The Big Welcome: Baby’s First Day at Home

The nurse pops her head back in a minute later, holding a tiny blue knit hat and a soft white onesie dotted with little yellow ducks. “All set for discharge,” she says, smiling. “You’ve got your little man’s paperwork here—name, birth time, weight, length. Don’t lose that, it’s your first official baby souvenir.” Papa takes the card with shaking hands, his thumb brushing the messy scrawl of Baby’s birth weight: 3.2 kilograms, 51 centimeters long. He tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right next to his heart.

Mama is still half-sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, Baby curled against her chest, his tiny face smushed into the neck of her hospital gown, breathing soft, huffing little puffs against her skin. She’d refused to put him down in the plastic bassinet the second they’d gotten back to the room, saying she “just needed five more minutes” to feel the weight of him, the warmth of him, before the world rushed back in. The nurse laughs, handing Mama a soft swaddle blanket patterned with stars. “Got everything you need for the car ride? The car seat’s installed, right?”

Papa’s face goes bright red. He’d spent three hours the night before wrestling with the car seat instruction manual, flipping pages back and forth so many times the corners were bent, and had still ended up calling his cousin who’d had a baby six months prior to walk him through it. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, holding up the car seat like a trophy. “Cousin Mia helped. I think it’s on right. Probably.”

The drive home is slow. Papa keeps the speed under 40 kilometers per hour, even though the speed limit is 60, and keeps glancing in the rearview mirror every thirty seconds to check on Baby, who’s propped up in the car seat staring at the dangling plush monkey hanging from the handle above his head. Every time the monkey swings, Baby’s mouth twitches into a tiny, gummy smile. Mama reaches over from the passenger seat to squeeze Papa’s knee. “He likes the monkey,” she says. Papa nods, his throat tight. He’d cried when he’d first strapped Baby into the seat, when he’d seen how tiny Baby looked against the big padded seat, like a little peanut lost in a bean bag. He’d wiped his eyes quickly before Mama could see, but she’d noticed anyway, and had reached over to squeeze his hand.

When they pull into the driveway of their small cottage, the porch light is already on, left on by Mama’s mom who’d come over the day before to drop off a lasagna and a pile of baby clothes. A tiny plush tiger sits on the welcome mat, its stitched smile grinning up at them, a little note tucked under its paw that says “Welcome home, Baby!” Papa heaves the car seat out of the back, grunting as he lifts it—turns out car seats weigh a lot more than they look, even the infant ones. He stumbles a little on the front step, and Mama lunges to steady the car seat, her hand hovering over Baby’s tiny head. Baby huffs, annoyed at the jostle, and Papa freezes. “Sorry, little guy,” he whispers, like he’s talking to a tiny adult. “Daddy’s clumsy. Won’t do it again.”

Inside, the house smells like lavender and the lasagna Mama’s mom left baking in the oven, the heat turned down low so it stays warm. The living room corner where they’d set up the baby nursery is lit by a soft yellow night light, shaped like a moon, that glows so dim it doesn’t hurt Baby’s eyes if he wakes up in the middle of the night. The wooden crib is pushed right next to Mama and Papa’s bed, just like the nurse had suggested, so they don’t have to get up and walk across the cold floor in the middle of the night if Baby cries. The changing table is set up right next to the crib, its top lined with a soft changing pad, and stacked on the shelves below are piles of tiny onesies, stacks of white diapers printed with little clouds, packs of baby wipes, a tube of white diaper rash cream, and the little squeaky duck toy Papa had bought three weeks prior, when he’d gotten tired of Mama telling him he wasn’t “taking the pregnancy seriously enough.” He’d squeezed the duck so many times while wrapping it that the squeaker was already a little worn out.

Mama walks over to the couch first, sitting down slowly, like she’s carrying something precious—because she is. Baby is still curled against her chest, his little fist gripping the collar of her sweater, his breath warm against her neck. Papa sits down next to her, staring at Baby like he can’t believe he’s real. “Do you think he knows us?” he asks quietly. Mama laughs, soft. “I think he knows my voice. I talked to him every day when he was in my belly.” She leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Baby’s downy head. Baby’s nose twitches, and he lets out a tiny, mewling cry, his face crumpling like a little ball.

“Oh no,” Papa says, panic rising in his voice. “What’s wrong? Did we hurt him? Is he hungry? Did I drive too fast?” He leans in, his face inches from Baby’s, his eyebrows pinched together in worry. Baby’s cries get louder for half a second, then he stops, his mouth opening into a tiny yawn, his eyes still closed. “I think he’s just tired,” Mama says, smiling. “All the new sounds and lights are probably overwhelming him. We should change his diaper and get him swaddled so he can sleep.”

Papa puffs out his chest like he’s been given an important mission. “I’ll do it,” he says, standing up so fast he almost knocks over the side table. “I watched three TikTok videos last week about how to change a diaper and swaddle a baby. I got this.” He holds his arms out like he’s expecting to catch a football, and Mama laughs as she transfers Baby into his arms. Baby’s tiny body goes boneless for half a second, then his hand curls around Papa’s thumb, his grip surprisingly strong. Papa’s breath catches. He’d held Baby in the hospital room, but this is different—this is his baby, in his house, and he’s supposed to take care of him. He walks over to the changing table like he’s carrying a priceless vase, setting Baby down on the soft changing pad as gently as he can.

The first thing he notices is how tiny Baby’s hands are—only the size of his thumb, the nails translucent like tiny little shells, the skin soft and wrinkled like a little prune. Baby’s feet are even smaller, his tiny toes wiggling like little worms. Papa’s throat feels tight again. He unbuttons the onesie Baby’s wearing, the one the hospital gave them, and pulls it off slowly. Baby huffs again, wiggling his little body, and then Papa sees it: the diaper is soaked through, and there’s a tiny yellow stain on the front of the onesie.

“Uh, Mama?” he calls, his voice cracking a little. “I think he peed.” Mama walks over, holding a stack of baby wipes and a clean diaper, and laughs when she sees the stain. “That’s normal, babies pee a lot the first day or two. It’s just his body getting rid of extra fluid. Don’t worry, the onesie’s washable.” She hands Papa a wipe, and he stares at it like he’s never seen a wipe before. He’d practiced on a doll the week before, but the doll hadn’t wiggled, and the doll hadn’t peed on him. He lifts Baby’s legs up gently, holding them by the ankles, and wipes his bottom carefully, Baby kicking his legs the whole time, making soft cooing noises.

Halfway through wiping, Baby shifts, and a tiny stream of pee shoots out, hitting Papa right square in the chest. Papa freezes, the wipe hanging in midair, as the pee soaks through his t-shirt. Baby stops wiggling for a second, like he’s surprised too, then starts to gurgle and coo, like he’s proud of himself. Papa stares at his wet shirt for two full seconds, then bursts out laughing so hard he snorts. Mama is laughing so hard she has to lean against the changing table, her sides hurting. “Oh my god,” Papa says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe he just did that.” Baby gurgles again, like he’s laughing too.

By the time they get Baby’s bottom cleaned up, Papa’s shirt is soaked, and there’s a tiny smudge of yellow on his jeans. He peels the wet