We were instructed to wait until your umbilical cord detached.
You were eighteen days old when we ropped up your blue whale bathtub in the kitchen sink at our apartment on Masonic Avenue; you'd only had sponge baths until then.
You gave a tiny cry from the shock of the water, then quickly calmed down though your tiny firsts stayed clenched. We were careful to keep your face dry as we washed your hair, then each arm, your front, your legs, your back, and finally your tush--all the while trying you keep you covered so that you didn't get cold. Papa wrapped you in your hooded towel like a porcelain doll, and clutched you against his chest all the way to your room where we dried you, clothed you, and brushed your hair.