Good Morning, Merry Sunshine

In early August 1998, I had my seventh miscarriage. I bled more than I should have, and ended up spending a night in the hospital. I was weak and shaky for almost a month afterwards.

Garry was shaken, too. We'd each struggled separately with our fears. Neither of us wanted to face the thought of leaving our three children motherless. The miscarriage had scared and disturbed the children as it was; the whole experience was not one that we were eager to repeat.

We were surprised, and a little afraid, when I discovered I was pregnant in early October. I didn't feel physically or emotionally strong enough to cope with another miscarriage, and I certainly didn't want to run the children through the wringer again.

The fates were kinder than our imaginations, however, and my eleventh pregnancy was the easiest of them all.

Merlin's conception coincided with the beginning of a major construction project on our house. We were adding a new office, bathroom and Children and Creativity Center (project room) to accommodate our growing family. We expected the construction to finish by March.

Aside from worry about miscarriage, the first trimester went smoothly. I could keep morning sickness at bay by avoiding starches. I ate a lot of chicken, fish, and vegetables. I felt energetic and spent the autumn driving 10-year-old Morganne back and forth to her Midsummer Night's Dream rehearsals in Santa Cruz.

The baby was due on Garry's 48th birthday, June 15th. His birth year was also the Year of the Rabbit like his father. All during this pregnancy, I felt an especial fondness for the Rabbit in the Moon. Every Full Moon, I looked up to see the Moon Hare floating in the sky, beaming his benevolence down to Earth.

At my December midwife's appointment, I was measuring a little small for dates and had gained very little weight. During the next two months, my belly continued to grow very slowly. At first, we chalked the slow growth up to stress (The home remodel was just one source of stress in my life — my grandmother was undergoing treatment for breast cancer and I was having some difficulties with friends). In February, the midwife became concerned enough that she asked me to have an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay.

I usually prefer to trust my own knowledge of my body over medical tests and procedures. I was concerned about the baby, however, so I agreed to the ultrasound. I had had an ultrasound with Matisse when I was threatening second trimester miscarriage. Morganne had attended that ultrasound and been thrilled by the first view of her new sister. To be fair, the girls decided that 6-year-old Matisse should come with me and be the first to see the new baby.

Mati took her responsibility very seriously. We drove to San Jose through an ebbing February rainstorm. Mati waited nervously in the sonographer's waiting room. I tried to distract her with some children's books, but she thought matters were too serious for Sesame Street. The sonographer, a very pleasant man, soon put her at ease. She watched her baby brother on the screen, fascinated. His heart beat like a little butterfly. He yawned for the tape, obviously bored by the procedure.

All of the baby's measurements were appropriate for his gestational age. I asked a lot of questions about the placenta, which was both healthy and in good position. Good thing, too; we'd have another round of questions about the placenta before we were done.

Mati reported the event to her interested father and siblings. As the news bearer, she insisted on telling all of our friends and relatives the good tidings.

The pregnancy continued to weigh lightly on me, although my belly resumed normal growth. I started to put on some weight. My energy level was fantastic. Despite my expanding waistline and slightly decreased bendability, I was able to go about my normal activities as usual. I often forgot I was pregnant for days at a time.

Mati started softball season. The girls started rehearsals for the play Fortune's Wheel. The house finish date was pushed out to April 1st and then May 15th. Finally, we realized that there was no way the house would finish before the baby. I was staring down the barrel of a very busy springtime. I thanked my lucky stars that the pregnancy was so easy.

Around the middle of May, I began regular bouts of prodromal labor. Contractions started, picked up the pace, and then subsided. I'd had weeks of prodromal labor before Morganne's and Malcolm's births, so I didn't take these rounds of practice labor too seriously. The bouts of contractions recurred over the next six weeks, adding some spice to daily life.

[The midwives comforted me with the thought that my labors are probably shorter and easier with all the warm-ups that my uterus was doing. I wasn't convinced that it was worth it. Prodromal labor is both uncomfortable and time-consuming. The warm-ups did give me time to get used to handling contractions, though. I practiced relaxing into contractions and finding comfortable labor positions.]

The girls' play was scheduled for the last week of May, with rehearsals every day and four performances over Memorial Day weekend. The Full Moon, which had brought my three previous babies, was also slated for Memorial Day weekend. It seemed possible that this little Rabbit might decide to bounce out with the Full Moon's spring tides.

I resolved to stay pregnant through Memorial Day.

I meditated on the amnion the last few weeks of the pregnancy.

Towards the end, the amnion was the only thing keeping this baby from being born. A thin, flexible membrane with amazing tensile strength, the amnion holds the baby and the fluid in one neat, cellular package.

Like a cell membrane, the amnion holds its contents under amazing stresses. The amniotic fluid recalls the cytoplasm; the baby the nucleus. The placenta and umbilicus are the organelles.

One cell, floating in all the Universe, waiting....

Daily rehearsals came. Malcolm and I spent afternoons at the park adjoining the theatre, playing and chasing the pigeons. The girls perfected their fairy dialogues.

Prodromal labor became more intense over Memorial Day weekend. At one of the performances, the other mothers teased me about being in labor. "This woman is pushing already."

The contractions fizzled out on the drive home from the theatre.

I kept thinking, "If I can just get to X, the baby can come whenever he wants to." At first X was 37 weeks (far enough along for a homebirth), then X was "through tech week at the theatre and the girls' play." Finally, X was "until the beginning of next week, so I can knock off the rest of my To-Do list."

I figured he'd come when he was good and ready....

Waiting.

On June 12th, Garry was annoyed by a tile screw-up. He snarled at me while I was fixing the kids breakfast. Then he wanted to go run a bunch of errands. The whole thing seemed like way too much, somehow. I started crying uncontrollably, sure that he'd go off to run his errands and the baby would come while he was gone. When Garry wanted to talk about it, I cried some more and said, "I can't talk! Don't even ask me to talk."

Very watery.

I scrubbed everything in sight. My entryway floor was cleaner than it's been in many months, and so were the kids' chairs.

The contractor finished the Creativity room and the girls moved in. The bathroom was supposed to be finished on Monday. We were sorting, cleaning, clearing, and organizing the house after the construction dishevelment. I was sure that this baby was never going to come. That seemed okay — we were getting so much done that each day he waited was a net win.

Every night, when I tucked Malcolm in bed, I thought "Tomorrow morning, you might not be the baby of the family any more." The kids were all getting extra special hugs and story-times.

Being in a constant state of readiness frazzled my nerves. I'd been prodromal for 5 weeks now. Every night, we made sure the house was completely tidy and that Garry and I had resolved any outstanding issues. We wanted a clear deck for labor and the first weeks of the baby's life.

I had many rough nights — lots of restlessness and prodromal-quality contractions. At one point, I had a dream that 20 guys in suits with coffee cups were pounding on my cervix. Then I woke up and lumbered off to the bathroom.

More waiting.

On June 15th, I dreamed I got my period. The baby was restless that night, rolling and tumbling everywhere. The next morning, there was period-like blood on the toilet paper, redder and bloodier than a mucus plug. I'd never experienced anything like that before, so I called the midwife.

At first, Roxanne the Midwife wanted me to come into the office for a check to rule out placental problems. I lollygagged over my breakfast. I didn't feel like driving into Santa Cruz and maybe ending up in the hospital. During breakfast, I felt the baby move, which was reassuring. The bleeding stopped shortly thereafter, which was even more reassuring.

Roxanne called to check on me. She'd reviewed the ultrasound report from the slow-growth sonogram at 23 weeks. Having ruled out placenta previa, she sounded much cheerier. With my new information, she decided I could stay home. The surf was up. Lots of bloody show, lots of contractions. Midwife Donna dropped by, looked me over, and predicted a baby "probably today, maybe tomorrow."

Maybe, after 5 weeks of being prodromal, this was really it. Number one son Alex was home from college, so all the children could witness the birth.

The baby had different ideas.

Suspended animation. I have a history of early labor taking its own sweet time, but I was now at a point where serious labor was incipient. Moreover, with all the warm-ups I'd been doing, it could be precipitous.

I stuck close to home. Garry worked from home because he didn't want to miss the birth. Garry was reluctant to get involved in any major new projects. He planned on taking a month's vacation during the first 6 weeks of the baby's life and he didn't want to leave loose ends hanging at work.

Both of the new rooms were essentially done. The new bathroom was finished except for a few minor details. Our house was in much better shape than it had been since construction started in September. I was running out of chores.

I tried not to be impatient. It would have been easier without those "hey you, I mean business" contractions every day that lasted for an hour or more and then fizzled out.

I spent most of June 20th having serious prodromal labor. The contractions were strong enough to remind me how strong contractions get during transition. I knew they had to get a lot stronger before I could get this baby out.

At 9pm, I decided to warn the birth team that this Might Be It. I made a series of casual phone calls.

We bedded the children down for the night. Snacks, stories, and cuddles for the children. Glasses of water and lights out. By the time the children were asleep, it was 11 pm. I told Garry I didn't think there was much point in going to bed. We hung out in the green bedroom for awhile, talking through contractions. After an especially wild one, Garry wanted to call the midwives.

"Oh, not yet," I said, keeping it casual, "Let's get set up first."

We dragged cushions and pillows out into the living room. We unpacked the birth supplies on the hearth. I moved a straight-backed chair to act as a birth support. Garry brought the rocking chair from the girls' bedroom. I put the first bag of receiving blankets in the oven, ready to warm for the new baby.

"Why don't you call the midwives now?"

Not yet. I was thirsty. I asked Garry to see what kind of juice we had in the freezer. We mixed up a pitcher of pink lemonade. Garry poured some for me in a cup with a lid. Ah. The perfect labor beverage — sweet, sour, and festively pink.

"I'll call the midwives."

No hurry. Candles would be nice. Garry found the candleholders, put fresh candles in them, and placed them around the room. He fetched the oil lamps from storage. Soon, the living room was awash in soft light. Why hadn't we ever done it this way before?

"Time to call the midwives?"

Garry was anxious to have the midwives there for the birth. I delayed. I didn't want to drag everyone out for a non-event. I made up a few more chores and then gave in to the inevitable.

"You take the triangle flares down to the road; I'll call Roxanne."

In the past, when I've called Kate to births, her first question is "Are you in labor?" I find this question difficult to answer. How would I ever know? Roxanne, bless her soul, didn't ask.

"We'll be right there," she said, "Donna's ready to go."

"Take your time," I responded, "I'm thinking it will be a dawn birth."

Garry greeted the midwives at the door at 1. I was still feeling perky. The contractions were pretty easy to handle. We chatted for a bit, shared some pink lemonade, reminisced about other births. I was feeling blessed to have the support of these women.

I roamed. At times, I labored in my spot on the living room carpet. I wandered around the house, stopping to lean on the cutting block, the kitchen counter, the dining room table. It was a lovely Midsummer night to be born.

I'd been re-reading Rahima Baldwin's You Are Your Child's First Teacher. A thought caught my attention: Doing things for our children is not nearly as good as simply enjoying them. We extended this philosophy to birth — we didn't try to have a perfect birth, we were just present for this birth, now. As a result, I think we enjoyed this labor and birth a lot more than we would have if we'd been striving for the perfect birth.

Garry and I discussed philosophy a lot during labor. I had a great feeling of peace, of being grounded, of being present. The world was moving, opening slowly beneath our feet. We sank into it.

At 2, the midwives got a call from another woman in labor. I heard Roxanne's beeper go off. She scurried to the phone and talked to the other woman. As I labored, I could hear Roxanne's and Donna's hushed voices in the other room. I hoped the other woman was okay.

At 2:30, Donna left for another birth (the other baby was born at 4 am, shortly after Donna arrived. My placenta, however, was delivered before the other woman's. Our births were looped around one another, connected. Our babies, both boys, were even close to the same size).

My labor futzed along. I asked for a vaginal exam. Roxanne had a hard time getting through my pelvic muscles (which are tight) and finding my cervix (far posterior). The baby was still very high (-2 station) and the cervix a stretchy 2-3 centimeters. Roxanne decided to follow my birth plan and let Garry and me labor in peace. Rox went to the green bedroom to nap until things got more serious.

I settled into an hour of 5 minute contractions with 5 minute breaks. A pleasant rhythm. Between contractions, Garry and I talked. What were we creating in our lives? I was aware of the responsibility of bringing a fourth child into the world. It was a gentle, loving time. This was definitely our most romantic birth — just the two of us, candlelight, and the brand new being.

At 3:45, the contractions shifted to 15 minutes long with 1-2 minute breaks. Too intense, if you ask me, far beyond the textbook definition of "hard labor." I was working hard. My muscles cramped during contractions and I needed Garry's help to shift positions. I couldn't, however, manage to get out the words to describe what sort of help I needed. It would have been heavenly to lie down and sleep between contractions, but it was agonizing to drag myself vertical again, so I didn't. I alternated between various squat and all-fours positions, using the cushions and pillows for support.

I labored loudly, grunts and moans and long, drawn-out "Ooooooohs." I don't know how Roxanne and the children managed to sleep through the hullaballoo, but sleep they did.

My big fear was that this birth would be as painful as Malcolm's. I had re-read Childbirth Without Fear (one of my favorites) and sat with the fear, but it never vanished completely. By 3:30, the labor was as painful as the worst part of Malcolm's. At 4:30, I had the sinking feeling that I couldn't cope with another three hours of this intensity. (That feeling is a sure sign that I'm at the end of transition. Why do I always miss it?)

"You don't have to. Just relax into this minute, right now, of this contraction, and let the other minutes take care of themselves," I lectured myself.

I gave myself little pep talks to keep from getting discouraged. Birth is hard work. It takes all I've got and demands more. I learned long ago that I've got to yield gracefully in birth, to aid and abet the process instead of fighting it.

At 4:22, a contraction started. The contraction continued for the next 13 minutes. Shortly after 4:30, my water broke.

I decided to warn Garry, "I'm pushing."

Garry, thinking I shouldn't be pushing yet (after all, we're hours away from the birth), asked, "Already?" I thought I'd better elaborate.

"The baby's coming soon," I said as I felt the head move through the cervix. Garry knew that. Of course the baby was coming soon. I was in labor, wasn't I?

I thought it was time to hail the midwife. I could tell Garry didn't understand that the baby was coming, now, and that fast action was necessary. I tried to be a little clearer.

I felt the head slide down to the perineum and said, "Call Rox."

Garry turned to leave the room and I said, "No, don't go get her. He's almost here."

He called quietly and I said "Louder" as I reached down to support the crowning head.

"Here he comes," I panted, guarding the baby with one hand as he came flying out.

The above conversation took about a minute, during which time I was also having a tsunami-force contraction, pushing, and delivering the baby.

I was squatting over an old towel on the living room floor. I cupped my right hand over the baby's head as he came whooshing out. He came out in one shot, not even slowing to deliver the shoulders. He slid over my hand and landed on the carpet. The cord was loosely looped around his shoulders. The baby let out a gurgly cry and flailed his arms and legs. I thought I'd better roll him to his belly to drain, so I reached down to lift his slippery body and untangle the cord. Roxanne arrived to help with the untangling.

Garry didn't understand birth was imminent until he saw our new son lying on the floor, crying. I turned the baby to let the mucus drain from his nose, and it pumped right out of him. The youngest Madrone arrived planetside at 4:35 on Midsummer morning after 2 hours of active labor.

I feel like I finally learned the No Expectations lesson with Merry's birth. Garry and I were loose and relaxed, not trying to do things any certain way, just present. We ended up with a very intimate and romantic candlelit birth, something we never could have received if we'd tried to plan it that way.

My legs were horribly cramped. Garry and Roxanne helped me to the rocking chair so I could sit and hold the new little one. He sure was tiny. The baby latched on. Garry went to wake the new big sisters, who were disappointed to have missed the birth (along with everyone else).

Time always shifts out of focus for me after birth. The baby latched on. I had to stand and squat to deliver the placenta, which was in good shape. Roxanne made me a cup of tea. The sisters held the new baby. Malcolm was brought out, but was too sleepy to greet his brother, so Garry tucked him back in bed. I took a shower, got cleaned up, ate something, went to bed.

The baby weighed in at 5#8. We later amended his birth weight to 5#4 — the scale we originally used wasn't very accurate. He was very tiny — his forearms about as big as my index finger, his little bottom easily cupped in one hand, hipbone to hipbone. The baby was obviously post-dates (despite his size) and fully developed. His breathing was remarkably clear for a newborn and he nursed well for a person with such a tiny mouth.

We don't know why he was so little at 41 weeks gestational age. My other children were 8#, 7#4, and 8#2 at 37, 38, and 40 weeks gestation. There was old meconium in the water, which might have been a result of fetal distress during the last week or so of pregnancy, but the placenta was large and healthy for such a little guy. I'd measured small all along. Perhaps the pregnancy followed too close on the heels of the miscarriage. Perhaps there was too much stress in my life during the pregnancy. It's a mystery.

I'm not sure that any baby in the history of humankind has ever been so loved as this little guy. Morganne wrote him a sweet lullaby. The girls vied for opportunities to hold him. Malcolm excitedly chanted "Hi Baby" and offered him all of his treasures.

He nursed a lot, fortunately, considering his size. He liked to nurse for 2-hour marathon sessions several times a day and then once every 30-60 minutes the rest of the time. I worked with him on wide-open latch-on. On the second day, he nursed non-stop from noon until 9pm. He did such a good job that my milk came right in.

At his 3-day check, he was down to 4#12. The midwife left a baby scale with us and asked us to weigh the baby each day at noon. He couldn't afford to lose any more weight. The midwife was concerned, and I focused on feeding the baby at every possible opportunity.

It was hard to be too concerned about him, though. He was glowingly, vibrantly, vigorous and healthy and doing all the things a baby ought to be doing. I lined up a source of donor breastmilk in case we needed to supplement, but it wasn't necessary.

On day 4, he weighed in at 4#14 (almost 4#15), a nice substantial gain of 2 ounces. During his post-weighing feed, he fell asleep and slipped off the breast, milk bubbling out of the corners of his mouth.

The baby was, however, going to be nursing like a newborn for at least the first few months of his life — he was a long way from the magical 10 pounds. I wish there were a way for photographs to give an impression of his tininess.

Garry and I try to choose names that work for the children in multiple ways. We want our children to have unique names, and names that fit the beings they are. We wait to name them until after they are born. We then look deeply into their eyes and try to see who they are. We try different names until we find one that fits. Everyone in the family needs to agree before the name sticks.

None of our children has a name that either of us would have chosen before we saw the person involved. Our process is more intuitive than intellectual, and it has worked well in the past, despite qualms in each and every case. Matisse Rainbow, the name we had the most doubt about, is startlingly apt.

We came to name-consensus in record time. This tiny morsel of humanity soon wore the name Merlin Apollo, "Merry Sunshine" for short. We called him "Merry" mostly (think Tolkien, not the Bible) — "Merry-me-lad," "Merry, little elf," "Merry wanderer of the night."

The girls called him "Goblin" at first because he was so red and small.

Young Merlin has given me a renewed appreciation for the natural wisdom of the human animal. He spent two days nursing strenuously. My milk came in 36 hours postpartum, the earliest ever. It also came in more abundantly than ever before — I leaked more than I did with any of the other three. Once Merry had primed the pump, he opened his mouth and let the milk pour in. Then, he caught up on his sleep.

He knew exactly what he needed to do.

He was a pretty calm, mellow guy, but also wiry and active. I think he's going to have a lot of fun with his brother and sisters once he gets moving. He was very present in his body, very alert. He focused well for a person his age, and his eyes tracked beautifully. By 5 days of age, he'd already discovered his hands and started reaching for things (hair and people's fingers, mostly) that interested him.

On June 24th, Morganne and I were photographing Merlin. I was wearing a loose shirt. All of a sudden, I heard a "drip drip drip" and looked down to see a puddle of milk on the floor.

The older children all adjusted well. There seemed to be enough love and attention to go around. Malcolm, who I thought might have some serious difficulties, seemed to be taking this baby in stride (of course, he seemed to think that the baby was some sort of interesting new animal, which probably helped).

At 2 weeks of age, Young Merlin Apollo ("Merry Sunshine" for short) went to see our family doctor. He weighed in at 6#3 and had grown an inch since birth. Doctor Dennis pronounced him perfectly healthy and gave me a short lecture on Not Overdoing It.

Merry grew fast. His forearms soon plumped up to almost twice as big around as my forefinger. At first, we rolled the sleeves of newborn outfits two or three times and the outfits' legs flopped around his feet. By two weeks of age, we were only rolling up the sleeves of the newborn outfits once, and his little feet sometimes peeked out of the legs of the outfits.

Malcolm's reaction to Merlin was very different from his sisters' past and present reactions to new babies.

He consented to hold Merry exactly once, handing him back to Mati immediately because he was "too heavy." The girls have always clamored to hold the family baby, not wanting to relinquish him even when he's crying, wet, hungry.

Malcolm greeted Merry enthusiastically, "Hi baby!" He marveled over his tiny hands, feet, toenails, face, nose, ears, and chinny-chin-chin. He covered him with kisses (Malcolm at 3 was a much better kisser than either of his sisters — his kisses are nice and warm and not the least bit slobbery.) He was gentle with the baby, but he didn't seem to regard him as human, exactly.

Malcolm wasn't shy about telling me when he needed attention ("Give that to Morganne and hold me;" "Put that down and come play with me"), but he also acted concerned when I spent time with him and the baby was not close by. He asked where the baby was and only relaxed when I told him that someone else was holding him.

Malcolm made the transition from sleeping with us to sleeping by himself easily — climbed willingly into his own bed every night and told people that the baby sleeps in his old spot.

Standing near the door into this world reminds me sharply that the door out of this world awaits us all. Time has shifted out of focus; I see mortality face-to-face.

Looking at my beautiful children, I realize that they're growing up before my eyes. Even though they are all around me now, I hear the echoes of the empty nest in my future. I wonder whether they'll all safely make the passage to adulthood, and how I could bear it if they didn't.

Looking at my last baby, I see the images of his brothers and sisters as infants. Their lives pass before my eyes as a series of freeze frames: infant, baby, toddler, tot, long-legged child, prepubescent, adolescent, teenager, college student. How did Alex get from trashcan-emptying baby to 6'2" hunk? What happened to the sweet 3-year-old whose Giants outfit I washed nightly so he could wear it again tomorrow?

And Morganne, baby jewel eyes full of wonder as she discovered her hands. How did she grow to the verge of young womanhood without my seeing the changes? Where's the shy, fanciful sprite with wispy hair, my constant companion?

Mati's unwavering baby eyes intent on her goal, determination written in every movement. Where's the little girl who insisted on wearing her American Girl dresses everywhere, including to bed? Why won't she touch a dress these days, except on the stage?

Malcolm, who a few short weeks ago was my baby. How has he suddenly lengthened out and become a quite large child? He's been discovering the humanity of his baby brother — why, the child has fingernails. And feet. He's not just a bundle with a face.

And the smallest, back to his birth weight. A few weeks ago, he was a mystery, a potentiality. Already, he's a person with a history, someone who has changed every day of his short life. Our last baby, the last time our steps move along this path. The youngest Madrone.

Watery thoughts, overflowing my eyes at the unlikeliest times. I mention them to Roxanne the Midwife and she says, "I know it's hard, but try to appreciate the insights that this hormonal sensitivity brings." It's a bit hard to swallow the idea of appreciating the awareness of time and mortality, but I can try.

I mention the tears to Nancy and she tells me how lucky I am to love my children so deeply, to be so intensely aware of their evanescence. With this awareness, I'll pay closer attention, appreciate them more in their awkward stages, remember better to enjoy them in the present.

It's okay to feel like this.

Merlin's infancy offers new insights into the intelligence of the newborn.

So many times, when talking about unschooling, I've mentioned that babies have an incredible drive to learn to walk and talk, that young children learn these things easily, even with little help from adults in their environments. I hadn't ever paid much attention to the learning process in infancy, however.

Oh, I'd helped a fair number of newborns learn to nurse correctly. I'd shown babies the proper latch-on technique and shown their mothers how to remind them to latch-on correctly. I'd communicated with tiny people. I'd told adults that you can teach and communicate with tiny people. I'd even noted that it took 4 days to teach Malcolm how to nurse.

Before Merry, however, I'd never noticed how much and how fast infants learn in the first weeks of life. I'd seen my babies go from unsophisticated neonates to seasoned 6-week-olds, but I'd never thought to observe the process day by day.

During the first week, for example, we noticed that the Mighty Apollo was actively working on learning how to track and focus. His visual abilities improved dramatically from day-to-day and even hour-to-hour.

Merry also quickly learned that he can control his hands and feet. He batted at things in front of him and brought his hands to his mouth. He learned to control his head, to turn to look at sounds, to throw himself from my shoulder to my breast.

At birth, young Merlin would scream with hunger when the nipple was in his mouth. Within a few days, his hunger cries would cease as soon as he was brought into nursing position. He'd learned about the feeding process and knew that he'd be fed. The next week, the process was repeated with the side-lying position — he initially cried to be fed even when the nipple was in his mouth. After a few days, he calmed down as soon as I turned him on his side and cuddled him against my body.

In the first week of life, he'd cry uncontrollably when he had a full bladder or bowel, and again with surprise when he'd peed or pooped. He'd then cry through diaper changes. Now, he stops crying when we start changing him and generally enjoys being changed.

He knows what to expect from this world now. He's learned to trust us, and to anticipate our actions. He's learned to operate his breathing apparatus, both ends of the digestive process, and his voluntary muscles.

This is pretty good for a person who, several weeks ago, had never breathed, eaten, or experienced any world outside of my uterus.