There are milestones in life when we think, "Now, I am really a grown-up." Maybe it is college or marriage or once we become a parent ourselves.
When my husband and I drove our first baby home from the hospital, I looked at Gavin nestled deep into his car seat and thought, "This is it. All he's got is us. Are we really allowed to take him home and take care of him?"
There would be no more nurses to take over during the night or to answer questions. I was a little hesitant, but my husband was more than anxious for the three of us to be home as a little family: Mom, Dad, baby... and mother-in-law.
I had invited my mom to stay with us for the first few days, not knowing what to anticipate. I was pretty sure I would need her there or was supposed to have her there or, if nothing else, simply wanted her there to dote over my beautiful newborn.
Ironically, my first night home was Mother's Day -- and what a day it was. I had been warned about the perils of pregnancy; I had read many books about impending motherhood; I had even taken both a birthing class and a breastfeeding class. But nothing prepared me for the day my milk would come in. For me, that occurred on my first Mother's Day.
And it was awful.
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