Hootsy Bootsy and Dingbat Have a Baby

Summary: It's not every day those damn cheerleaders have a brat of their own, but the only reason Mrs. Hagberg's at the hospital is because they tricked her into coming here… probably.

A/N: Holy crap. This is my sixth Mrs. Hagberg piece... and it probably won't be the last. Thanks to Skillz for being awesome and looking over this for me. And thank you all for reading!

The other Hagberg fics are Opposite of Adults, Those Damn Cheerleaders, Leader of the Packrats (shortened to Packrats), Married In Blue Always Be True, and The Years Have Seemed Short But the Days Go Slowly By.

Amsterdam's not for her.

For one thing, there's reefer everywhere and the little baggie of potpourri she bought at that cafe does a terrible job of masking the smell.

To make matters worse, she can't find a single margarita in this godforsaken city.

It's time to move on so she looks at her map that has all the places she's visited crossed off. Her travels have taken her across the world, but she hasn't been back to the States in almost three years.

Her eyes fall on the x over New York City.

Getting mugged isn't exactly on her bucket list, but at this point she'll take all the life experiences she can get.

When she steps off the plane at 3 AM, she's a little disappointed that nobody's there to pick her up. Then again, no one knows she's coming.

So she decides to leave a message for a couple she knows.

To her surprise, they're awake.

"If you're not too drunk, I could use a ride," Mrs. Hagberg says. She glances at her watch. "And a place to crash."

"Who is this?" Santana says frantically. There's some shuffling in the background and someone––presumably Brittany––moans.

Mrs. Hagberg shudders at the thought of what she's just interrupted. Those assholes would answer the phone in the middle of sex, not even bothering to stop once they answered. "An old friend."

"…Lord Tubbington?" Santana guesses.

"No, Dingbat. Put Hootsy Bootsy on," Mrs. Hagberg orders.

"It's for you," a relieved Santana tells Brittany.


"Tell your dingbat wife I'm coming over."

Brittany gives her a pained laugh. "Mrs. Hagberg? Is that you?"

"Yes!" she says, exasperated. "Heavens, did you two delete my number or something?"

"You said we weren't allowed to have it because we're irresponsible yuppies who would sell that information to a foreign government. Like Canada. Besides, now's not really a great time for visitors. I'm kind of… going into labor."

Well at least that answers that question. "Fine! You go to the hospital and I'll housesit," she bargains, unfazed by what Brittany's just told her. Babies are worse than teenagers and right now she needs some sleep.

Brittany agrees to let her stay in the guest room and tells her where the hide-a-key is between labored breaths.

Jetlag's a bitch so by the time her cab pulls up to a modest two story house in Brooklyn she's about ready to pass out. She finds the key under the fakest looking rock known to man and wipes her feet on the NOT WELCOME mat with the NOT crossed out.

When she wakes up the next morning, her cell phone is buzzing. She shuts it off and a second later, the home phone starts to ring.


That could only mean one thing.

"Can you please come to the hospital?" Santana, on the verge of tears, begs. "Brittany's still not fully dilated yet and there's a snowstorm and our parents' flights got cancelled and you've probably done this for like, a million grandkids and I'll even pay for your cab and–"

Mrs. Hagberg sighs. "What's the address?"

After she hangs up, she ambles over to the front door and pokes her head outside. Sure enough, there's a fresh blanket of snow coating the ground and it doesn't look like it's stopping anytime soon.

She goes back to the guest room and digs her parka out of her suitcase.

It still smells like reefer and she's starting to worry this might be a permanent odor, but she bundles up nonetheless and hails herself a cab.

She thinks back to what Santana said about how she's probably done this before. The truth is, she hasn't. She doesn't have any grandchildren of her own because she never had any children of her own.

Her students – the least annoying ones anyway – were the closest thing she had to a family. Although that's not entirely true. There was her dead husband. He counted too.

She pays the cab driver herself since Santana's going to be broke for the next eighteen years or so and somehow manages to navigate the maze within the hospital. She takes a deep, calming breath before stepping inside Brittany's room, preparing herself for whatever nuttiness is taking place behind that door.

To her immense relief, they're just… sitting there. Watching the Weather Channel. Waiting on the National Forecast.

It's a little ridiculous that these are the same girls who terrorized her driver's ed classroom way back when.

Except Hootsy Bootsy and Dingbat aren't really girls anymore; they're women.

And they're having a brat – er, child – of their own.

"What's the word?" she asks them.

"It's almost time," Brittany tells her, gripping Santana's hand.

"Can you wait like… ten or so hours?" Santana says to her wife. "My mom called. The four of them decided to drive out here."

A bead of sweat drips down Brittany's face. "I'm not clenching my legs together any longer than I have to, Santana."

"But they'll miss it!"

"This baby picked a helluva time to be born," Mrs. Hagberg snorts.

Brittany sighs, looking exhausted and cranky. Mrs. Hagberg knows the feeling. "Maybe I should sneeze or something. It works for pandas."

A nurse comes to check on Brittany thirty minutes later. "You must be Grandma!" she says kindly.

Santana snickers.

"Great-grandma?" the nurse guesses.

Mrs. Hagberg gives her a sour look. "No relation."

"Ah. So how do you ladies know each other?" The nurse asks out of politeness.

"She's our teacher," Brittany beams.

She's. As in 'she is'. As in she never stopped teaching them. It's a sweet sentiment, even though it was probably unintentional on Brittany's part.

The nurse smiles. "Okay Brittany, we're going to take you down to the delivery room now. You two can follow behind us."

"I'm not going in there! Are you nuts?" Mrs. Hagberg objects, eyeing the three of them warily.

Brittany gives Santana's hand another squeeze.

"C'mon," Santana says, "You don't go to the movies to sit outside the theater."

Mrs. Hagberg crosses her arms. "The last time I went somewhere with you hooligans I almost lost my marbles."

"I lose my marbles all the time, but then I just buy new ones," Brittany says deliriously as they wheel her out the door.

Mrs. Hagberg gets dragged into the delivery room anyway, despite her protests. Brittany's legs are spread wider than the Erie Canal, but she couldn't look away even if she tried. "Gross."

"Don't be so dramatic," Santana tells her as she makes her way to Brittany's side, taking hold of her hand once more.

"You're one to talk," Mrs. Hagberg fires back, going around to Brittany's other side, purposely avoiding her outstretched hand.

"Name one example!"

Mrs. Hagberg grins. There are so many to choose from. "How 'bout the time you broke up with ole Hootsy Bootsy over there?" She places her hands on her hips. "If that ain't dramatic, I don't know what is!"

"Agh," Brittany moans. Mrs. Hagberg's not entirely sure, but she thinks she's probably agreeing. Or the baby's starting to crown. Either one.

"Uh, at least I didn't flip my shit when Brittany was learning how to do U-turns."

"I'm not the one who bowled a 17!"

"It was a 94!"

In between them, Brittany chokes out a sob. "Santana, if you miss the birth of our baby because you're arguing with my favorite teacher, I will kill you."

"Okay," Santana mutters. "You don't have to be so d–"

Brittany cuts her off. "DON'T YOU DARE SAY THE D WORD!"

They only get threatened once more after that, when the doctor scolds that if they don't shape up, he'll kick the two of them out of the delivery room. Brittany glares at them until they apologize.

Still, it's hard for Mrs. Hagberg to feel guilty. Misbehaving is much more fun when she's the one doing it. She can see why the girls used to love stirring up trouble.

The rest is kind of a blur, partly because the hospital lighting seems to get dimmer by the minute and her eyesight maybe isn't what it used to be.

Nothing is, really.

"I'm just spitballing here, but how about Winehouse?" Santana says hours later.

Apparently Hootsy Bootsy and Dingbat thought of everything when it came to their baby… except for a name.

And now she's snowed in this damn hospital listening to this riveting conversation.

"We're not naming our daughter Winehouse."

"Fine, I'll wait for a son."

Brittany looks at Mrs. Hagberg. "What's your first name?" she asks.

"Gaynell," she whispers.


"Gaynell!" she says louder.

"Nope," Santana replies, shaking her head. "I'm not naming my kid Gaynell."

Brittany seems to agree. "What about your middle name?"


"Veto again," Santana says immediately. She pauses. "So wait – your full name is Gaynell Frances Hagberg?"

"No. My maiden name is Prude."

Santana bursts into laughter. "God, it's no wonder we never knew anything other than your last name. I think even your friends call you Mrs. Hagberg."

"Brad doesn't call me anything," she says wistfully. "Best friend I've ever had."

"Please tell me that somewhere there's a country song written about you," Santana jokes. "Gaynell Prude. I'm gonna tell Rachel that should be her stage name."

Brittany looks at the baby girl in her arms. "She's not any of those things, Mrs. H. Sorry."

"It's okay, Brittany," Mrs. Hagberg promises. "It's just a shame Hootsy Bootsy's already taken."

"What about Brynn?" Santana says out of the blue. She's been scrolling through her phone for quite some time now looking on one of those baby name generators. It's cheating in a way, but Mrs. Hagberg supposes that if the internet had been around when she was born, she wouldn't have been stuck with the most terrible name known to man.

"Brynn," Brittany says, trying it out. "I like it."

They both turn to her expectantly. "What?" she says.

"What do you think, Mrs. Hagberg?" Santana asks as Brittany hands the baby over to their former teacher.

"What I think is that I thought I told you two to wait 'til I was dead before having kids," Mrs. Hagberg chastises. Her face softens at the sleeping baby wrapped up in her blanket. The room is so quiet she can hear Brynn's tiny heartbeat. "For once, I'm glad you didn't listen."

Amsterdam wasn't for her.

But New York might be.