At 2:30 in the afternoon on the last day of 2005, our daughter Elisha emerged into what had been a bit of a miserable day until that point. In what seemed like a big thumbs up from the world, the clouds broke into a lovely afternoon sky through the window of the room we’d been encamped in since the night before.
As anyone who knows me will agree, I’m not so big on babies. However, Elisha, at just under seven pounds, looked kind of cute from the moment I saw her. Actually, she looked kind of gross the moment I first saw her, but once she’d been cleaned up I thought she looked very cute indeed.
After a group photo and a minute or so getting to know mummy Fliss, she was handed over to me to hold and entertain while Fliss was tended to. As if recognising that first impressions count, Elisha was quiet yet inquizative – my favourite baby traits, it has to be said.
Holding your baby for the first time is quite an odd experience, really; up until that point we’d been strangers – heck, I didn’t even know what sex she was until she arrived on the scene. But, after seeing her and holding her in my arms, I knew that I’d do anything for her and everything to protect her from that moment forward.
Six hours later they let us leave the hospital and take her home. Although it was cold in the house and we were tired as could be, it was great to be back in comfortable surroundings with our new daughter. A fantastic neighbourhood firework display as the midnight hour approached was the icing on the cake of what had been a memorable day for us.
The first night went as expected – Fliss was up a few times and ended up in the spare room, while I woke for a few moments each time Elisha stirred before falling back asleep. Easy on the eye roll – we’d decided that was the best course of action when we went to bed. ;o)