When my second son was born he cried and cried and cried.
In fact he cried on and off for the first six months.
When the noise got so bad we would leave him screaming in his cot and walk down to the bottom of the garden.
We could still hear him from behind the rhodadendhrons but we knew he was safe as long as the screaming happened.
Sometimes, I would fill a bath with warm water as high as the bath would allow and hold his tiny body floating on the surface supported by the inside of my forearm so his tiny legs could bathe in the water.
At first they would kick and kick but after a while he would settle and his legs would move slower more rhythmically and he would begin to whimper and quieten.
Born kicking, my mother said.
Kicking against the pricks, said Nathan, the last time I saw him.