My parents’ initial dream of producing five children came to a screaming stop after three. They were fairly unfortunate (I felt privileged with siblings so close in age) to give birth to three children in three years. I was a raucous sixteen-month-old when my tow-headed brother was born. My dad took my mom home from the hospital and charged through the house, installing my mom in their bed, baby in arms. Confirmed comfort from my mom denoted Dad’s departure to work. Mom sunk into the pillows and euphoria as she adjusted herself to breastfeed the blush newborn. She scarcely discerned me wobbling on my stunted legs down the hallway towards her. She closed her eyes, exhaling, as I stumbled to her holding my stomach.
“I don’t feel good,” I enlightened her, as I leaned over the edge of the bed and regurgitated my stomach’s contents onto new mom and suckling baby.
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