Notions of a Disposable Mother
In 2009, a wriggling, slippery baby was planted in my arms. We studied each other’s faces in silent surprise, while he sucked on his fist and I stroked his hair. He may be my son, but he’s doesn’t belong to me. He has belonged to himself from moment one. But I’m fortunate enough to be entrusted with him, while he’s growing up. My son has the longest eyelashes I’ve ver seen and a birthmark on his toe that I find more intriguing than half the history of mankind. He tells me jok
