My husband brought our three young children down the long hall of the maternity ward, pausing to let them wave in each doorway at the new mothers cuddling bundles. At my room, he beckoned them in and introduced them to their new brother.

Five-year-old Katrina gingerly fingered the baby’s thick red hair that the nurse had brushed and oiled into a fat top curl. She inspected his little feet, admired his tiny ears, and planted kisses on his dimpled elbow. But her coos stopped short at his wrist.

Drawing back, she pointed at the identification bracelet and frowned, "Look, Mommy. They left the price tag on!"