Corniche hospital, where Iola was born, is a dedicated maternity hospital. It's amazing, really. There are over 600 patients coming and going each day; over 900 babies get delivered each month; and it has on-going breastfeeding support for mothers who give birth there. It's part of the UNICEF/WHO Baby-Friendly Initiative, which means the hospital follows certain guidelines: to maintain a written breastfeeding policy that is routinely communicated to all health care staff; to help mothers initiate breastfeeding within one hour of birth; to give infants no food, drink or pacifiers other than breastmilk unless medically indicated; to practice rooming-in (allowing mothers and infants to remain together 24 hours a day); and to foster breastfeeding support groups and then refer mothers to them upon discharge from the hospital or clinic. The funniest thing to me, upon entering Corniche for the first time, was the contrast between all the modestly veiled women crowding the waiting room and the hundreds of pictures of boobs on the wall. There's one with a big sign: "Breasts Work."

In the US, 77 percent of new mothers start to breastfeed, but only 36 percent of babies are breastfed through six months. More than 90 percent of those who stopped would have liked to continue -- it's just too hard. I've been going to see the wonderful lactation consultants at Corniche once a week. I think we're past the big challenges now, but I wonder, if not for all the hospital support, my high pain threshold, and a supportive husband and family, wouldn't I have quit also? At two weeks there were cracks, blocked milk ducts and reynard's syndrome, a circulation problem. I didn't get candida/thrush, which is common in this climate, and I didn't get mastitis, which could have resulted from the blocked milk ducts if I hadn't dedicated evenings sitting around with hot compresses, and lastly, after those first five days of struggle, Iola didn't have trouble latching on or sucking. I'm grateful for those things, but who knew about the others? I continue to wonder how humans have survived so swimmingly.

And that brings me to the subject of crying. Show me a baby animal that cries as much as a human baby. I've never met one. Maybe they use registers that we can't hear. Maybe bat babies are extremely fussy. Or maybe the problem is that baby humans hate being indoors -- they sure do seem to love being outside -- but we live in the 21st century, in Abu Dhabi, so we're inside a lot. Or maybe it's because we're made in the image of God, and God was a fussy baby.

I've read that babies' crying, barring colic, peaks at 6 weeks. We're almost over the hump.