It was a cold wintry night, with a slight drizzle. We were driving home from the hospital with our brand new bundle of joy. I’m sitting in the backseat by the baby. I glance at him and smile. He was resting in his car seat, looking cute as a button. I look at my husband. He’s acting as if he’d never driven our car before. He’s looking straight ahead with a wary expression. I peer ahead, and don’t see anything alarming. The traffic isn’t bad. Just your occasional car here and there. But Muru (my husband) looks like he’s taking his driver’s license test in Lincoln tunnel during the morning rush hour!
Then something struck me. We went to the hospital a happy couple. We’re coming back a family. Somewhere between those two car rides, our lives had, completely and irrevocably, changed.
The carefree couple, who’d shopped during early labor until
the first contraction hit hard, were now careful, concerned
parents. That night, my husband came to a textbook-style stop at the Stop sign. Waited for two tiny dots in the distance to materialize into a car, and let it clear the intersection completely before he took a left turn.
Yes, we were definitely parents!
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