First Week Home with Baby

What's that saying -- be careful what you wish for? After 16 months of infertility treatments, 37 weeks of pregnancy, and nearly 24 hours of labor, Harry Mose entered the world on Tuesday, August 29, 2006. You might think, given more than two years of anticipation, that my husband, Stephen, and I would've been ready for our tiny, perfect newborn. Wrong. We were so busy wishing for a baby that we didn't consider what to do with him once he got here. We'd leapt into the deep end, and there was nothing to do but swim.

7 a.m.: We're at the hospital, hoping to take 4-day-old Harry home; jaundice kept him there an extra night. Excitement, hormones, and anxiety fuel me; I've barely slept since my water broke on Monday.

10 a.m.: Harry is discharged! As instructed, we brought our car seat with us, but we can't figure out how to loosen the straps. Forty minutes and four nurses later, he's safely loaded. Walking through the hospital lobby with my husband and baby -- my family -- my face hurts from smiling. I want the world to stop and celebrate this moment with us.

12 p.m.: We sit gazing at our boy. Stephen and I can't see a resemblance to either of us. But Harry's hairline, thin around the sides and bald on top, reminds me of my grandfather Harry, his namesake.

3 p.m.: Breastfeeding is shockingly painful. In the hospital it was hardly pleasant, but there were nurses and lactation consultants to guide me. Plus, the cycle is relentless; Harry nurses for an hour, followed by a diaper change and being soothed to sleep -- and an hour later his thin, delicate wail signals he's hungry again.

4:30 p.m.: Harry has pooped three times but hasn't really peed. Afraid he isn't eating enough, I call every lactation consultant I can find, but it's Labor Day weekend; nobody's around. Finally, someone answers the phone, and miraculously she's free tomorrow.

6:30 p.m.: Harry naps in our bed. When he stirs, I pull him gently to me, the sweetest feeling ever. I cry, happily.

8 p.m.: Harry's Snuggle Nest, placed between our pillows so we can co-sleep, is a vast canyon separating me from Stephen. It's as if Harry gets his own king-size bed while Stephen and I are in separate cots. We'll never have sex again.

8:30 p.m.: I love Stephen more than ever -- but I hate that he falls asleep in a snap, while I obsess about the next feeding, dirty dishes, and co-sleeping. Every baby snort wakes me up.

9:30 p.m.: Operation Co-Sleep is abandoned. Stephen places the entire Snuggle Nest into the crib while Harry snoozes peacefully inside it, then climbs back into our bed to spoon. Heaven.

10:30 p.m.: Harry begins cluster feeding, nursing every hour, and his latch is excruciating. We're swaddling and soothing a la The Happiest Baby on the Block, but he'll sleep only in our exhausted arms. Through tears of frustration, I'm struck by how pure and beautiful he is. None of my complaints matter. Harry is here.