Caramia is nestled at my side, dreamily waving her tiny hands and yawning, just minutes away from a long post-nursing nap. I don't have anywhere else to be, no obligations to tend to. In fact, I'm supposed to stay right here in this bed, resting quietly and waiting for my mother-in-law to appear with a bowl of fresh cherries, or a cup of hot tea. It's pure bliss - the ultimate reward for the discomforts of a caesarean birth. And I'd gladly trade a little pain for the pleasure of these long hours spent cuddling our new baby. She has a full head of hair, the color and sheen of dark chocolate. Her fingers are slender and tapering, her ankles downright elegant. She even has dark, curling eyelashes. Now and again she snuffles, or makes a little squeaking noise, but rarely cries. She is that most blessed and wonderful of creatures: a healthy, contented baby. We know how lucky we are.

It's amazing how swiftly a whole family adjusts to a new member. One week ago Caramia wasn't here and we were fine. Now it's impossible to imagine our world without her. She has filled an empty place we didn't know we had. Our worries over how Eric and Olivia would manage now seem unfounded. Olivia likes being a big sister; she holds the baby, and tickles her feet, and gently brushes her hair. Olivia calls Caramia "tinybabysister" - all one word - and frequently checks on her to see if her eyes are open or closed. She's offered her crayons, pretzels, puzzle pieces and a favorite pair of shoes. Eric, despite his initial disappointment over being once again denied a brother, has been extremely gentle and loving with his new sister. He also seems cheerfully resigned to his fate as the tormented one, suggesting just last night that we have him fitted for a saddle so that the girls could more comfortably ride him around the living room. It's not a bad idea.

Caramia's birth was very different from Olivia's. Instead of eighteen hours of difficult labor followed by an emergency c-section, I arrived at the hospital a leisurely two hours before Caramia's pain and stress-free arrival. Although a blue surgical drape concealed the procedure from me, I was able to watch the entire thing reflected in the mirrored light that hung over the operating table. It was strange and beautiful. The curve of the lamp made for a slight distortion, and that, combined with the distancing effect of the spinal block, made my own flesh and blood seem like colorful and mysterious abstractions. I watched the doctor's gloved hand, my blood beading like tiny rubies as the scalpel traced across my skin. Then, so suddenly that it didn't possible much less real, there was a baby. Covered in whitish vernix, she had smears of blood on her body that looked like tribal markings. And then I heard her cry. An instant later the baby in the lamp was thrust in front of me and I reached out my hand and stroked her. She was warm and slick and howling. From behind a blue paper mask Mark looked at me, his eyes a question. "Go with her." I said. "I'm fine." And I was - more than fine actually. Thrilled. For although I'd experienced the intensity of labor with Olivia, I'd missed so much of the miracle of her birth. With Caramia I had a second - and final - chance. This time I saw and heard everything. It took both my girls to give me that gift.

There are women who seem born to have babies, women who never feel better than when they're pregnant, women who leave the hospital a day after giving birth - and walk out wearing their pre-pregnancy clothes. I'm not one of them. I was sick around the clock for months with both pregnancies. My immune system was shot: bronchitis, flu, sinusitis, viral pinkeye, systemic poison ivy - what didn't I catch? I had gestational diabetes and giant swollen ankles. My gums bled profusely any time I even glanced at a toothbrush. Both births were complicated by heavy blood loss and even my recovery seemed one long bout of vomiting. Still, it was a wonderful experience - isn't that crazy? I was alive and in the moment in a way that often eludes me. Now I look at my daughters and think, such treasures should be paid for with blood and tears and a healthy dose of suffering. It seems poetic and just. It also seems only fair that wonders like Vicodin exist, one or two tablets every four hours as needed.

Caramia is stirring now, squeaking and making faces, and demanding my attention. With every hour that passes she grows more into the name that her father chose for her. Loosely translated, Cara mia is Italian for my dear one, or my darling. And she is.