untitled wip

I was terrified when I discovered I was pregnant with you. I sat on the toilet seat in our tiny, rickety house, staring at the test, trying to fathom how it was confirming my fears. I wasn't ready for you. We weren't ready for you. We had no money; we'd just gotten married, just gotten the farm, just began the start of our lives. We weren't ready for you to begin yours.

You were a mistake, and out of all the mistakes I've ever made, I now know you were definitely my favorite.

Telling your father was a whole nother thing. He stared at me, his eyes wide as I've ever seen them, his knuckles going white as he held the groceries he was carrying in. He couldn't say anything, his lips parted as he stared, my stomach doing flips as he did such. I wanted him to be happy; I wanted him to reassure me that we would be okay, but the first thing he said as he unfroze was, "Well, fuck."

Let me tell you, honey, it was definitely not what I wanted to hear.

Eventually, though, things seemed to come together. We picked up a crib from a thrift store; I got old baby clothes from my mother; I took tips and advice from all the friends I could. I ate the healthiest I could, refusing any coffee or caffeine. I wanted the best from you, even though I couldn't always give that. You did know that I tried, right?

When you were born, I found myself more scared than ever. You were so adorable, your nose tinier than a button, your hair a mess. You liked to sleep, curled up on whoever would hold you, but your lungs... Your lungs weren't healthy, baby, and they didn't get a whole lot better as you got older. You would have these fits, just coughing and kicking your legs as if it was all you could manage. When we took you to the doctor, they made promises of, "At one month, he will be stronger." One month came with no improvements, and so we went back. "At two months, he will be stronger." It repeated, it repeated until you reached your first year. You were officially diagnosed with asthma. I held you in my arms, shaking as I listened to the doctor tell me how you had weak lungs, but you're "the strongest fighter" that she's "ever seen."

That's you. You're my fighter.

By the time you were two, you demanded to walk everywhere. You were always so eager, as though your feet could take you around the whole world. Honestly, I don't believe anyone could tell you differently if they tried.

You had the biggest smile each time you reached up for a hug. You always said your "please" and "thank you"'s, like any true gentleman should. You ran through the grass in our front yard, arms outstretched as you tried to catch the lightning bugs so you could "make a wish." One night, you fell on the gravel, your knees getting all scraped and bloodied. I remember how we both cried as you sat on the sink and I picked the rocks from your knees, as I put on the bactine and wrapped gauze around it. As you started to stop crying, crinkling your little nose up as you sniffled, you wibbled out, "I didn't even get one t'wish on, Mommy."

Not a minute later, your dad came in, his palms clasped around each other as he came over to you. Slowly, opening them up, he showed you a lightning bug. Its tail flickering, you stared wide at it and then looked up at him. He smiled at you, "Did you make a wish?"

You nodded as you reached up for a hug. He instantly picked you up, hugging you tight, "You're okay. You're a fighter; this won't even matter by tomorrow."

I cried harder as he petted your hair.

When you were five, I took you to the park. I watched as you talked to the other children, running around and taking turns on the slides. When you started to walk back to me, a little girl came up and grabbed your hand. She smiled so wide at you, saying something I couldn't hear. You pulled away, shaking your head, before running over to me. I smiled, picking you up and sitting you on my lap. Scrunching up your nose and pouting, you said, "I don't like girls, Mommy."

I laughed. "I think you'll change your mind one day, baby."

You shook your head, "Nope! Never!"

When you were six, I noticed for the first time how many freckles you'd gotten. I was tucking you into bed. That night, you asked me to read to you. It was one of the books from The Chronicles of Narnia. I remember because halfway through the chapter, your sleepy voice sounded, "He created everything, Mommy?"

You were nearly asleep, but you still sounded so shocked, like it was impossible that everyone could just create a world. I wanted to tell you that it was possible, it was absolutely possible, but I don't think you would've understood me. That being said, I reached over and petted your hair, "Uh-huh, darling. He did."

You let out a little "hmm," before settling back down to listen.

After finishing the chapter, I looked at you. I looked at you, and my stomach did that same little flip as I realized how much you had grown since you were a baby. You used to be so small, so tiny that I was afraid of breaking you. You used to have a clear face and a flawless body, no marks and no scars. You were so fresh, so clear and perfect.

Before my eyes, you seemed so different. Your cheeks and nose were freckled, as though the sun individually placed each in a line.