This posting got deleted somehow, so I am reposting.

Mammals are a class of vertebrate animals characterized by the presence of sweat glands, including sweat glands modified for milk production, hair, three middle ear bones used in hearing, and a neocortex region in the brain. All mammals (except for the six species of monotremes) give birth to live young instead of laying eggs. Most mammals also possess specialized teeth, and the largest group of mammals, the placentals, use a placenta during gestation. -- Wikipedia

I think because human births are so private, most people that I've met reference an animal or pet's birth when they think about labor and delivery. Domesticated animals don't have the privilege of privacy, and the process is so animal-like anyway. The only births I've seen, and I reference them all the time these days, were six kittens born on a sweaty Texas afternoon in June 1989, and a foal born at 5am on July 5th, 2000 at Leonard Lake. The kittens were blind and helpless; the foal learned to walk within 45 minutes. She was born to Moonraker, a mare that had been given to me by our neighbor Jim Scott. The day before, I watched her gallop down a steep mountain; her double-wide belly practically flapping. She was incredibly fat, as well -- the grass was great that year. I decided she needed a time-out, and put her in the make-shift birthing corral, and slept right outside it on the bed of a pick-up truck that night. I don't know what made me wake up in the morning. She was in the middle of contractions. Aria Moon came out feet first, covered in slime, and Moonraker, surprised, lurched to her feet and broke the umbilical cord. I watched her go through her own identity shift from feisty teenager to patient mother in that split second turnaround: no overthinking the identity crisis, that's for sure. She was nervous, and totally unsure, but she cared a lot. Up till then I wasn't sure if she'd be a good mom--so self centered! So egotistical! Such a flirt! I tried not to interfere, except to put her placenta in a bucket and bury it in the hillside, and then make sure Aria's meconium was voided (I made double sure by giving her an enema, poor thing).

Sometimes I know I sound like a crazy animal person (like the time Jackson walked by the bedroom, and did a double-take at my belly, I swear he did!). But I have never felt more like a mammal, myself, and that intro paragraph from Wikipedia explains why only partly. My modified sweat glands, the baby's ear bones that I have been so concerned with (having exposed them to rather high decibel levels), and my incredibly stretchy placenta. But also, the mom part. Sometimes animals aren't good mothers. My little sister Julia has a bunch of tricks up her sleeve to trick a goat or cow into being a good mom but sometimes it just doesn't work (and sometimes it involves skinning a dead baby's hide and draping it over another baby... not really practical most of the time). Moonraker was only a bad mother for ten minutes once, but it was nearly fatal. When Aria turned four months, I decided to let them back with the herd. Moonraker was so excited that she forgot about her four-month old baby and went running off with everyone, up over the hill and around in big circles. Meanwhile Aria trailed behind, getting confused about where to go, and not sure how to find Moonraker in the confusion. We also had a mule named Sparky, and mules can be territorial about their herd, running off dogs, coyotes and even wolves... well Sparky fixed Aria in his sights and charged. Aria quickly decided not to chase after her mom and ran away as fast as she could. They both barreled down the same mountain Moonraker had galloped down four months before, but at the bottom, there was a barb-wire fence, which Aria slammed into. She collapsed in a heap. Sparky wasn't far behind, but I was closer. I covered her with my body and roared at Sparky, that's the only word for it really, and he stopped just in time not to crush us. Moonraker didn't catch on that anything was amiss for another several minutes, after she'd made all her social calls.

So this is what I am over-thinking. I can't guarantee that I will be a good mother; it's kind of up in the air until it happens. But I know for sure that I will be a bad mother for at least ten minutes sometime (probably many times!). And humans take so much longer than 45 minutes to learn to walk, so much longer than a year to become your best friend. I know that it's a team effort with John, and that helps, but I really, really hope that someone else can step in and save our baby when we forget everything and leave it to the mules.