The coral foam of chlorhexidine gluconate drips down my arms from fingertip to elbow as I perform my liturgical scrubbing to prepare to see my hours-old daughter in her perfect plastic container, her wee body hooked to lines and leads and tubes that measure, beep, disperse, push, press, bubble, and breathe — the most benevolently threatening of which is the CPAP, which gurgles like a baby-sized hookah and lovingly, aggressively forces the exchange of gases in Eloise's lungs.