A Sort of Private Blitzkrieg
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I just love to play house with them.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nonexistent.
Pairing: Vaguely (J/S)
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Summary: She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Random: Sylvia Plath's 'A Life' excerpted.
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One Week
(This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.)
My life began a few days ago. You don't know yet, but I am so excited that you will. In the midst of both of your exclamations of love, in that one moment, he gave you the ultimate gift: a life. Your DNA and my father's DNA fused, and the result was a new life that's genetically different from either of you. I am the new life. Now, six days later, you still don't know that I exist.
From this point on you have a new job. It's more important than any job you'll ever have; it is literally a matter of life and death. No salary, just the feeling you'll get at the end of the day knowing that I'm tucked away in my bed. I may grow up fast, but you'll remember every minute. That's what mothers do.
I'm one hundred cells and counting, now rapidly dividing. A little larger than the seed of an apple, your life will never be the same. I may be only a cluster of cells now, but my fate has been sealed. I'm a boy, all blonde hair, brown eyes, and smiles. When I reach old age I will need reading glasses, I'll love to swim, and throughout my entire life I will have a small dusting of freckles on my nose and cheeks.
I can't wait to meet you, Mommy.
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Seven Weeks
(Every one of them permanently busy.)
The doctor told you about me today. That I'm here, that you're going to be a mother. You must be so excited, you and Daddy. Aren't you excited, Mommy?
I now have recognizable features. I'm going to look so much like you, I'm glad. My mouth is open and almost fully formed. In no time at all I'll be talking. My first word will be 'no', which will make Daddy laugh. My second word, however, will be 'Mommy'. I have eyes; they don't work so well. The first time Daddy sees me open those eyes you'll have to remind him to breath a few seconds later. I'll act like Daddy sometimes, a smirk planted firmly on my face, but we won't tell him that. He can figure it out for himself.
My heart is pumping blood throughout my body. It's a nice, strong heartbeat. You'll cry the first time you hear it, but you'll pretend that you're not. Daddy will know anyway, but he won't say anything. Pieces of tissue are forming the framework for what will become my bones and muscles. I have fingers and toes, but they're not fully formed. Someday I'll be able to hold your hand with these fingers as we cross the street and I'll stand on those toes to catch a baseball that Daddy throws to me.
I'll change your life.
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Twelve Weeks
(Windless threadwork of a tapestry.)
You're not sure what to name me. Instinctively, you chose Jack. Then you changed your mind; I wasn't going to be a symbol for anything. Surprising yourself, you choose David. After Michelangelo's David, not because he mimics divine creation, but because to the people of Italy he's seen as a symbol of strength, strong willed and ready to fight.
I'm three inches long now, and weigh more than a quarter of a pound. The systems of my body are well developed, and my nerves and reflexes are working. I can move spontaneously, but you can't feel me. Yet. In the upcoming month, I will gain even more weight and grow a few inches. It's astonishing to think of me now and realize that eventually, I will be taller than you and Daddy. It's a trait that I'll pass on to my own son, someday.
I love you so much already.
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Fourteen Weeks
(Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.)
You woke up abruptly, at three o'clock in the morning; your stomach hurt. Your feet are still swinging around the side of your bed when you start having horrible cramping. Doubling over, you clutch your stomach. It's as close to a hug from you as I will ever get. After some sharp pains in your abdomen, then the subsequent gush of blood and tissue, I died.
The doctors will claim it was spontaneous, but you swore you saw it coming, telling yourself that you were never meant to be a mother. It 'wasn't mean to be'. The 'it' was a boy, Mommy. For something that wasn't meant to be we sure had each other fooled, huh? You'll blame yourself, but it's nobody's fault. Daddy doesn't know about me. Why didn't you tell him? He would've been so happy. I'm sorry, Mommy.
I changed your life.