I have the night shift. The preferred shift, really. The baby sleeps (more) at night. Etienne is the baby’s name. Etienne is French for Stephen. I am not French nor is my wife. But we have a French-named baby — such is the effect of a winter on Chappy.

My friend wrote to tell me that I should take the location service off of my iPhotos, due to the prevalence of nefarious weirdos roaming the halls of the ether. Apparently when I post pictures of Etienne on Facebook, my iPhoto lets everyone know just where Baby E is located. My guess is that even the most industrious of the insidious ilk would find the trek out here too much effort, but better safe than sorry. I googled “turn off location services for iPhoto,” and did just that.

I have considered, very briefly, placing E on eBay. This thought occurred to me during a particularly long fuss. Lots of arm waving and leg kicks, and not the graceful Tai Chi type that he will often practice, but the jerky forceful kind with bad intent. My baby hates me during these spells — I am the representation of all the ills that befall a soul pushed from the comfort of the womb. And then my baby loves me. I am peace, and comfort and strength. Anyway, I don’t know how to place a teacup on eBay, let alone a baby (and they probably have rules prohibiting the sale of children), so that didn’t happen.

E was born here at the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital in the lovely boutique maternity ward. There had been some concern that we would not be able to avail ourselves of this lovely service due to a sequestering by ice and snow. But it all happened without incidence or concern. There was no 2 a.m. frantic snowshoeing across the frozen harbor, dragging my pregnant wife in a homemade sling of bedsheets behind me. No tub births at home (this would have been a fairly awful option, as our drain takes to freezing this time of year, and said tub had accumulated a healthy compliment of slush). Instead we left our house about noon, putting in Arlene’s overnight bag as an afterthought, and made a leisurely trip to the hospital to see what was up with her state of stuff. We stopped at the post office (definitely pushing the envelope), and grabbed a cup of coffee at the Meat and Fish Market. E was born about 14 hours later, after a bit of a to-do. There is a reason that women were chosen to be the birth vessels — no guy is selfless enough to put up with that misery and not expect to have a parade down Broadway.

Nancy Hugger, a veteran of Chappy affairs, was there to help in her capacity as nurse and angel. All were angels, the whole lot there. Patient, professional, compassionate and intuitive — everyone from receptionist to midwife was skilled in the art of baby. Simply exceptional care.

And then we were home. With a baby. Our baby. E. For good. I’m a father. Arlene, a mother. Forever. Nothing in life will define us more than these two roles. I love him, my boy. I love the milky bubbles on his lips. I love the lines on the soles of his feet. I love the labyrinths inside his ears. I love that some day soon, I will put him in waders and take him scalloping in the Pogue behind our house.

It’s a lot. This baby deal. This negotiation with nature. We will welcome the fatigue, the awesome weight of responsibility and the subversion of self in exchange for life. I don’t know, I truly don’t know how we, people, do it. But we do. And mostly well. I’ll do my best.

Brad Woodger lives on Chappaquiddick and co-writes the On Chappy column.