Going Home: Car Seats, Cuddles, and Mild Panic

So, labour is done and your baby is finally here. After four nights of blood tests, baby checks, and enough toast to open a café, I was desperate to go home. I’d romanticised the moment we’d walk out with Jude — wrapped in a blanket, tucked in his car seat, us glowing and calm like a Pampers ad. (Spoiler: it was not that.)

Discharge day took forever. I’d made up my mind I was leaving, and the hospital was like, “Great! Now wait five hours while we print one form and find your iron tablets.” Dan was on snack duty and car seat retrieval while I sat there alternating between staring lovingly at Jude and quietly panicking about surviving a night without a call button.

Eventually, a lovely midwife came in, handed me some videos to watch about going home, and asked me roughly 462 questions. I nodded, took it in, and felt slightly more prepared. But then we had to wait another two hours for my iron tablets. In the end, I told them to keep the pills — I’d come back for them. I needed out.

Then came the car seat. Oh, the car seat. Jude looked absolutely microscopic in it, like we were strapping a kitten into a space shuttle. I rang the buzzer just to check if we’d done it right — because apparently when it comes to car seats, my confidence levels are sub-zero. The midwife said it was perfect, and I pretended to believe her.

Dan carried Jude out of the hospital like he was carrying the Crown Jewels. Obviously, I stopped him for the obligatory “leaving the hospital” photo, which makes us look serene and blissed out — not like two people running on zero sleep and sheer adrenaline.

We loaded Jude into the car, and I climbed into the back seat like it was my new permanent residence. I held his hand the whole way, convinced it was the only thing keeping him alive. Dan drove at roughly 12 mph, avoiding potholes like they were landmines. I was the worst backseat driver in the world. “Slow down. Not that slow. Watch out for that car! Was that a bump? He definitely felt that. Is he breathing?” Honestly, Dan deserves a medal. He didn’t even snap — though I think he knew better than to argue with a woman who’d just birthed his child.

Walking into our house with Jude in my arms was surreal. It was like seeing everything for the first time — but now with a tiny human attached to us. I didn’t move from the sofa for hours. I just sat there, cuddling him, trying to memorise every detail of his little face. We’d waited so long for this. Home.

I hadn’t realised how safe I felt in the hospital until we stepped into our living room and it was… silent. No buzzers, no soft knocks at the door, no nurses checking in. Just us. It felt like someone had taken off the stabilisers and said ‘Off you go then!’ with no instructions.

Family arrived not long after — my mum, my sister, and Dan’s mum. We’d kept the hospital bubble visitor-free, so this was their first time meeting Jude. I was emotional. They were emotional. We were all doing that new baby staring thing, like he was the Mona Lisa. But before any snuggles could happen, I had to send Mum out on a panic shop because, plot twist: we were now formula feeding, and we had not prepared. She returned with a prep machine filter, a Rapid Cool, and some emergency formula. Hero.

I was happy to let my family hold Jude, but Dan was… not so sure. He hovered like a security guard at the Crown Jewels handover. Eventually, he caved, and watching them cradle our son was beautiful. Surreal. Emotional. I was sore, sleep-deprived, and totally overwhelmed — but in that soft, squishy way where love just pours out of you in quiet waves.

Dan’s mum made everyone a brew. We opened thoughtful gifts — tiny clothes, soft toys, flowers. It all felt weirdly dreamlike, like we were watching our life from the outside. And then, just as quickly as they came, everyone left.

And that’s when it hit us. The first night. Alone. Jude had this little frown like he was judging us — like, ‘You two have no idea what you’re doing, do you?’ And honestly, he wasn’t wrong.

We carried Jude upstairs like he was made of glass, took turns holding him in bed, and couldn’t bear to put him down. The next-to-me crib sat empty for days because I was convinced he’d feel lonely. So we stayed awake in shifts, each doing three or four hours at a time. Not that either of us really slept — we were too busy staring at Jude, waiting for him to move, or make a noise, or blink.

At one point, Dan offered to change Jude’s nappy. Middle of the night, pitch black. He looks down, points at Jude’s willy, and says with complete confusion, “It’s standing up.” And then — psssshhht. Pee. Everywhere. We both burst into laughter-tears — the kind of laugh you do when you’re so exhausted your brain is melting. Neither of us thought to cover it. Rookie mistake. Our first parenting fail — and somehow, it was the funniest, warmest moment.

Every squeak Jude made had us on high alert. Nothing had changed about him from when we were in hospital — but the absence of nurses suddenly made us question everything. Google became our fourth team member that night. “Is it normal if a baby hiccups for 20 minutes?” “How do you know if a baby is cold?” “Is he breathing?” (again).

While Dan tried to nap next to me, I sat upright, Jude curled on my chest, watching Shrek on mute and listening to him breathe. I felt like his whole world — and he was becoming mine. It’s one of those core memory moments, stitched into my heart forever.

The next morning, we zombie-shuffled downstairs. I was still in full recovery mode, so my job was cuddling Jude and drinking enough tea to float a small boat. Dan transformed into a full-on domestic superhero — cleaning, cooking, making sure I ate and drank. Anytime I tried to move, he’d tell me off gently and plop me back on the sofa with a snack and a baby.

That first night? It was magical, terrifying, exhausting, hilarious — and everything in between. Nothing can really prepare you for it. One moment you’re bursting with love. The next, you’re crying over pee. That first night felt like stepping off a cliff — but we held each other, held Jude, and landed softer than I thought we would. Turns out, love is a pretty good safety net. And through it all, you’re just doing your best — figuring it out one nappy, one cuddle, one bleary-eyed hour at a time.