Twenty years ago today was Easter Sunday: a beautiful celebration of the reason and purpose for our faith. Our family marked a secondary celebration of joy and new purpose that day: the transporting home of our precious firstborn baby girl, born two days earlier.

New Daddy completed his first baby-wrangling session to prepare the newborn. A hat and onesie ensemble, pre-planned months beforehand, outfitted the little one for the trip. Layers of blankets warded off the potential spring chill. Tiny Girl’s new infant seat, equipped with straps for every little limb, served its first mission.

A nursing assistant transported New Mommy by wheelchair to the hospital entrance. It seemed like weeks, not days, since she had been outside for fresh air. Her cautious counterpart, New Daddy, retrieved the car and parked in the front circle for delicate cargo pick up. Tiny Girl, ensconced in her safety seat, was gingerly placed, buckled in, and secured for transport.

Fluid overloaded, bandaged, tired New Mommy maneuvered into place and stretched exhausted limbs to fasten her seatbelt. The twenty minute ride home seemed forever. New Mommy cringed at the bumps that jarred her beaten, scarred body.

Both parents, so new to the worries and cares of family life, considered the what-ifs. What if we crash? What if we go off the road? What if backward-facing baby has an emergency in the car seat?

But Tiny Girl slept through the uneventful ride home. And so the new family began.

(Originally posted April 2016.)