The Newborn Bermuda Triangle. (Or) I am allowed to be sentimental once in a while.

Some good friends of mine had a baby this morning, and they live miles and miles away. In fact, as of 9:04 this morning, their distance from me increased by about 10,000 miles. Because when someone you love has a baby, you just want to be there. I want to hug my friends, hold the baby, and then cook a bunch of dinners and put them in their freezer.

If you've had a baby, you want to be there because you know what it feels like. You're in that hospital room and nurses are walking by outside the door, traffic is moving on the street below, someone is calling your cell phone for the 2nd time, and it doesn't matter. Without trying you've become a master of meditation. All the unessentials float right on past without interrupting your state of mind. They disappear. All of your attention is in your arms, or in the crib next to you, or with the most important person in the world who is sitting next to you, holding a part of you.

You sit in the bed and hold the baby while he sleeps. He sleeps and sleeps and sleeps and you miss his eyes because you've only seen them twice since he was born 4 hours ago. Then he stirs and maybe he cries and you hold him this way or that way and it comforts him and you're amazed. A little while later he cries again and you hold him this way or that and he quiets again and you are still amazed. He cries a third time and again you hold him this way or that but he keeps crying and keeps crying and this time it takes you 10 full minutes to comfort him. The heavy burden of parenthood drapes itself around your shoulders. You feel unqualified.

Your baby cried for 10 minutes, but then he stopped. He stopped crying and looked at you and you looked back while the world waited. He is quiet now, and gazing at you. You introduce yourself and tell your baby your first name. You still feel more like his guide than his mother. You bring him to your cheek and you feel cautiously, hesitantly, powerful.

Your baby is still gazing at you. His expression is so serious that he looks like he is putting a curse upon your house. It freaks you out a little because it really looks like he is sending you a message with his eyes. You laugh out loud to break the spell and the nurse brings your lunch and your cell phone rings again and you turn on the TV and you remember that other people's days are half over by now.

You've been awake for 22 hours and for the first time in a long time it doesn't matter what time it is. You have no where to go except two steps over to the crib. You have nothing to do but sit in bed and hold the baby. You sleep when you're tired and turn the lights on when you're awake and the only reason you look at the clock is to check to see how long ago the baby ate. You didn't expect the hospital to be so comfortable but you think you might stay for as long as you possibly can. You think that this is the easiest it is ever going to be and you are right.

The baby is sleeping so you do too. When you wake up two hours later you panic, not knowing what you've missed. But there is your husband, holding the baby. He looks at you and laughs out loud. The baby is putting a curse on me, he says. The new day begins.