Weeks pregnant: 61/2. Due date: Dec. 15.

Throughout the nine months, the nurse-midwives recorded hematocrits and blood-sugar levels; the height of my uterus and the pounds I gained.

When I called the Bassett Birthing Center at 4 a.m. Nov. 16, after several hours of what I thought might be real contractions, the midwife asked for two more numbers. Weeks pregnant: almost 36. Minutes between contractions: five.

At the hospital, my labor fantasy came true when the midwife told me I was dilated 7 centimeters out of a possible 10. My second daughter, Allison Elizabeth, arrived 51/2 hours later, and another set of stats was logged. Weight: 5 pounds, 101/2 ounces. Length: 19 inches. Head circumference: 13 inches. Apgar score: 8 out of 10.

But as anyone who has ever held a newborn knows, the numbers are just that — numbers. They may have indicated that I had a relatively easy labor, but they could not quantify the pain of pushing an entire human being through an impossibly small opening — or the joy I felt when I heard that first, tiny cry.

They may have shown that my baby was healthy, but they could not measure the smoothness of her skin, the pinkness of her cheeks, the softness of her wisps of breath, the silkiness of her brown blanket of hair. No number could gauge the thrill of hearing Allison's tiny squeals and murmurs and purrs as she lay sleeping against my chest, five perfect fingers curled around my pinky.

By the numbers, we weren't prepared for Allie's sudden arrival. We had one bassinet and one changing table, and three sets of pajamas, one blanket and one hat — none of which had been washed in Ivory Snow. We had one empty diaper bag and one box full of blankets and sheets and onesies and various other baby paraphernalia — still waiting to be unpacked and organized.

Thoughtful friends and relatives came to the rescue. We left the hospital with six bottles, 104 ounces of formula, one pair of pink booties, three onesies, five outfits, three blankets, six pairs of socks, dozens of diapers and wipes, and one car seat.

Although we didn't appear prepared to care for a baby, emotionally, we were ready. I'd had a difficult pregnancy, with complications that landed me in the hospital the weekend before Allie's birth. I wanted it to be over — and I had a strong feeling my baby would arrive early.

"Weren't you scared?" people asked afterward, when they heard Allison was four weeks premature. I wasn't scared. The number did not matter. Somehow, I knew she would be OK.

Three weeks later, my second daughter is more than OK — slurping up formula, growing into her clothes, and wooing everyone she meets with her chubby cheeks and soft cooing.

We're still crunching numbers: How many ounces did she eat today? How many hours has she been sleeping? How much weight has she gained? I know there will be more numbers in our parenting future: minutes in the time-out chair, school test scores, teenage curfews.

But for now, I'm content to focus on the intangibles, lost in the fleeting world of newborndom — soaking up baby smells and sounds and touches. I'm not counting how many hours of sleep I've missed, or how much money we've spent on formula and diapers, or how many extra loads of laundry we've done.

Instead, I'm counting by blessings, and Allison Elizabeth is at the top of the list.

Lisa Miller is former community news editor for The Daily Star.