I was cheating a little bit, or declaring in faith, I will let the reader choose, when I recently put on my Blogger profile that I am grandmother of nine. Number Nine arrived today, on his due date. He is the seventh boy. Each grandboy who is the oldest of his siblings–and in all three families of my married children the oldest child is a boy–has a name that begins with C.

But these patterns are not so engaging as was this slippery child as he emerged into daylight and his mother’s arms. I was impressed at how the staff at this small-town hospital encouraged all the practices our generation had to fight for. Baby was birthed and instantly put on his mom’s chest, and no one wanted to disturb him for a very long time. Eventually he was swaddled, and while his mom ate supper I rocked my grandbaby and sang lullabies. It’s been quite a few years since my last opportunity, but I still remember the songs about colors of ponies, Daddies gone hunting, and the Wind of the Western Sea.

A newborn baby has a way of startling us oldsters–and all of us are old and dried-out by comparison–into catching a glimpse of the mystery and wonder of life. What else on earth but a freshly-born human is so fascinating in that he is clearly one of our kind, but out-of-this world new and different. No wonder I like to think that they fall out of Heaven, or that storks bring them.