course, but left it thick enough for the top of his tongue to turn white with the sucking, so he would know what real, not evaporated or powdered, but real milk tasted like. She could have done so much with so little, as she had always done.
Weeks into my stay, the doctors released me. I wasnât the baby Momma brought into the hospital. Rolls of fat gathered under my neck, in the creases of my arms, and hugged disposable pampers, which replaced Mommaâs hand-washed ones. I had cut two new teeth, those which Momma discovered as I bit down when she tried to extract a clump of bread Iâd stuffed in my mouth. I was walking then, teetering across the hospital room, pulling at oxygen lines hanging from the wall. The nurses, with pride, had shown Momma I had learned to walk as one held my arms over my head and the other stood at the end of the hall beckoning me to her. Momma said she cried when she saw this. Iâve always wondered why.
The plastic tent was gone. The needles, too, were gone and the only indication Iâd been sick was a dried patch of mucus sitting atop my lip. Momma said I was a favored baby on the floor. The nurses all bragged I never fussed, that I always ate well, and smiled the brightest when they entered my room. It wasnât unusual for Momma to visit and find me draped on the hip of one of thenurses at the nursing station. This made Momma proud. Good babies came from good mommas, and according to the nurses I was as good as they get.
After my discharge, all of the nurses gathered to say goodbye. They kissed my cheeks, held me one last time, and showed Momma again how well I could walk. One of the nurses planted me on the floor. Momma held out her pinky finger. I teetered forward, then backward. I reached for one of the nurses and then for Momma. Seeing me walk and laugh made her happy I was well, but many milestones separated me from her. I looked to the nurses for food. I looked to them for comfort after only a few weeks. The only times she was allowed to be my sole caretaker were the early morning feedings, which she never missed. Every day, she was there to spoon me my first meal. She even took a spoon for herself when the nurses werenât looking. Every day she visited that hospital, rubbed my back, fed me my food. Still tired, still worried about Champ back home, there was happiness in seeing me grow strong. Strength was what I needed. She, alone, knew what we had to go back to.
Momma carried me as we exited the hospital. Her back began to hurt so she put me on the floor. Since I was walking, sheâd brought ânew to meâ shoes from the Goodwill. They were heavy roach stompers with a few scrapes on the front, but I pranced in them as if theyâd just come out of Bradlees. I was small for my age and the chubby parts looked foreign on my body. I teetered forward fast, periodically looking back at Momma, waiting for instruction, but she just smiled, waiting to see how far I would go without her. Nurses and patients stopped and smiled as I walked down the corridor. Momma, still behind, walked slowly, keeping her eyes trained on my movements, ready to dart if I appeared to be losing ground.
Snow Cold Snow Cold
There was more snow that morning than Momma had seen in her whole life. The flakes, as large as rocks, were falling hard enough to crackle against the snowdrifts. Momma felt ice pangs in her hip, and the muscles in her back were taut like a timing belt. She trudged, one baby on her hip, one at her side, one in her belly. Her eyes were squinted so tightly, she could barely see my father walking toward us. He, too, was bent, face turned to the ground, snowflakes jamming around his head, wrapped in a skullcap. But for his strut, off balance, vacillating side to side like he was walking in two directions at the same time, Momma wouldnât have recognized him.
She smiled when she saw him, even though the last time theyâd spoken they had argued about the other
Weeks into my stay, the doctors released me. I wasnât the baby Momma brought into the hospital. Rolls of fat gathered under my neck, in the creases of my arms, and hugged disposable pampers, which replaced Mommaâs hand-washed ones. I had cut two new teeth, those which Momma discovered as I bit down when she tried to extract a clump of bread Iâd stuffed in my mouth. I was walking then, teetering across the hospital room, pulling at oxygen lines hanging from the wall. The nurses, with pride, had shown Momma I had learned to walk as one held my arms over my head and the other stood at the end of the hall beckoning me to her. Momma said she cried when she saw this. Iâve always wondered why.
The plastic tent was gone. The needles, too, were gone and the only indication Iâd been sick was a dried patch of mucus sitting atop my lip. Momma said I was a favored baby on the floor. The nurses all bragged I never fussed, that I always ate well, and smiled the brightest when they entered my room. It wasnât unusual for Momma to visit and find me draped on the hip of one of thenurses at the nursing station. This made Momma proud. Good babies came from good mommas, and according to the nurses I was as good as they get.
After my discharge, all of the nurses gathered to say goodbye. They kissed my cheeks, held me one last time, and showed Momma again how well I could walk. One of the nurses planted me on the floor. Momma held out her pinky finger. I teetered forward, then backward. I reached for one of the nurses and then for Momma. Seeing me walk and laugh made her happy I was well, but many milestones separated me from her. I looked to the nurses for food. I looked to them for comfort after only a few weeks. The only times she was allowed to be my sole caretaker were the early morning feedings, which she never missed. Every day, she was there to spoon me my first meal. She even took a spoon for herself when the nurses werenât looking. Every day she visited that hospital, rubbed my back, fed me my food. Still tired, still worried about Champ back home, there was happiness in seeing me grow strong. Strength was what I needed. She, alone, knew what we had to go back to.
Momma carried me as we exited the hospital. Her back began to hurt so she put me on the floor. Since I was walking, sheâd brought ânew to meâ shoes from the Goodwill. They were heavy roach stompers with a few scrapes on the front, but I pranced in them as if theyâd just come out of Bradlees. I was small for my age and the chubby parts looked foreign on my body. I teetered forward fast, periodically looking back at Momma, waiting for instruction, but she just smiled, waiting to see how far I would go without her. Nurses and patients stopped and smiled as I walked down the corridor. Momma, still behind, walked slowly, keeping her eyes trained on my movements, ready to dart if I appeared to be losing ground.
Snow Cold Snow Cold
There was more snow that morning than Momma had seen in her whole life. The flakes, as large as rocks, were falling hard enough to crackle against the snowdrifts. Momma felt ice pangs in her hip, and the muscles in her back were taut like a timing belt. She trudged, one baby on her hip, one at her side, one in her belly. Her eyes were squinted so tightly, she could barely see my father walking toward us. He, too, was bent, face turned to the ground, snowflakes jamming around his head, wrapped in a skullcap. But for his strut, off balance, vacillating side to side like he was walking in two directions at the same time, Momma wouldnât have recognized him.
She smiled when she saw him, even though the last time theyâd spoken they had argued about the other
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