I thought the hardest part of bringing my newborn home would be the pain, the exhaustion, and the panic of being a first-time mom. I was wrong. The real shock came when my husband looked at our daughter, looked at his car, and made it clear which one he cared about more.
I gave birth to my daughter on a Friday morning, and by that evening my husband left us outside the hospital because he did not want her in his car.
I was wearing a ridiculous amount of layers underneath my sweatpants that pressed in all the wrong places.
I had our baby strapped into her infant carrier, one shaking hand hooked through the handle. The diaper bag was digging into my shoulder.
Logan walked next to me, carrying nothing. Not the diaper bag.
Not the discharge papers. Not even the blanket the hospital had sent home with us.
We got to the pickup lane, and he stopped cold.
I thought maybe he’d forgotten where he’d parked.
Then he looked at the carrier and said, “I’m not putting the baby in my car.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He pointed through the back window.
“The seats.”
At first, I honestly thought he was joking. “Logan, open the door.”
He did, then stood there looking at the back seat like it was a museum display.
“My leather is brand new,” he said. “If she spits up in there, that smell is never coming out.”
I actually laughed once.
It was disbelief more than humor. “I just gave birth.”
He shrugged. “That doesn’t change the seats.”
I remember standing there with the carrier cutting into my arm and feeling like my brain had stopped working.
I said, very slowly, “You want me to do what, exactly?”
I thought I had to be misunderstanding him.
“You want me to take our newborn home in a taxi because you’re worried about the car?”
He crossed his arms. “My seats cost more than your whole wardrobe. I’m not wrecking them on day one.”
He had that car because of me.
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