Day one home from the hospital, we’re all exhausted and cranky. The transition home was, as I’ve said, weird. (and , there are photos at the end of the birth story, three posts back in my journal; more to come).

My mother came by, ostensibly to make things easier. With her she brought my stepfather, who was terrified to touch the baby. She also brought The Truth about how to hold, feed, dress and love a three-day-old infant, which was of course different from what I was doing. We ran into a little trouble with this, because when I was in hospital, she said very strongly to me that it was absolutely critical that I listen to whatever the hospital folks said to me, because they knew what they were talking about. Unlike, apparently, the wonderful and talented doctor and midwives I had chosen for my care. Grrr. When she came over to critique my new mom skills, we had several conversations that went something like this:

“Let me give you a piece of mom advice. You should be holding the baby like this, not like that, because she can’t hold her head up yet. I’m sure they talked to you about how to hold the baby at the hospital.”


“Well, what did they say?”

“That they were really impressed with how comfortably and naturally I was holding her, and that she had wonderful neck control, so I didn’t need to worry about her.”

“Oh. Well.”

In addition to The Truth, my mother brought Baby Clothes, because clearly a dresser-ful was not enough. The Baby Clothes were pink, and covered with little ruffles and bows. My mother knows the gender thing is important to me, and I’d asked her before Rio was born not buy any gifts for the baby that she wouldn’t buy for a baby of the opposite gender. She proudly displayed this collection of, honestly, adorable little pink dresses, and, before I could say anything, shot me a perfect deadpan look and said, “What? I would have bought these for a boy.”

I LOVE my mother.