So, now it's time to pack the diaper bag.
I had JD remove everything that had been randomly crammed in it over the last four months, together we determined exactly what we wanted or needed to take for Garrett for his big day coming home from the hospital and repack it all neatly.
JD reaches for the diapers and starts stuffing every nook and cranny with our disposable goldmine. I swear he must have put 12 diapers in the bag.
"What are you doing? Why so many?" I ask.
Whenever JD starts an explanation with, "When I was in combat..." I know the argument is over right there. I just listen and concede to his point (however strange).
"When I was in combat," he begins, "there were three things I could never have enough of: smokes, socks and underwear. Anything else didn't matter. And since our son doesn't smoke and we've already packed him socks all that's left is his equivalent of underwear."
Why my husband is comparing our son's homecoming from the hospital (which is five minutes from our front door) to months in Iraq, under fire, I'm not sure, but I shrugged and said, "Okay." He even packed Garrett his little digital woodland camo beanie just in case he needs to hide from the insurgents while battling his way down the road.
Like I said, there is no arguing with the, "When I was in combat," explanation.
It is strangely cute, and mildly interesting how JD has been increasingly comparing this whole experience to combat. He is preparing for it like he'd prepare for war, with determined concentration and no-nonsense focus on absolute essentials, preparation, proper recon and intelligence. He sees the hospital as behind enemy lines and the hospital staff as potential hostiles. His increasing reference to bodily harm and martial arts maneuvers when it comes to discussion of medical staff performing undesired procedures on me is starting to worry our Lamaze instructor. Though it is adorable to see how much he wants to protect me and his baby.