Jeanne was brought to us (finally) bathed and dressed and hungry. Paul and I were ecstatic as I fed her the tiny bottle of formula and looked into her huge aquamarine eyes. I had never seen eyes that startling color before and I prayed they would stay that intense blue-green, but they did not. Within a few weeks Jeanne had brown eyes like me, but she was a gorgeous baby girl with perfect skin, dimpled hands, downy brown hair and a lovely smile. Naturally, none of the three other babies in the room could compare to our baby who we knew was extraordinary.
Grandparents arrived who were as smitten as we were and pronounced Jeanne perfect. Many, many flowers were delivered from our relatives and friends until I felt I lived in a fragrant garden. I missed my baby when she was taken back to the nursery and eagerly waited until the next feeding.
Only one thing marred the perfection of these few days. It was a cold, cold February and late at night the temperature in the room dropped. We new mothers were told that each and every time we used the bathroom, we had to take the pitcher of icy green liquid antibiotic and hurl it onto our most private parts. Each time I would delay as long as possible before dousing myself with the near freezing liquid. What fresh hell was this? Who had devised this fiendish plan? If I didn't do it, would they KNOW? There were probably hidden cameras! So I would hold my breath and pour it on with my right hand, try to muffle my screams with my left hand and then hobble back to bed, my thin ugly hospital gown offering no protection from the icy cold whatsoever. Once back under the covers, I thanked God for creating warmth, surely his most wondrous invention, except for babies of course.
To be concluded
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