The bawling doesn't come,
Oblivious to the expected,
The baby doesn't cry,
Abomination! They cry,
And WHAM!
Calloused palms meet smooth skin,
We must elicit the essential.
Robust and high-pitched,
The baby's throaty reaction,
As if to say,
"I've heard your gist,
I'll be old enough soon,
I'll get u for it,
Wicked nurse."
After
the nurse had slapped my butt, and I had burst to life, she handed me
to my mother who in turn crooned admiringly before she handed me back to
the nurse, the cue for washing up. I was bawling quite loudly now, and I
could sense the nurse’s discomfort. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted –
loud bawling? If only she knew, she wouldn’t have slammed her palms on
my little bootie, baa baa baa. Maybe she hasn’t eaten. Now we were
strolling down a white hall. Ok, the nurse was strolling down the hall,
me in tow, bawling still, the antiseptic smell of the hospital violating
my virgin nostril, this fact nudging up the volume of my bawling a fair
few decibels. My face was ensconced in a rather succulent swelling –
rather comforting –
