“Oh hi.” Those were the first words I said to my baby daughter, Marlo, after the doctor unceremoniously tossed her onto my chest, still tethered to my insides yet shockingly self-directed in her quest for boob. They were soon followed by “Heeeey, Baby,” “Oh, Hello,” and once again “Hiiiii.” That vocabulary, uttered with the stoner lilt of a woman high on oxytocin and procreative awe, was enough to get me through the first few hallucinatory days. By about day four, I added desperate apology to my maternal lexicon. “I’m so soooory,” I warbled while changing a 4 a.m. nappy as Marlo’s impossibly vulnerable body vibrated from the force of her own screams, and her scrawny limbs flailed for womb walls that no longer cradled her. “I’m so so sorry.” Because what else do you say to a person who has been recently yanked via tiny head vacuum from the only home she’s ever known and thrust into your rookie hands?