You lay your hand against his skin and just rib his back. Blow into his ear. Press that baby up against your own skin and walk outside with him, where the night air will sourround him, and moonlight fall on his face. Whistle, maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how to calm a crying baby)

I compromised my ability to tell my story, at the most basic level.

I continued to protect him with my silence.

Imagine if you succeeded in making the world perfect for your children what a shock the rest of life would be for them.

[On home births:] In a house where there had been three people, there were now four, although no one had come in the door.

The vehemence with which certain critics have chosen not simply to criticize what I've written, but to challenge my writing this story at all, speaks of what the book is about: fear of disapproval.

Many women my age have known the experience of giving up crucial parts of themselves to please the man they love.