Before the doctors had even cleaned you up, they tossed you, writhing and screaming, onto my bare chest and pulled an ugly knit hat over your tiny conical head. You were puffy, red, gooey, and easily the most beautiful creature I'd ever laid eyes on.
Being accustomed to warm, wet, dark, enclosed spaces, you were generally appalled by the cold, dry, bright, open multiverse. In a sort of silent protest, you refused to open your eyes for a good long while, perhaps hoping that if you couldn't see the world, it would go away.
Now, about thirty baths later, you're finally getting the hang of this world-thing you were thrust into. Digestion isn't as horrifying, smiles and frowns take turns on your visage, you've discovered some remarkable appendages at the ends of your arms, and you can even tolerate a diaper change for more than a millisecond.
Starry-eyed and full of wonder, you begin to explore the universe. Some things, like stuffed yellow bunnies who light up and sing at you, inspire great pleasure to your senses. Other things, like the sound of velcro or sneezes, offend you entirely. There is much for you to see and experience, little Arcadia. I feel indescribably lucky to have my first front-seat viewing of the human journey.
