"Pam."

I'm so tired that the effort it takes to look up at him almost annoys me. But, as always, he finds a way to dispel that annoyance before it ever takes hold. This time, it's because he's looking so rumpled and tired and yet, contentedly happy all at the same time.

"Here, let me take her. Get some rest, OK?"

My arms are aching and my stomach.....wow, it almost still feels like labor pains. But her: so warm in my arms, her smell already imprinting itself in my head and heart. I read that once, but I know it now. I would know her anywhere blindfolded and deaf, just by her smell; a blend of hospital applications and baby. And somehow, of Jim and I.

"No, I want to hold her a little longer."

I'm edgy, and I know it. I feel so full of joy, and yet, I'm exhausted and fragile too. I can feel this cocktail of hormones thrumming through my veins, enough to equal all the premenstrual stuff of a lifetime, I'm sure.

"You look ready to drop. You've been holding her almost non-stop since she's been born, like....wow, almost 12 hours now. Here, I'll take her....you get some sleep."

He sits on the edge of the bed now, and takes her from my arms. They are sore from holding her, but already feel cold and empty. I watch him with her as he adjusts the blanket around her. She is sleeping deeply and doesn't rouse when he settles her in the crook of his neck and against his chest, the same crook in my neck I have been holding her in for the last many hours. Only his chest is broad and hard, like a foam mattress; mine right now is more like a waterbed.

That analogy, I realize even as it occurs to me, is very accurate. And it somehow makes me feel even more fragile. Stupid hormones.

"There. See, she's fine. Go to sleep, love."

And I'm too tired for innuendo or to find a way not to say it. So out it comes: "She's going to love you so much more than she loves me."

He grabs onto this and I see his eyes twinkle and a quick retort start on his lips, but it dies as he looks at me.

"You can't be serious."

"You know I'm not good with kids, Jim. EVERYone loves you....kids and old people and everyone in between." My head finally falls back to the pillow behind me. My voice is quieter now. "She'll probably even come to you for the girly stuff."

And I know at this point that I'm being handled, a little bit. Jim and I don't handle each other, we just....have a way between us. But this is a special circumstance, and I'm just jumbled up enough inside that I let him do it, because I trust him.

"You know that you don't have to be good with ALL kids, right, Pam? Just THIS one."

That sounds good. He continues quietly, so he doesn't wake her, but I know how to tune into his voice no matter how quiet it is.

"I mean, no kid says: 'My mom is really nice to me and takes care of me, she plays with me and cooks me dinner and I love her, but she's not good with kids'".

I smile at him, but it's a ghost of a smile, and I know it.

"She's already crazy about you. So now, I finally have company."

And THAT does the trick. My arms still ache; I ache all over, but it's a good kind of aching. It's a stretching and pulling and tugging that hurts but is exhilirating, the kind I will come to associate with being a mother.

My eyes finally drift shut, but not before I see my husband lower his cheek on the sweet-smelling head of our firstborn.