The Car Seat
Read Time: 4.5 mins
“Ok,” I said slowly, “confession time.” I grinned in a way that I hoped would show my optimistic side.
Christine’s gaze moved slowly in my direction.
“I don’t actually know how to attach the baby in the car seat.”
Christine continued to stare. It was 23:05 and the foyer of the hospital was near empty. Next to the big revolving door, in an avocado green wheelchair, sat Christine holding our newborn son. She stared through the bay glass windows at our twenty year old beaten up Toyota Corolla Verso, presumably thinking about what it would be like to return home after the three most eventful days of her life. Next to her stood her soon be divorced wife, if she survived the night.
As the birth approached I had prepared a lot of things. Carseats, it turned out, had been overlooked.
Luckily for me, only a few hours earlier, Lena, my most reliable and most german friend, had visited us in the hospital and helped me carry our numerous bags down to the carpark.
“I, umm,” I began nonchalantly. Lena’s head snapped round as if she knew I was about to say something problematic.
“I don’t actually know how the car seat works.” The words sort of fell out.
“What?”
“I….” I began again.
“No, I understood.” Lena said matter-of-factly, “it was disbelief.” I chuckled, painfully. Lena continued, “I think your wife would like it if we work out how to put the car seat in the car.”
Lena is very clever.
It took one competent German, one idiotic new mother, and a few confused minutes in a deserted underground carpark to work out how to attach the seat in the car. As we stood back to admire our handiwork, I said, “that was so much easier than I thought it would be.” I gave her a hug. She strode off in the direction of her car, leaving me feeling rather chuffed with myself — how hard could parenting really be?!
From her wheelchair, Christine pursed her lips, silently watching as I attempted to wrestle the baby’s seatbelt loose.
“Do you know how that works?” Came a friendly voice from behind me.
Prior to exasperating my wife, I had caused a commotion for the hospital night staff. I had to explain, to a slightly bemused receptionist, that I had used the car park incorrectly as my wife was in labour and I was an idiot.
“You were supposed to ring the bell, not take a ticket.” The kind but tired receptionist had said.
“Yes, but I forgot. So now I have a ticket from 3 days ago.”
Upon leaving Lena, I had tried to pay for my 3 day old ticket. The ticket machine spat it out before crossing its arms and ignoring any further interaction I attempted to have with it.
The receptionist eyed me up and down when I finished my story, chuckled and took my problem to her rather grumpy colleague who, with no small amount of persuasion on the receptionists part, allowed me to leave.
“I don’t,” I said smiling, relieved to find that it was the friendly receptionist who was inquiring.
Power walking across the large empty entrance hall, she beamed at the baby who I had placed delicately in the seat. She bent down to his level and started to press buttons I didn’t even know existed, loosening the straps and allowing her to thread his arms and legs through the appropriate holes.
“Once you know, it’s easy,” she said. “These straps loosen from the top and then when you press this grey button and pull on this long black strap, it’ll tighten.”
“Thank you so much,” I could hear the relief in my own voice.
From that moment on it was smooth sailing. I installed our son in the back of the car, went back into the hospital to help Christine waddle to her seat, and collapsed into mine.
“She was nice,” I said, “I’m not sure if I would have ever worked out how to do that.”
“Hmm,” Christine said slyly, “well, here we go.”
And off we drove. To start our life as a family of three. Home.
