Babies.

First of all, congratulations to the Esmays, Dean and Rosemary, on the safe and happy arrival of Rosemary's Baby. (I couldn't resist the idiotic joke, but, oh, all right; I suppose Dean had a hand in it too. Well, not a hand, exactly . . . .) I'll be first to tell you I'm not generally an ooher-and-aaher over babies, but this is indeed an adorable baby. Believe it!

I have been reading more than I usually do about babies and pregnancies since I found the infertility blogs. (One is linked at left.) I've thought about writing about some of the things I have learned by doing so, but I have any number of reasons that always crop up and change my mind before I do--first among them being, I don't want to link to an infertility blog and have some spoilin'-for-a-fight blogger find it and, fingers trembling in anticipation, rush off to type a manifesto about how women who don't learn to "just accept" their infertility are Thwarting God's Will.

No, no thank you.

I'll just say I don't look at pregnancy and childbirth the same way anymore. People who describe babies as Little Miracles used to give me, I admit it, a real pain in the tushie. "Anyone," I would think dismissively (where obviously "anyone" meant "any woman"), "can pop out a baby. Watch Jerry Springer sometime and prepare to be appalled at how easy it is."

But they kind of are little miracles, really. And the things a woman's body can withstand when she is determined and able to bring one into the world are simultaneously horrific and amazing.

So with a much deeper and more heartfelt appreciation for the whole mysterious process than I once had, I'll just say again: Congratulations, Esmays. Nice one.

(And thank goodness I type accounts of caesarean sections often enough not to be grossed out by this!)