Welcome Home

“Welcome home!”

The cacophony of voices, the sea of smiling faces in my living room —my stomach turns at the sensory assault as we walk through our front door.

“WOW,” my husband says, his grip on my shoulder tightening, communicating everything he cannot say right now.

Hold it together. Smile. We will fight about this later.

I am 2 days postpartum, returning home from the hospital. My nipples ache from my baby’s futile attempts to latch, my head pounds from going 48 hours with no sleep, and my vagina is currently held together with stitches. My mother-in-law has taken it upon herself to organize the “welcome home” party I explicitly told her I did not want.

Our beautiful newborn daughter, Annabeth, sleeps soundly in the car seat hanging from the crook of my husband’s arm.

“Let’s see her,” my mother-in-law coos, stepping forward and reaching for the car seat. “Grandma wants to hold her newest addition.”

I step in front of my husband, blocking our daughter from her view.

“Eileen, I need a minute. I need to feed her. I need to catch my breath.”

I clumsily grab the handle and side step my husband, walking into our bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind us.

The silence on the other side of the door is palpable. Then the hushed whispers begin.

“It’s tradition in our family, Jolene. I threw a welcome home party for Trisha and Megan, and they loved it! Everyone gets to meet the baby, and we will clean up everything before we leave!”

Eileen had been trying to convince me for months—pretty much since we announced our pregnancy—to let her throw this party. Each time, I had politely declined.

“I understand, Eileen, and I appreciate the sentiment. We have decided we want a few days just the three of us to get settled in. We need that time to bond with the baby. You are welcome to visit when we are ready.”

“I think you’re being a little silly, Jolene. The rest of our family needs time to bond with the baby, too! Remember, she’s not just yours!”

At 9 months pregnant, I didn’t have the energy to fight her. My feet were swollen, I could barely walk, and I naively thought my wishes had been communicated and would be respected.

“Just let her have the party,” my husband had said every time I brought up my annoyance at her insistence, “she’s already upset you won’t let her be at the birth.”

I did not feel bad about setting this boundary. I already allowed Eileen so much access to our lives, a spare key to our home, Sunday dinners, dictating our holiday plans to the point that my soft-spoken parents had asked if they had done something wrong when we declined their Christmas invitation for the 3rd year in a row. I felt secure in my decision.

“She’s always been upset she only has boys. Watching someone give birth has been a dream of hers,” my husband had mumbled as he packed our hospital bag.

“Frankly, I don’t care,” I had replied curtly. “I’m terrified enough as it is. I don’t have the mental capacity to worry about your mother's feelings.”

Eileen knocks softly and doesn’t wait for a reply before opening our bedroom door. Her condescending smile makes my blood boil.

“Jolene, darling, please consider that many of your guests have driven hours to be here. Everyone is so excited to welcome you home and meet Annabethl! They’ve brought gifts and food. No one has come empty-handed.”

“Eileen, I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in days, and I just want to be alone with my baby. I told you again and again I did not want you to do this.”

“Of course you're exhausted! This is why it works out so well! You rest and let me take her.”

Eileen starts to make her way toward our bed.

“She needs to eat,” I say, once again, putting my body between Annabeth and her.

“Surely you bought formula? I know you are insistent on breastfeeding, but a bottle won’t kill her. My boys all drank formula, and I think they turned out ok.”

She cocks her head and smiles, showing no sign of giving up.

“Eileen, get out of here,” I respond with a quiet fury.

Eileen throws her hands up, exasperated.

“I have thrown a welcome home party for each of my daughters-in-law, and not one of them has ever been this ungrateful!”

“Well, I’ll be the first! It’s not helpful. It’s performative. And I won’t participate. Get everyone out of my house,” I snarl.

“At least let me hold her.” Her voice is small, defeated.

I push past the pang of guilt that threatens to break my resolve.

“I would have let you spend all the time you wanted with her if you had listened to me. You ignored my needs and did what I specifically told you not to do. There are so many things you could have done to be truly helpful, and you chose not to. You’re not holding her right now.”

Tears spring to Eileen’s eyes, but she remains silent, turns, and walks out the door.

Her muffled voice drips with artificial sweetness. “Jolene is not feeling very well. She’s requested we reschedule. I’m so sorry to those who drove all this way. Please feel free to pop by my house. Margaret, could you pack up the food?…”

I tune out the rest of her words as I gently unbuckle Annabeth's straps and lift her out of her seat.

I pull back the comforter and climb into bed, cradling her in my arms.

She stirs, her lips puckering in anticipation.

I take a deep breath. The nurses had assured me she would learn to latch properly. My milk had come in the night before, and my breasts feel heavy and engorged. I don’t know if I can do this. My throat tightens, and anticipatory tears fill my eyes.

“Ok, baby girl, it’s just you and me. No audience. You take all the time you need.”

I bring her to my breast and feel her small mouth clamp around me. She suckles hungrily, and my breast cramps with my letdown. Her eyes shoot open and meet mine, surprised and grateful for the flow of milk.

“Atta girl,” I say breathlessly, stroking her cheek with my thumb. I realize, with a smile, that these are our first moments truly alone together, and I settle back into my pillow and breathe a sigh of relief.