Tiny little chicken
I am not sure how I could handle you with such confidence and pleasure as you were wee and small and uncooked mostly. It was a miracle and I don’t even believe in that shit that you were even born to me because before I had you I could not imagine such a thing. I don’t mean that in the vague nostalgic way-I mean it literally. I never believed I could be a mother or should be a mother and so your tiny presence was constantly astonishing.
I mean, it wasn’t some sort of miracle to have a baby although I am not ignorant of the struggles some people face and that disregard of a miracle does not diminish my gratitude but really, come on. Everything has sex and procreates. I mean, some organisms can just do it by themselves for christs sake-now that’s a miracle if they exist.
You were screaming and screaming and so pissed to be born and cold and pulled out before you were ready and when they handed you to me I said your name, the name I had made for you long before you were born that day, the name I had been calling you as you lolled around inside my insides and you heard my voice and your tiny mouth formed a little “O” of surprise and you looked right at me. Your scrawny red body with downy blond fluff on your head framing your giant blue eyes stared right at me with a look of knowing that I was that voice you had been hearing and it made me realize in that moment that you were not some imaginary thing but a tiny person that I created out of thin air inside my insides and now you were out, were mine. And I wanted you in all your perfectness.
That month in the hospital was like sitting in the front seat of a roller coaster waiting for it to take off and having to pee at the same time. Uncomfortable and thrilling. My heart would explode over and over and still does and I never take for granted how you look at me and am still grateful you were born to me.