First Day

My first day home alone with both girls was like something out of a movie—overly dramatic and completely unrealistic. But I swear that what you are about to read is the gospel truth.

The day started simply enough. I took Nora to the doctor early while Ryan stayed with a sleeping Lyla. Being alone with a one-week-old was blissfully easy, the appointment went quickly, and when I got home Ryan was still on time to work. Lyla slept until ten (!) and ate three bowls of Cheerios for breakfast.

I'm so totally nailing this, I thought.

My confidence knew no bounds. I was even bold enough to brave the post office to pick up the baby carrier we ordered. I knew it would be infinitely easier to pick up the carrier if I actually had the carrier, but it was a Catch-22 I just couldn't break. So I loaded both girls in the car, drove down the road, unloaded both girls, held Nora in my arms while holding Lyla's hand in a never-ending line and picked up the package.

The box was light, but gigantic. It took my whole arm to carry it. This left Lyla without a hand to hold and elicited the pity of two separate strangers, one who opened the door for us as we left and another who loaded the box into the car while I wrestled blankets and five-point harnesses.

We were almost home and I was already planning our next foray to the manager's office (to pick up yet another package) when I heard Lyla's cry of distress in her limited vocabulary:

"Uh-oh!"

This usually means she has dropped a toy or needs a diaper change. But this time it meant "Mom, my Cheerios disagreed with me and came right back up, so now I'm all messy and I need your help." And that's all the detail I'll give about that.

So I took Nora from her carseat (which had somehow avoided contamination) and locked Lyla in the car (don't worry—it was an overcast, cool-ish day) while I ran up the stairs to our apartment with Nora in tow. I put her in her crib and ran down to get Lyla from the car, making sure to lock our apartment door behind me.

I wrapped Lyla in a blanket and carried her upstairs too, wondering when in the world I would have time to go back down and clean up the car. I put Lyla straight in the tub and cleaned up the trail leading to the bathroom while she played.

It was lunchtime before Lyla was clean again, and Nora was hungry too. Her tiny, newborn cries were too much for me to take, so I reheated yesterday's Macaroni and Cheese for Lyla with one hand while using the other to feed Nora. It was about this time that I realized I should probably close the blinds.

I couldn't lift Lyla into her booster while feeding Nora, so I let her sit in a chair. It was too big for her and her food was practically above her head, but she was patient with me. Bless her heart.

Ryan texted me from work to see how my day was going. I responded by asking him what he knew about cleaning vomit off carseats.

Blessed nap time finally rolled around and there was a moment's quiet. I brought the carseat inside and Googled how to take it apart, but I couldn't find anything. I switched the emergency loads of laundry I'd done that morning. I sanitized the bathroom where Lyla had bathed. I changed my clothes for the ... third time, I think? I started thinking about dinner. I had to lay down.

I'd scarcely done so when someone knocked on our door. I feared it was going to be a neighbor telling us to be quiet and almost didn't answer the door, but when I finally did I saw an angel.

My friend Tamara stood on the porch, pregnant and holding on to her two-year-old daughter with one hand and carrying a casserole and loaf of bread in the other.

Manna from heaven, I tell you. Manna.

That night, after we put Lyla to bed and while Nora was snoozing in our bedroom, Ryan tackled the carseat with a bottle of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. And as I watched him scrub and manipulate buckles until the seat came apart, I somehow felt more in love with Ryan than I ever had before.

I went to bed that night exhausted, a bit because of the day but mostly because of the pain medication I was still taking as I recovered from childbirth. I was also happier than I'd ever been in my life—honestly, genuinely happy from the deepest part of my heart to the tips of my toes.

All in all, not a bad first day.