I don't really remember what life was like before Chandler was born. Sure, I remember sleeping in and shopping trips without having to worry if he was hiding in the middle of a rack of clothing, poised to jump out at some unsuspecting shopper. But, I really don't remember what exactly it was that I did all day. Motherhood has definitely curbed all marathon phone conversations with friends, and I vaguely remember that the backseat of my car didn't have tiny, greasy handprints all over the windows.
I distinctly recall on my second day postpartum, glancing over at Chandler, swaddled snuggly in his clear, plastic crib and thinking, "Oh, wow, he is mine, and he's coming home with me, gasp." I guess I had been in some kind of fog, thinking it was all a really long daydream. Kind of like when you're driving to work and you imagine winning the lotto, and sailing around the world in your yacht. Except this was REAL. Later that day my mom lovingly whispered to me, "Don't expect too much from me, I've raised my kids." Crap? What do I know about babies? I remembered my little sister coming home from the hospital, but she was four months and I was five years old. I never changed any of her diapers! Of-course I had babysat, LOTS, but they were mostly toddlers and older. Well, I bottle-fed a baby, once... with supervision... I could do this!
The surreal feeling overcame me again the next day as we loaded up for the ride home from the hospital. Sitting in the backseat, next to my son as my mother whisked us away, I couldn't help but wonder, "is it okay for the hospital to just let me leave with him like this? Surely, not?!"
