and Lenny stood and pushed in their chairs.
She and Jordan followed suit, coming to their feet, but neither of them moved. She glanced at her husband, who nodded contemplatively at the spread of plastic infants.
He didn’t know which one was Faby either!
“Your infant care simulation doll has a band around its ankle with its name,” Stu said over his shoulder as the men left the room.
She turned to Jordan, and they stared at each other until the door closed behind the parenting experts, then each released a relieved breath.
“Which one is ours?” he asked with a nervous laugh.
“I don’t know,” she answered as he gathered her into his arms.
“What do you think?” he asked, resting his chin on her head.
She leaned into him. “I think I could do with a bowl of tortilla chips and an endless supply of pineapple salsa.”
He chuckled and rubbed soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “No, about today, Ms. Pineapple Machine.”
She gave a slight shrug. “When you’re the worst, there’s nowhere to go but up. And, at least for today, nobody’s reporting us to the real FBI.”
He gazed down at her with a sweet boyish grin. “I love you, messy bun girl.”