My firstborn was a seven pound preemie. He was born at thirty-five and a half weeks, barely qualifying for the moniker. I only use it in air quotes, out of respect for the mothers of what I call real preemies.
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When I was little I would lean out the window of our second floor Mexico City home and sing to the stars. I would make up my little melodies as the evening lingered on with my little brother joining me in my serenade to the “little lights up in the sky.”
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I was always working hard to keep up appearances with family, friends and anyone who I thought I needed to impress. In high school, I experienced fear. It was a fear of being caught-out for not understanding what was being taught in the classroom. In no time at all, I became good at acting. I possessed all the skills necessary to give a convincing performance and I was very believable.
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Standing in front of the woman who ran the camp, I was ashamed. “Sorry,” I said, weeping too hard to stop.
“You caved,” one of my eleven-year old bunkmates hissed as we left her office.
“Jellyfish spine,” another said.
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