Four minutes into his life, a nurse places Baby G, still gooey and smelling of womb, onto my naked chest and walks away. 
This perfect angelic soul beached on my big hairy chest, a scene more evocative of Diane Arbus than Sandro Botticelli.
It’s critical for bonding, I’m told, skin on skin contact. But what about skin on hair?
To her credit, my mom had warned me. She’d suggested I shave my chest and beard, concerned all that man hair would bother the baby, maybe scratch him. A problem low on my list of worries. But it’d been keeping my mom up at night.
Soon, Baby G is clawing into my stomach like a cat, his nails long and sharp. He purses his lips and slides his face slowly toward my nipple. Whoa.
A nurse says, “Look, he’s rooting for a boob.”
The poor boy is determined. It’s as if he’s memorized his in utero instruction manual and rehearsed this moment for months. Just as his lips reach my areola, I tap him on the shoulder.
Um, there’s something we need to talk about….
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