I was cheating a little bit, or declaring in faith, I will let the reader choose, when I recently put on my Blogger profile that I am grandmother of nine. Number Nine arrived today, on his due date. He is the seventh boy. Each grandboy who is the oldest of his siblings--and in all three families of my married children the oldest child is a boy--has a name that begins with C.
But these patterns are not so engaging as was this slippery child as he emerged into daylight and his mother's arms. I was impressed at how the staff at this small-town hospital encouraged all the practices our generation had to fight for. Baby was birthed and instantly put on his mom's chest, and no one wanted to disturb him for a very long time. Eventually he was swaddled, and while his mom ate supper I rocked my grandbaby and sang lullabies. It's been quite a few years since my last opportunity, but I still remember the songs about colors of ponies, Daddies gone hunting, and the Wind of the Western Sea.
A newborn baby has a way of startling us oldsters--and all of us are old and dried-out by comparison--into catching a glimpse of the mystery and wonder of life. What else on earth but a freshly-born human is so fascinating in that he is clearly one of our kind, but out-of-this world new and different. No wonder I like to think that they fall out of Heaven, or that storks bring them.