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There’s an anarchist in the house, tearing it apart — impervious to reason, impervious to threats, impervious to everything. A newborn infant has no sense of dignity, no sense of right and wrong, no regard for the most elementary human decency. Few things in life can drive an adult to greater extremes of distraction than a helpless baby that won’t stop crying.

What does it want? It can’t tell you, and nothing you can think of — milk, fondling, a walk, a toy — quiets it. Already, it seems, the world has let it down too grievously; the infant will wail its grief to eternity — and you have to be at work in the morning.

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