Hospital Bubble: Sleep-Deprived, Sore, and a Little Bit in Love

Pregnancy? Done. Labour? Survived. Now it was just us — me, Dan, and our baby boy — living in a strange little bubble in the hospital. I had to stay in hospital due to my blood loss and Jude not feeding very well. And honestly? I kind of loved it.

Right after the birth, I was stitched up (glamorous), the drugs wore off (less glamorous), and suddenly it was just the three of us. Alone. Once the nurses left it was a combination of what the fuck do we do now and enjoying every precious moment with Jude. We were lucky enough to stay in the same birthing suite, so the first night was spent doing what all new parents do: taking turns pretending we knew what we were doing, while surviving on three hours of sleep and a million cuddles.

That night was a mix of awe and absolute chaos. I kept peeking over into the cot to check Jude was breathing every five minutes — and Dan, bless him, kept saying “He’s fine” while clearly doing the exact same thing when he thought I wasn’t looking. We were both running on adrenaline and toast.

Speaking of which — toast. I hadn’t eaten much during labour (turns out pushing a human out of your body is a bit distracting), so when the midwife asked if I wanted tea and toast, I nearly kissed her. And yes — the rumours are true. That first post-birth toast? Life-changing. Michelin star. Crispy, buttery perfection.

Being in the hospital with a brand-new baby felt kind of safe. Any issues we had, the nurses were on hand to help. We had problems with Jude feeding and nurses came in with advice, practical help, gentle encouragement, and about eight different positions to try. I cried more than once trying to feed him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world… until it wasn’t. I felt like I was failing — even though every nurse said it was normal.

I was terrified to hold him at first. He looked so tiny and fragile I genuinely thought I might snap him. One nurse literally had to show me how to pick up my own child — 10/10 for patience. I changed his first nappy in slow motion like he was made of glass. It took me 20 minutes. Pretty sure he’d filled it again by the time I finished. The midwife reassured me that babies are stronger than they look — which helped a little.

Of course, there were also the checks. All the checks. Nurses coming in what felt like every five minutes — checking my blood pressure, checking Jude’s temperature, asking about feeding, poking and prodding. One nurse gave us a mini heart attack when she said Jude’s blood pressure was too low… only to realise the machine was faulty. (Thanks for the brief cardiac event.) Then there was a concern about his little hand being stuck under his chin — they worried he might need physio. But within 24 hours, it sorted itself out, and the concern faded.

Now, let’s get honest about postpartum bathroom adventures. I didn’t wee for 24 hours after birth. Not because I didn’t want to — but because my brain was basically saying, “No thanks, we’ve had enough trauma for today.” I’d been cut, stitched and was in that raw post-labour state. Eventually, a nurse told me I had to go, so I hobbled to the toilet, braced myself, and… ouch. It stung. Bad. As for pooing? That was a whole other level of mental prep. It felt weird and wrong and stabby, but it happened. Slowly. Painfully. (Dignity? Left it in the delivery room.)

Then came the first shower. I was paranoid about my stitches and determined not to let any shampoo near anything important. So I washed my hair with my head in the shower and the rest of my body hanging out like some sort of postpartum flamingo. Then I shuffled in fully, armed with fragrance-free everything, while Dan stood by like my personal lifeguard. Again — it hurt. But mostly I was terrified of tearing something open or getting an infection. Honestly, I was more scared of showering than I was of pushing out a baby.

As for Dan — he was a total rock. Tired, confused, slightly traumatised, but fully present. He took turns sleeping on the horrible hospital bed, fetched water, held Jude while I showered, and made me laugh just when I needed it. He later admitted he felt helpless sometimes — wanting to take pain or exhaustion away from me but not knowing how. Just being there was more than enough.

For those three days, we barely knew what time it was. We kept the blinds shut, the lights low, and lived in a little cocoon of cuddles, nappies, and broken sleep. Dan and I took turns trying to nap on the world’s tiniest hospital bed, while Jude dozed on our chests like the star of the show. It felt weirdly timeless — like the outside world didn’t exist. Just the three of us, figuring things out one feed, one cry, one nappy at a time.

And then, before we knew it, it was time to go home. I didn’t want to. The hospital was our safety net. There were always nurses around to reassure me, answer my endless questions, and help with Jude or when I felt overwhelmed. Being discharged felt like being pushed off a cliff with a baby in my arms. I remember looking at Jude in the car seat (after a solid 25-minute faff strapping him in), and thinking, they’re letting us take him? Just like that? The car ride home felt terrifying. Every bump in the road made me clutch my stomach, and I sat in the back staring at him like a hawk.

So here’s my advice if you’re staying in hospital — whether it’s for a few hours or a few days: ask all the questions. Anything that pops into your head, no matter how silly it feels. Take advantage of the help while it’s there. Watch how they feed, bathe, change and swaddle. And when you do go home? Write down anything you're unsure about so you can ask your midwife or health visitor later. Because this whole parenting thing? It’s a wild ride. And it’s okay to feel like you’re winging it. We all are.

But most of all — soak up the bubble. It’s scary and sacred and chaotic and precious.

You only get it once with each baby. And it’s magic.