After a few days in the maternity ward we were allowed to try and get by on our own at home. I guess for most people the novelty of having a new person living under their roof wears off more or less without incident. In our case, it wasn't all smooth and painless.
The biggest reason for this was that we didn't need to worry about whether our milk supply would be sufficient for the baby's needs. In fact, her mother began to produce the stuff in such quantities, that expecting the girl to eat her way through it all was like expecting a French poodle to happily devour a buffalo each day. So basically, it was a good thing. No nutrition shortage and no need to buy baby formula. The downside, of course, was that during the first night home Mom was at a point of explosion and immediately developed mastitis, which raised her temperature through the roof. So it was back to the hospital for us at about 4 am. Which was nice.
Now this was the moment it really hit me. I almost fainted for worrying about my newborn daughter and her mother. And what's weird is that I think I might have worried a bit more about the former than the latter, although the baby was just fine. Funny how your mind works in a crisis. From that point on I realised I was officially living rather more for the baby than even myself, at least when something was even remotely considering thinking about beginning planning to threaten her. Which, in a way, brings me to the topic of my next entry, i.e. something along the lines of "What the devil happened to me and my identity after becoming a father?" and "Why didn't anyone tell me it was going to be like this?" Stay tuned for more.