I'm not entirely sure what caused the confusion.
Perhaps it was the post-caesarean sledgehammer affect, the fog of morphine. I know it definitely didn't help that on his tiny head he wore a beanie that I knew didn't belong to me.
But there was no mistaking the look she gave me when I approached, unsure, asking, "Is that Luca?"
I stood back a distance of some feet, hesitating.
"Yes," she replied, as though unable to believe that I could not recognise my own child.
I bridged the distance between myself and the tiny baby in the strange beanie and stroked the little cheek that, now quite unmistakably, belonged to my newborn son.
Not twenty-four hours before, a scalpel was leaving a bright red trail below my belly to facilitate my baby's entrance into the world.
Now, he lay in a plastic hospital bassinette in the NICU, requiring special care after his blood sugar levels were found to be low ( a common occurrence when mum has had GD).
We stood admiring this tiny being, Bren, my mum and myself. He was so very beautiful. But the beanie still bothered me. I was itching to change him into one of the little knitted hats I had packed for hospital.
I picked up my little boy. Dark bruises on the back of each of his tiny hands reminded me of the failed attempts to insert an IV drip into his even tinier veins. The colostrum I had been pumping in the weeks prior to his arrival had been a godsend before my milk came in but still a formula top-up was recommended.
A new nurse approached as I sat in a chair cradling Luca.
"It's time for his bottle," she announced, holding out her arms expectantly.
"Oh okay, can I give it him?"
She looked at me for a moment, sceptical.
"Well, have you ever fed a bottle to a newborn baby before?"
"Yes," I said, faltering just slightly as I tried to recall whether this was true or not.
"Because it's not as easy as it seems. And we're already half an hour late with his feed. It would be easier if I just did it." Brusque. Dismissive.
"Well, I'm sure I'll be able to do it. I don't understand why this has to be so difficult." I was determined to stand my ground.
"I'm just thinking of your baby. He's sick." Patronising. Accusing.
"I'm his mother. Of course, I want what's best for him!"
I was angry now.
"Angie's just had a caersarean, we're all very tired," my mother said nervously, always keen to avoid a confrontation.
"No," I said firmly, "Don't make excuses for me, Mum. She's being a bitch."
Me, I am quite comfortable with confrontation.
"Okay, well, I'll need to speak with my superior for a moment," and with that, the nurse disappeared.
"You don't need to apologise for me, Mum. She was being completely unreasonable."
"I know, darling. I was just worried for you. I'm impressed that you stood up to her. I'm proud of you."
When the nurse returned, she was all smiles as she held out the bottle to me. As though nothing had happened.
So I fed Luca the formula. He drank it quickly and easily. My son and I, both bottle-feeding novices, took the task in our stride.
But even if we hadn't have been any good at it, what did we care? We were all about the boob anyway…