Jiggety-Jig

We're home.

Last night, after the 6PM feeding (which actually starts at 5:15), we kissed our boy's soft head, piled our souvenirs from this strange vacation into the car, and headed for home in a similar condition to how we arrived.

With my daughter, I arrived at the hospital on a night of witchy weather, in full-blown labor, had a baby just three hours later, and left after a couple of days with my little girl in the back seat. This time, I went to the hospital without even a twinge of pain and everything happened--blizzards, contractions, surgery, birth--while we were cocooned there. Days later, in just enough of a soft druggy haze to give a Vaseline-smear effect to everything, I came home to a warm dinner in a clean house, dry roads, and with an empty car seat in back. I might as well have been out running errands.

Every kid who has come home from college, a summer abroad, or even a lost weekend knows the feeling of no longer quite fitting into the space they left behind. It couldn't be much easier for me here: my daughter and pets are overjoyed to see me, my stepmother is keeping everything running brilliantly, friends are helpful and supportive, but it's all strange.

I don't miss the hospital, certainly, but the hospital existed to house Griffin. I saw his face as I walked to the bathroom and could smell him on my clothes. This house doesn't know him and has no memory of him. Even his room hasn't had to make space for him yet, doesn't have to acknowledge that he exists. There was no chance of forgetting Kendall while we were at the hospital, but what if we forget Griffin while we're home?

Four times a day, we will climb into the car and head back there. We've gone once already and I was relieved that I didn't just dream the last few days. He's there; the nurses recognized us--clearly this happened. We held him, fed him, smelled his head, and tickled his philtrum to make him squint his eyes, purse his lips, and turn away. And then we left again, back out in the bright, cold day.