Regifting
There was an unfortunate situation. Explains the nurse under the unforgiving lights of the OB’s office, days before our son is due. It’s for a boy. She is holding a homemade crocheted blanket, thick and generous, an assiduous weave.
There was an unfortunate situation. Explains the nurse under the unforgiving lights of the OB’s office, days before our son is due. It’s for a boy. She is holding a homemade crocheted blanket, thick and generous, an assiduous weave.
Old bicycle brakes squeak as she slows for the stoplight. Sun in her eyes, no cars to contend with this early in the morning. Classical music flows into a solitary earbud, birdsong and barking fill her open ear. She reaches back for the chubby leg kicking from the child seat.
But no, there’s no leg, no child seat.
The nurse trundled in with the breast pump as I floundered to maneuver my torso into an upright position. My legs and hips were inoperative, still numb from the epidural and flaccid from three months of strict bed rest. She insisted I start pumping right away, spewing a gush of reasons at me: You’ve got to pump out that first batch of milk—that is the liquid gold!
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