This pensive term of pregnancy, both fragile and persevered, yielded in its nuanced expulsion an exoskeleton quite unlike all previous applied terms. The genesis of the child, coiled within a pasty egg yellow cocoon and writhing in the hands of an aghast deliverer, created something of an instance in panic and somaesthetic wailing in the small kitchen. The wine glasses on the racks underneath the cupboards rattled. The child, from within its skin, screamed into the misty morning air with a succinct pop not entirely dismissive of the refrain heard from a champagne uncorking. And that is when it was discovered the child’s head had collapsed in on itself; under what strain, we were helpless to uncover. We were helpless in the room where blood and stripped placenta slicked the green-tiled floor, and the faces of our guardian angels became twisted with equal portions of envy, rage and complete wonder.