Baby Stories

Not for him:

Kicking, shouting, screaming, groping, smattered in blood, ripped from the cave of the womb, and blurted out into a bright, cold, controlled hospital room. He was born asleep. Had a snooze instead.

Not for him:

Crawling around the furniture like an assault course, creeping up to the edge of the sofa like a cliff. He didn't move for a year. Just sat like a fat little Buddha, contemplating the world, with a sphere of toys.

For him:

On his first birthday, he got up and walked. And then started to talk. Before then, I had patted at dark, red, wet, reverberating walls, or flopped feebly about like a stuffed creature on a carpet. But then - as he groped forward greedily, lurched about looking for love, wailed words of want in the air - I knew his baby-soul was mine; fist's, forever fighting, forever forcing - but flying.