I used to have a recurring nightmare in which I was standing in a board room, about to give an important presentation, and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Everyone was staring at me, waiting. I was exposed as knowing nothing about my job. This feels horribly similar.

Only worse. In the dream, no one’s life depended on me.

The nurse—her ID tag says Keisha—touches my shoulder. “Everything all right?” she asks quietly, wide brown eyes peering at me with an expression that says she’s figured out I have no idea what I’m doing..

“I don’t—I can’t—I don’t...” My eyes fill up with tears. “She’s so early! Li wasn’t due for eight weeks!”

Keisha looks at the baby’s chart, then gives me a sad smile. “I see the due date is far in the future, but the doctors assured us she’s full term. Sometimes due dates are wrong, especially when prenatal care is—” She pauses, clearly searching for a tactful way to say what she needs to say.

“Uncertain.”

Her face floods with relief. I’ve rescued her. “Yes.”

“But she’s healthy? The baby?”

“Great APGAR scores. 10/10,” Keisha says proudly, like my daughter nailed the SATs.

“Thank God.” I’m staring at this baby with eyes that don’t know the world. Everything is new. Everything is shiny and heavy with responsibility and gravitas. She’s seven pounds but as heavy as the universe.

“No sign of drug withdrawal either. We’ll have blood work results soon.”

I tense. Oh, Li. Oh, baby. “The, um, birth mother said she didn’t do drugs.”

Keisha nods slowly. “That’s good.” I can tell she wants to say more, but is measuring her words.

“I’ll show you how to change her and feed her, and we have booklets on other basic skills,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. Just remind yourself that every parent has to figure it out the first time. Did you bring an outfit for her to wear home?”

“Oh, yes.” I reach into my bag and pull out a doll-size suit with embroidered ducks. And a matching hat with yellow fluff on top. My mother sent them from Italy last week. The child doesn’t yet have a crib, doesn’t even own a teddy bear, but by god, she can make a chic appearance on the streets of Rome. That’s my mother for you.

“Bring her over here and you can change her,” Keisha says.

“Bring her…? Me?”

She laughs. “Yes, you, Mom. Stand up. You won’t drop her.”

Mom.

I scoot forward in the chair and successfully rise to my feet, both arms securely around my bundle. Not too hard. Then I look down at my bag on the floor. My eyes fill up again.

Keisha takes pity on me and picks up the bag. She leads the way back to our bin.

“Okay. I’m going to show you how to change her diaper, then you can dress her.” She pulls the blanket open and unsnaps the hospital undershirt. I watch her every move as if it were surgery. I see how she supports the baby’s head and guides her little arms. Then she opens the tabs on the ridiculously small diaper.

I look down and gasp.

“Oh my god, what is that? What’s wrong? It’s horrible! Will she live?”

For a moment, Keisha is nonplussed. Then she starts to laugh. “That’s the umbilical cord stump, honey. Everyone’s born with one. It will fall off in a week or so.”

“Fall off? Are you sure that’s normal?”

Keisha tries hard not to roll her eyes, and she almost succeeds. She finishes the diaper demonstration. “I’ll get you a full set of booklets,” she says. “And some handouts. And an emergency-number sheet. Now you get her dressed.” She walks away. I almost call her back.

My daughter’s eyes are still closed. I am becoming suspicious. Is she really sleeping, or is she afraid to look?

I regard the yellow and white suit in my hand. Two arms, two legs, and a long zipper. This simple garment suddenly seems extremely complicated.

Come on, Chloe. You can figure this out. Think of it as a very, very small slipcover.

I take a deep breath. Then another.

I unzip the suit, spread it open, and carefully edge the baby onto it. Her eyes are still closed. So far, so good.

Fifteen minutes later, I have coaxed all four tiny limbs into the correct openings. She is properly dressed and looks, if I may say so, adorable. Maybe I’ll be okay after all. A drop of sweat rolls down my nose. I look around proudly for Keisha.

At that moment, I hear a sound like the tiniest cough and look down. Without ever opening her eyes, my baby scrunches up her face and begins to squall. It must be my fault, but what did I do?

“Keisha! Keisha!”

She’s right there at my elbow. “Everyone okay here?”

“No, it’s not okay! She’s crying! Something is wrong! What’s wrong?”

“Babies cry,” she says imperturbably. “Get used to it. It’s time for her feeding. I’ll show you how we do that and you can feed her. Then we just have to wait for the discharge nurse to come through and you can take her home.”

Home? By myself? I mean, I knew this was the plan, but everything’s happening so quickly.

“Tonight?”

“Of course.” She looks at me questioningly, and I realize it’s time to pull it together.

“Right. Just checking.” I focus my attention on what she’s doing with the baby formula. I am intelligent and competent. A take-charge kind of person. Calm under pressure. Resourceful. I am a mother. I hold back my tears.

Back in the rocker, I touch the bottle’s nipple to my baby’s bottom lip, as instructed. She opens her mouth. I make a mental note to research—what’s it called?—‘gifted and talented.’ The child is clearly advanced for her age. I hold this miracle baby close, watch her drink the bottle that I am holding.

She needs me. I need her.

And that’s when it happens. I fall in love.

Nick

“No text?”

I wake up and shuffle into the kitchen to find Charlie in front of the fridge wearing only underwear, the quart of milk nearly vertical and upside down as he drinks straight from the container, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. He looks like a Got Milk? ad.

“No text.” I confirm.