My birth

I was born into dim light, my mother's birthday gift. She was 37, healthy, not too tired. I held my head up and looked around. I didn't cry, and no-one made me, because my health and alertness were obvious. Presumably I was covered in blood and vernix and all sorts of goo; history does not relate.

Because I was her fourth child, my mother breastfed me without hindrance from birth; no-one tried to talk her out of it, or at least not so she listened. She was confident in dealing with me, and her other children knew what to expect from a baby and supported and tolerated babyish whims and inconveniences.

My mother held my babies within hours of their births.