There are few moments in life more surreal than leaving the hospital as a first-time mother. My son was born on a Sunday and we left the hospital that Tuesday. He weighed less than a sack of potatoes, barely more than a two-liter bottle of soda. Although incredibly small, I’m still in shock he actually fit out when the time came; I was convinced he’d be stuck in there forever.

I loved my pregnancy. Sure, towards the end I was running into things, couldn’t get up from low couches, constantly used the restroom, and got winded sitting up … but he was safe. I worked out regularly and ate healthier than I ever had in my life, or have since.

Although he still hadn’t really figured out how to eat and had lost several ounces, they still let me walk out the door with him? They were crazy! I could not wrap my mind around it. For less than two days we were in the hospital failing at figuring it out. They saw … they knew. His survival skills were that of … a newborn baby; one who didn’t think eating was necessary for staying alive.

I had yet to change his diaper and hoped we could figure it out. It came all too fast, time to be let go … into the wild.

The only instruction I was given was, “Don’t shake the baby,” and I was handed a paper showing all the different possible colors of his waste and what they meant. I was waiting for the owner’s manual; it never came.

They checked one last time that our bracelets matched, while I kept wondering when I’d have to sign all the papers I was sure I’d have to sign to have this kid released to me. Apparently clipping off our bracelets and handing me a folder of his stats and saying “bye” was all that was required to hand me my innocent baby boy.

They didn’t ask where I was taking him, there was no test … it was disturbing. I was taken down in a wheelchair, and my son and I were abandoned in the foyer.

I waited with my bundled newborn on that bench while my mother brought my car around. When the nurse left I thought: “Um…wait! You’re just going to let me leave with this innocent child!? How do you know I’m going to be good enough for him? What if I have an emergency? What if his waste is green? What if we get in a car accident? Shouldn’t you wait to discharge us until the weather is better? What if he spontaneously combusts? What if he doesn’t like me? What if I slip on the ice and drop him? You’re not a very responsible hospital, are you?”

Our chariot arrived and I slowly moved with my son towards the door while checking behind me, like “Really? NO ONE is going to stop me from taking this precious baby?”

And why didn’t I have to sign a million disclosure and ownership papers, taking responsibility for this boy? You have to sign 50,000 pages when buying a car or a house or anything really, but a human life? I just had to sign my name to say we’re leaving? What?!

I guess that means I care about my son. I hope every mother is that terrified to take off with her child, worried about ruining this perfect person who is as unblemished as one can be. I personally felt like I was kidnapping my son. Shouldn’t there be a course, like a year’s worth of study?

There were oodles of classes before my child came, informing us mothers-to-be about the delivery, the contractions, and breastfeeding.

But what about the classes on managing sheer terror as you lay your child down for the night? How do you get sleep knowing he could spontaneously combust at any second? The answer is you don’t sleep.

What about diaper rash? How can you stop it from EVER happening so his precious behind won’t be scarred for life?

Someone needs to hold a class on how we new moms can stop the worry. I guess it doesn’t exist because as a mother, the first and primary job is to worry, and that starts with worrying about leaving the hospital.