I rock this tiny child to sleep in a room empty of everything but a single rocking chair. He sucks from his bottle with his eyes stare intently up at mine, his hand gripping the collar of my shirt as though saying, “please never leave me!” The smooth rocking motion of the chair begins to take its toll as his face presses further into my bosom and his eye lids grow heavy, when it all hits me.
In less than a months time, the small child I will soon be rocking will be that of my own. At first, he will be considerably smaller in size, possibly fitting perfectly into one arm alone, and then I cry. I will no longer feel him pressing his weight against me as he desperately fights to stretch in the continually shrinking womb that is currently his home. Or struggle with him from climbing into my ribs. In roughly 25 days, the parasitic being that I have housed inside my body for nine months will be the one I rock to sleep.
Will he come out bald or will he have jet black hair that shines blue in the sun, like that of his grandmothers? Will he take after his father and have natural golden yellow hair that shines brighter than the sun on the hottest summer day or will he take after me and have smooth, chocolate brown hair? Will his eyes turn out brown like mine, warning those around him to heed his bullshit he is likely to throw? Will he have his father’s blue eyes, making him irresistible to the lovers he is bound to chase relentlessly in the years to come or will he have his grandfather’s cool, green eyes you cannot help but trust?
All these questions flood my head as the room around me melts before my eyes and I find myself in a hospital room holding an immensely small, undescript baby feeding from the body that once housed and protected him.
My child, my flesh and blood, the wonder of my world. My baby.