My first baby cried vociferously and slept very little. Consequently, so did I.
I was 37 years old, after what obstetricians call a “geriatric pregnancy,” and smugly assumed that age and experience would imbue me with the kind of maternal wisdom my siblings had to learn for themselves, since they had become parents earlier. Jeni shredded those notions on the way home from the hospital, her needs unreadable behind a wall of wails.
In the early months, my husband and I took turns swooping her up at the first hint of distress to forestall the gathering storm. We adored her.