Driving home with The Boss

Driving home with The Boss (AKA, Luca) was an experience like no other. We tip toed across the bitumen, carefully carring her out of the hospital like she was going to break. Our hands awkwardly protecting her face from the harsh sun light, arms burning from the weight of her in the capsule, (Lifting dead weight. A sacrifice of bodily pain mothers do to make sure their cubs are comfortable) 

We strategically placed her in the car, strapped her in while fussing all over her.

Limbs, straps and buckles going everywhere.

We had practiced doing this at home but without the body.  It was way more awkies with a blobby baby body. She was so tiny that the capsule swallowed her and there was a lot of triple chin action happening.

She didn’t look very comfy in the thing.

 

On edge and full of excitement to get home, Lach and I belted up and began the drive home with the little human who made our family now three. I became incredibly protective.

Everyone on the road all of a sudden became a threat to us. “Indicate you idiot”, “Don’t you think you can cut us off like that”, “Slow down you moron” my hormonal mouth snapped.

I now realised what those ‘baby on board’ stickers were about. I always scoffed at them in the past. “As if that’s going to make people drive safer”. They don’t, but I felt like we needed one. I felt like everybody should know we had precious cargo on board for the very first time and that the traffic should part way for us to safely get our newborn home. An arch of olive leafs for us to drive under also.

Maybe even an applause.

 

Pulling into the driveway, alive and well, I heard myself say,

“This is it. This is really it. Shit’s about to get real”.

 

We nervously carried her into the house, through the kitchen and into our bedroom where we plonked her in her capsule on the floor and just stood back and stared at her.

And stared.

And stared.

“What do we do now”? I said.

“I guess we wait” Lach replied.

“Wait for what?”

“For the boss to tell us what to do”.

And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since she got home. Doing exactly what she tell us to.

We spend that first, cosy week sleeping, cuddling and feeding baby Luca. We didn’t leave the house. We didn’t want to. Long mornings were spent snuggling in the sheets, obeying her every sweet command.

 

But that did take me awhile to get used to. Her commands. Her being the boss of me. It was almost like I went through a grieving period for myself. Like I was mourning the departure of a part of me. Realising that I wasn’t number one in my life anymore. She was. Realising I couldn’t just do things when I wanted. Allowing someone to have complete authority over me. Making me let my cup of tea go cold. Not letting me have a shower, a pee, watch a full tv show, cook dinner, eat dinner, sleep, talk, breathe, live! I was now in her command.

 

Life was different.

If you yourself have had a baby then you will know, that nothing, no-one, no advice, opinion, book, blog, documentary of sorts can prepare you for those first few weeks at home.

On night six, I clearly remember sitting – no not sitting, slumping – slumping on the couch in a soggy breast milked, exhausted zombified state and grieving for myself. My freedom, our relationship, our life as we knew it. I don’t think I’d cuddled Lach properly in that six days until that moment of grieving. I held him so violently tight and just let it all go. It rumbled up so deeply through my entire body, it shook my insides as it came up out of my throat. I howled, and howled and howled. “What have we done” I sobbed. “What have we done?”.

 

I was exhausted, I was hungry, I was sore, emotional and hormonal.

 

I had been warned about the baby blues. Was this it? I’d never felt anything like it before. I was so incredibly sad. I was probably scaring the shit out of Lachlan. He must have been thinking I was losing it. Cascading headfirst into post natal depression or something (which mind you, I was terrified I would get because of my anxiety.) He held me tightly back and I swear he was also crying . He felt it too. The giving in and sacrifice of his life. I (we) lost it for an entire 15 minutes before I suddenly sat up, wiped the snot on my sleeve, took a deep breath and realised there was no going back. I couldn’t just shove her back into my guts and sew it up again. I picked myself up and took myself into the shower and let the hot water wash the freedom and life as I knew it off me. I watched the old me swirl down the drain. And I haven’t felt those feelings again since.

 

I feel new feelings. Good feelings. Ooey,  gooey lovey feelings.

Now we can’t imagine life without her. In fact life is much better with her.

We have substance. A purpose. Fulfilment.

Our relationship is at another level. Our love for each other changed. It grew, deeper.  I admire Lach as a father. He is beautiful with her. We are parents. We created.

 

We would race through house when we heard her waking from naps to see who could get to her for the first cuddle. Pushing and shoving each other all the way through the house to her basinet. Trying to be the last one to touch her as she drifted off to sleep. I’d pat her head then go to leave only realising Lach had just patted her after me, so then I’d pat her back, then Lach would, then me… Back forth, back forth like idiots until one of us would laugh a bit too loud and she would wake. Idiots!

 

We were so in love with her. With us. We were a family. The cycle is complete with her.
But don’t get me wrong, keeping the relationship all peachy is hard work. Come the end of the day when we climb into bed, our goodnight kiss is a mere smudge of a thing these days. Barely just lips touching from pure exhaustion. I can barely manage saying goodnight before I start dribbling and pass out. “Goonigh…”

 

 

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