I thought when my first baby left my body and I looked him in the eyes, I’d feel this overwhelming oneness with him—this baby made out of ingredients of me, his muscles loose and fragile, dependent on me to stay alive. I felt so weak and so powerful at the same time. I held him; he didn’t know how to hold on. I looked at him; he didn’t even know what it was to see. I did not feel oneness. I felt separate. By the time he was a few months old, it’s like I could see his future Person behind those clear dark eyes, waiting to be fully realized, like he already knew who he was but couldn’t tell me yet. When I met my second son, he had more ease with being a baby in our family equation. His attachment suited me just fine. He was small enough to not have much of an opinion, and anyway, he was happy to go wherever, as long as I would be there too. And I …