Infatuation. A feeling of such intensity that I recall being startled by it, and my life was not the same thereafter. It was 11 December 1979, just past dawn. He was across the room from me, in an incubator because of a difficult birth. He lay on his side, looking toward me, pensive, calm, with incredible, large dark eyes. The most beautiful newborn I had ever seen. I fell deeply in love. I would not again experience such feelings for any other child. Daniel was the first in many ways: first child of my brother, whose wife was my dear friend; first grandson of my father; first nephew for me. He was born into a farming family, the great-great grandson of a Montana homesteader. The farm would be his if he so chose. My husband, my father, and I lived next door to the new family, and we all reveled in the child. Every milestone was pure delight. His intelligence was evident early as his vocabulary blossomed. My favorite memory of his early childhood recalls his mother reading a book. She was lying on the floor, propped on her elbows, with crossed ankles in the air. She loved to read. Her son was beside her, with his own book, imitating her pose exactly. He was less than 2 years old. They were inseparable.