When we arrive in the delivery suite there’s a little crib set up with blue blankets. It confirms in my crazy labour mind what I already know in my heart to be true. This little bubba is going to be a boy.
After a fast and furious (but strangely enjoyable labour) he is here. Big blue eyes, long lashes and the most perfect Caesar haircut.
A mumma’s boy right from the start he makes the first few days pretty hard and I’m keen to get home. I loved the hospital stay the first time around and can’t understand why I’m feeling so trapped here now.
I’ve packed our bag and I’m just waiting for the squawk so I can feed him, change him and get him dressed to go home.
As I remove the little flannelette hospital gown I trace the outline of the love heart and the “C” on his chest. I tell myself firmly to throw it on the bathroom floor with the rest of the dirty laundry.
I can’t.
I’ve never stolen anything…ever and I’m feeling a bit sick. I try to justify to myself why it would be okay for me to take it home with me. I know it’s completely the wrong thing to do, but for the first time in my life I really don’t care.
I stuff the little gown into the side pocket of our overnight bag. I feel my heart begin to race. I can hear it thumping in my ears. The heat and redness in my cheeks has risen steadily from my toes. My breathing quickens and I stare anxiously at the telephone. I’m willing it to ring.
Finally, the phone does ring and I gather my baby, my bag and myself. I flick off the light and head for the elevator. I just want to get myself, my baby and my hospital gown as far away from the scene of the crime as I can.
With heart still pounding I walk briskly through the hospital foyer and out into the cold July night. I’m thankful for the darkness and the freshness in the air.
More souvenir stories here.
