All language subtitles for Bringing Up Baby BBC Natural World 2009 720p HDTV EN Sub_Subtitles01.ENG

A baby is about to be born.

It's a dangerous world.

For some, childhood
is a race against time.

For others, there are years
of tender devotion.

We are from the same loving cradle.

The first few days will be crucial.

There's no turning back.
The story has already begun.

A baby can't usually be born
as a ready-made adult.

It has to be small...

half-formed.

A Mountain Gorilla baby
will suckle for three years.

He'll remain within sight of his
mother for at least a decade.

He lives in an extended family,
20 or so uncles and aunts,

cousins, brothers and sisters, all
keen to see mother and new arrival.

The magical bond between them can be
traced back through evolution

to when animals first recognised
each other.

We need to start the story
from there.

Some animals still live
in ancient ways,

echoes from the dawn of childhood.

Babies are just scattered,
like seeds into the wind.

Your chances are slim
and you fight your battles alone.

And then, in a momentous moment,
a mother offers some help.

A mouthbrooder hoovers up her young
to protect them from being eaten.

The trick isn't easy.

Parents and babies need to be
able to recognise each other.

You wouldn't want to end up
in the wrong mouth.

Early attempts at motherhood
must have been somewhat experimental.

This Surinam Toad has eggs that
hatch in pockets on her back.

Skin care, as it were.

Her hospitality has to be worth it,
more must survive.

Once out from under her skin,
they're off to find food.

The next step for pioneering parents
was feeding their offspring.

Amourobius spiders hatch
a hundred little monsters.

They eat extra eggs,
brothers and sisters,

but the spiderlings don't care.

Then they look greedily
to their mother.

You can see that it hurts.

She tries to brush them off.

She could flee as they start
to eat her alive but she doesn't.

The babies grow.

More will survive thanks to a mother
who makes the ultimate sacrifice.

Hatching hungry can be fatal,

so mothers start putting
more food into the eggs.

A spoonful of yolk
for a Caiman crocodile.

They emerge from 40
leathery golf balls.

The squeaking triggers the other eggs
to hatch and alerts their mother.

The Caiman crocodile mother digs
the 16 centimetre

hatchlings out of the nest
and carries them all to the river.

She'll guard them all,
night and day, for a few weeks.

Crocodile hatchlings can catch
insects and eat snails.

Their mother, babysitting,
will go hungry.

A desert in Namibia and eggs
50 times heavier are hatching.

The shell is so strong the ostrich
mother often helps the chicks out.

The biggest advance is that both
parents look after the eggs.

It's a marriage of necessity,

one that goes back to food
and hungry mothers.

Birds need to eat more
than cold-blooded reptiles.

If the father weren't here,
she would either starve or leave.

So he does the night shift.

The brood is then safe
from hungry jackals.

To be even safer,
ostriches spread the risks.

Some of them lay eggs in the dominant
pair's nest, almost like cuckoos.

The top couple don't object.

Maybe it helps to have a few
spare eggs in case a predator comes.

Or maybe there are just
too many to count.

Ostriches are good intuitive parents
and with no obvious favourites.

Foster-chicks aren't fussy either.
They imprint on any adult.

Chicks are encouraged
to get up and about,

though it doesn't look very helpful.

They totter about like children
on stilts.

The ostriches are devoted
to the whole brood but they don't

seem to care about specific chicks,
even their own.

Within hours,
the family needs to find water.

It's a death sentence on any chicks
still hatching.

In big families, it's not always
possible to worry about individuals.

In smaller families, perhaps,
each chick has a better chance.

Here, in a South American swamp,
two or three chicks is the limit.

Wood stork and spoonbill couples
are in a race against time,

and food is scarce.

They all nest together to feel safer,

but if a caracara chooses your family
to attack, there's no defence.

Spoonbills aren't the right shape
to take on a well-armed killer.

Their only chance is to become
big enough as early as possible.

This chick must be right on the edge.

The battle pauses.

It is suddenly as if each bird
is considering what it can do.

Perhaps the race
to feed the chick paid off.

If there had been more to feed,
each would have been smaller,

and caracara chicks could have been
eating spoonbill for supper.

The race is competitive.

Stork parents feed
more to their favourites

and the chicks fight for attention
and food even to the death.

Many parents favour
one chick over another.

In some species, parents even
kill chicks until only one remains.

Infanticide
is a brutal instinct for a mother...

but in hard times
it may keep one alive.

There's a bird couple that only ever
has one chick

and they go to the ends of the earth
to look after it.

In Antarctica, an Emperor penguin
has laid one egg.

She has put everything into it
and now has to feed herself.

His turn, for the winter.

She'll be back with food
in 65 days.

He huddles
under dancing southern lights.

As spring returns,
he realises the egg is hatching.

Because there's only one chick,
the bond forms with the individual

and they learn to recognise
each other.

There's no food on the ice.

The chick needs its mother to return.

She brings a crop full
of silverfish or squid.

It's the father's turn
to walk to the sea.

But some mothers arrive too late.

Out of a desperation to keep
one egg from freezing,

a trek to keep one little character
fed against all odds,

we can recognise
what we would call emotion.

As spring progresses, the ice melts
and the sea gets closer.

Fishing trips become shorter.

Chicks demand regular
attention for a month or so,

then one day they just walk off.

Some parents are reluctant
to let them go.

They form teenage gangs
which hang out together

and their parents
have to find them for meals.

Now they can both
go on fishing trips.

Birds are, in a way,
the best parents,

loyal couples travelling further.

But they always lay eggs
and that ties them to a nest.

Other animals have found
a different way.

These baby chameleons emerge
not as eggs but live young.

She manages alone.
There were no eggs to guard

and she could take her embryos
with her to find food.

The father has disappeared.

She can only give birth to as
many as she can carry inside her

but each is safer in there.

There's no childhood.
She abandons them.

They have to fend for themselves.

But 150 million years ago,

new animals emerged that stayed
to look after their newborns.

Mammals revolutionised childcare.

A few primitive mammals
still have eggs.

But when echidnas
and platypus emerge,

they feed directly
from their mother's skin.

All mammals start on milk.

Suckling is one of mother nature's
great inventions.

With food on tap,
fathers lose another job.

They're no help.

Instead, a remarkable bond forms
between baby and mother.

Milk can sustain
increasingly helpless young,

born at any time of year.

For black bears, two tiny 10 ounce
cubs are born in mid winter.

It helps to be ready early
for spring.

Like the cannibalistic spiders,
they feed on her.

Over a year of gestation and
suckling, they absorb half of her.

Emerging from the den, two months
later, is like a second birth.

For almost two years
she'll protect them.

They'll have to be shown
where to go and what to eat.

Every new advance in mothering
seems to have drawbacks.

It's a 24 hour job with no help.

It must be exhausting.

The world conspires against
mothers who need sleep.

The absent father's returned.

He wouldn't recognise his cubs
and could easily harm them.

It's safer to stay out of the way.

It's a shame he's got no role.

It's the downside of pregnancy
and milk.

The cubs play near their mother.

They're like the early mammals,
which were explorers and thinkers.

Childhoods have become longer
and instincts less important.

It's how mammals started building
a mind of their own.

The cubs try everything,
learning slowly for themselves.

The greatest gift a mammal mother
can give them is time.

A mule deer mother calving nearby
doesn't have any time.

If you are potential prey,

birth must be quick, and babies born
well developed and able to run.

The calf is already alert,
his senses tuned to danger.

She automatically eats any
telltale remains from the birth,

though, as a strict vegetarian,
she doesn't seem to like them much.

A mule deer calf must be born
with specific fears.

He can't explore and learn
what is dangerous.

Wolves, coyotes and bears
could be anywhere.

The slightest sound
or smell triggers fear.

Grazers the world over are ruled
by their instincts, their emotions.

A wildebeest birth takes minutes.

The newborn calves, at 40 pounds,

are as well developed
as is physically possible.

The only security is to hide behind
others, melt away into the herd,

a mother and calf
lost among millions.

In the safety of a nearby river,
a hippo is being born.

She's better able to make choices
for her baby.

She feels safer here
from lions and hyenas.

It's an underwater birth.

Her biggest worry for the newborn
is other hippos, the father included.

She chases them away.

The newborn has strong instincts, to
stay near mum but also not to drown.

Struggling to find shallower water,
he may be swept away.

We can see the confusion and panic.

Even if the calf makes
it to the bank,

instincts are still pulling
both in different directions.

She remains fearful of other hippos,

though the real danger now
is from lions.

She makes her decision
and comes charging over.

Babies depend on mothers
balancing their instincts

and gauging what to do.

As animals grow up, they need their
parents to make the right decisions.

Often mothers face
very difficult choices.

Few are as stark as the dilemmas
facing cape fur seals

on the south west coast of Africa.

Again, the story begins with a birth.

Nobody helps each other here.

In this city of seals, there are only
single-parent families.

Mother and pup learn
each other's smell and call.

An ancient system of hormones,
oxytocin and others, forge the bonds.

The problems start
at the top of the colony.

It gets very hot.

Seals need to keep cool
or they overheat and die.

Mothers stay loyally with their pup
and both suffer in the heat.

Pups rely on their mothers
acting unselfishly but her instincts

of self-preservation
may override her pup's needs.

The seals become desperately hot.

Some first-time mothers panic.

They make a mad dash for the shore.

The pups don't understand.

They try to follow, rapidly
over-heating in their black coats.

Out of the desert come brown hyenas.

An undefended baby is easy pickings.

None of the others defend the pups.

They turn a blind eye.

When the mothers return, for some,
it's too late.

They pass casualties of misguided
instincts and heat.

A few survivors have squashed
together in a bit of shade.

Some newborns have mothers
that make better choices.

They drag and throw their
reluctant pup towards the sea.

She's managing to think ahead.

As the pup gets older
he joins a creche.

The smells and calls
that bound them on land fade.

In a few months they'll be at sea,

and soon they don't even seem
to recognise each other.

The dangers a newborn pup faces
might be avoided

if the father helped, as birds do.

A few mammal fathers
can become very paternal.

A Californian mouse male
acts as a midwife.

He cleans up and gets food and water.
He's the perfect mouse-husband.

With his help, there can be four
times more young than the normal

single-parent mouse can manage.

What makes him stay?

It's the same hormones that bind
mothers and babies.

The potential was always there.

In his case, instincts are triggered
by chemicals in her scent.

The same pyrazines are found
in Chinese and Western medicine.

His paternal passions are ignited,

he bonds with the babies
and works to exhaustion.

How wonderful it must be to be born

not just to a couple but to a whole
group, fired-up to help you.

The original chemistry
for mothers and babies

now binds an extended family.

It's the next stage.

Muskox are gigantic wild goats,
more than oxen.

They give birth in the Arctic winter.

Newborns must be able to run.

Wolves are about.

The wolves are looking for any
youngsters that get left behind.

The muskox help them to keep up.

The muskox behave as wildebeest
or seals never would.

They unite into a single force.

They form a wall between the wolves
and the youngsters.

These muskox know
that they are a family.

They share a common bond.

Faced with baby-mad giant hairy goats
working together,

wolves usually give up.

In a wilderness full of predators,

some newborns have protection that is
organised into a basic society.

The male Guanaco in the Andes watches
over a harem of pregnant wives.

He's waiting for them to calf.

Mothers often seem to pause
in mid-birth.

The calf can breathe
and meet his aunts

while the other end
is still attached.

The first sniff and bleat

are immediately
stamped into their memory.

The bonds are forged.

His smell and call trigger mothering
in the whole group.

The cocktail of hormones
courses through them all.

The herd are so keen, the mother
has to gently shoo them away.

So instead they see off a caracara.

For a newborn, organised society
is better than a hairy wall.

Guanacos do different jobs.

Fathers defend the territory
from pumas, foxes and rival males.

Mothers look after the chulengos -
the babies - together.

It seems a perfect arrangement.

But for every new solution,
every advance,

it seems there are always drawbacks.

Societies hold terrible dangers
for newborns.

Many animals are born into volatile
and treacherous communities.

Lion cubs start by avoiding
the pride.

Mothers behave as though society
were a dangerous thing.

The cubs are born blind and helpless,

and she hides them for the first six
weeks, visiting them only for feeds.

Sibling rivalry starts early.

The cubs all have their own
characters, each very different.

Our families are like that too.

The mother is juggling
difficult decisions.

She must introduce her cubs
to the pride.

It's a risk. Lions kill infants
they don't know.

It's crucial they recognise
these cubs as nephews and nieces...

or even as their own offspring.

The mother approaches a teenage male,

probably her son from a previous
litter. She snarls a warning at him.

He welcomes the cubs with open arms.

A pride male investigates.

Slowly the cubs win him round.

They play with him, almost teasing
his conflicting emotions.

The new cubs become part
of the pride.

Mothers, sisters and older
daughters all work together, feeding

and guarding the cubs as they turn
the Serengeti into their playground.

Elephants sometimes kill cubs.

Lions eat elephant calves,
so feelings run deep.

The cub's mother alone could never
have held off the herd.

She and her sisters
are fierce defenders of the cubs.

But there are worse threats
than elephants.

If new lions want to start a family,

adopting stepchildren
is not an option.

They defeat and kick out
the pride fathers.

Now they must kill the cubs
and mate with the lionesses.

If enough of the females have cubs,
they may take on the new males.

But lionesses without young
are desperate

to become mothers themselves.

They need the new bloodline.

The argument erupts
in anger and frustration.

If the females can't unite,
there is nothing more they can do.

She will have to try for new cubs,
with these killers.

Male takeovers happen
every few years.

But mothers can be killers too.

Rival predators are a threat
to any future cubs.

Dogs and cats
are old territorial enemies.

Dog dens have lookouts.

Inside there's one litter of puppies
and 10 or 20 adults,

all working together,
sharing motherhood.

Only the top pair breed.

The rest are babysitters, guards,
hunters and defenders.

The babies were born here,
in an old aardvark burrow,

with their mother
and a dozen helpers.

Now they can smell lions
and the adults will fight for them.

Dogs are emotional animals. They care
about each other - more so than cats.

This is mothers at war.

Both sides enlist their relatives.

Pain is dulled by fear and shock.

Worse than physical pain, for
many animals, is emotional turmoil.

The lions may be back
and the pack must move on.

The adults help puppies as
they learn slowly about their world.

There's where to find water
and safe dens.

Other animals live here too.
Some are best left alone

and some are dangerous
and have to be taken on.

But most lessons are about
sharing pack responsibility

and coping with
the emotional ups and downs.

They're helped
for two or three years.

In contrast, an elephant calf
has a decade of learning.

Their families are even larger

and much more sophisticated
than cats or dogs.

Elephant society is based around
mothers and long childhoods.

A birth is one of the most
emotional times in a herd.

After 22 months, the newborn arrives,
at 250 pounds.

The enthusiastic greeting
is like a collective hysteria.

Some hours later the calf
is still surrounded,

mostly by cousins and aunts
wanting to help him up.

His mother lets the over-enthusiastic
relatives fuss over the calf.

If all goes well, they'll share
in the mothering.

Such close ties around a baby
are bound to cause friction.

A male wants to mate with one
of the calf's admirers

but of course she's more interested
in the baby.

The bull gives the source
of his frustrations a shove.

The newborn, for accidentally
derailing a bull's passionate moment,

next gets a foot in the face.

For an hour he's kicked about
like a football,

as emotional animals
feel frustration or protection.

In the end he gives up

and the calf can finally follow
the smell of milk to its source.

A day or two later,
one of his aunts touches him

with her tail,
lines up carefully, and wham!

We don't know what
made her kick the calf.

There are bound to be
jealousies around a new baby,

yet her anger too seems controlled.

A rational mind is helpful
in coping with emotional moments,

like having a newborn in the herd.

All over the world you can see
animals wrestling

with the emotions a newborn brings.

But it's clearest in primates.

In Madagascar, ring-tailed lemurs
have to stay together to survive,

particularly in a drought.

One of the babies
is too weak to hold on.

Lemurs can't easily carry
their young,

so the mother faces
an appalling dilemma.

If she's separated from
the others for too long,

they could attack her as an outsider.

She has to choose
between her baby and herself.

The mother moves to follow
the troop...

..but she returns five times.

Her mind must be struggling
back and forth.

Many scientists believe
she feels emotion

and is thinking about her feelings.

It's called affective consciousness.

It's now thought likely
all mammals are aware

of their instinctive feelings.

It would be hard to be a good mother
without it.

As her baby got weaker
she left for the last time.

We can't know for sure what she was
thinking or feeling but she behaved

as though she'd come to a decision
that she found very difficult.

The bonds that form at birth,
the emotion that lasts a lifetime,

can't just disappear.

If a baby dies,
the emotional pain is grief.

She can't bear to let go.

She'll return to the bones,
sometimes for years.

Monkeys, too,
carry their dead infants around.

Powerful feelings ruled us as animals
and rule us still.

Emotions are just instincts that you
can feel, that you are aware of.

They're the voices of our genes
and our past.

But conscious minds can manipulate
each other's emotions

right from the start.

A vervet monkey is born.

The baby meets a young cousin.

He may be a new friend, an ally
or competition.

It all depends on his mother's
social standing.

She is not the only one in her
community having a baby.

For the teenage sisters
it's a thrilling time.

They beg any chance
to hold the newborns.

The high-ranking females don't beg.

They grab babies
and teach them who's boss.

Junior mothers
have to be more protective.

All newborns are inquisitive
but lowly babies aren't allowed out.

Social status can bring
confidence to make new friends...

or fear and frustration.

Within a week,
emotions that will affect a baby

for the rest of its life
are well established.

Families have a new role,
to provide emotional support.

For mother and baby, nothing
in the world is more important

or brings greater joy.

Baby chimpanzees spend years learning

about each other
and their traditions.

Families are the schools.

In Central Africa,
chimps crack nuts with rocks.

The trick is passed, mother to baby,
down the generations.

It's part of their culture.

In East Africa
they catch termites using twigs.

Babies watch and learn.

They get the basics
almost immediately.

It's something to do with a stick.

In some extraordinary footage,

the mother tries to help
and is pushed away by the youngster.

With endless patience,
she tries again.

"No, not that huge thing.
Here, this one is better."

Only humans are supposed
actively to teach

but textbooks can be rewritten
if necessary.

Young chimps get enormous pleasure
from termite fishing.

A hunger to learn
and satisfaction with success

is also part of our biology. It must
drive a lot of what we do.

Most primates are born into troops,
extended families, but not all.

A three pound newborn orang-utan
brings us back to the start.

Fathers and cousins are around
but not particularly helpful.

It'll be seven or eight years
before the next one.

His mother's one of the world's
slowest breeders.

His long childhood
gives him time to work things out.

His mother will help map out
where to find food

and slowly he'll become aware
of his world and himself.

It's not just primates.

It seems likely all mammals, and
maybe birds too, feel emotions

and make thoughtful choices,
particularly around babies.

Increasingly,
orang-utans face disaster.

Infants that lose their mothers
may be lucky enough to be rescued.

Human step-parents do their best
with an orphan.

They both try to replace a bond
that is lost.

Years later, orphans that have
grown up with people

become mothers themselves.

Without any encouragement, they
show their own young a new culture

they copied when they arrived at
the orang-utan sanctuary as infants.

It seems animal mothers are also
trying to build a better world.

The care animals give to their young
is extraordinary.

As we understand wildlife better,
we discover that our way of thinking

and feeling about babies
is often their way too.

We can understand the emotions
we share.

It's a bond with half a billion years
of motherhood.

It's thanks to pioneering parents,

and perhaps our own
long childhoods too,

that we can feel something
of what others go through.

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