He was the cutest three year old I had met since the days of Samuel Houston and his insistent 'excuse me... excuse me.' Toby hopped up and down on the twirling stool, crawled onto his mom's bed constantly squirming out of this father's arms. He wasn't three actually, closer to two and three quarters.
His mom on the other hand was wearing fantastic penguin pajama pants with tiny flower petals dotted on her toe nails. She was exactly 24 weeks and 1 day pregnant, not just pregnant, pregnant with twins... not just twins, twins with a cramping uterus and a short cervix. Twenty-four weeks is viability, the age at which if a baby is born it will be resuscitated. The implication of pre-term birth this early are huge, really really little babies just aren't supposed to see the world that early.
We chatted, I got the history, all the annoying questions. Then as she lifted up her t-shirt so I could examine her belly, the dad asked Toby:
What do we say to the babies?
No crying!
And what else do we say?
Dohn come out! Throwing his arms up in the air as only a two and three quarter year old can do.
It was refreshing. Did I mention he was nearly as cute as Samuel Houston? There is enough human tragedy to fill the ocean, but this kid, he was hope.
1 comment:
I like it, it's hopeful! Keep writing!
M/A
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