Declan has been telling me this at random intervals for two or three months now.
Because human anatomy has become one of his secondary interests, after astronomy, he likes to snuggle up to my belly and talk about being born. And since he’s had a proclivity for saying things that make him seem like the great mystic baby from the distant planet of Zog for as long as he could speak, I chalked it up to some verbal conflation of bulging bellies and the latest galaxy wisdom from our bevy of space documentaries. (Oddly, as I was writing this, he was watching Unfolding Universe, his very first favorite space show, and we just took a computer-generated flight through the Milky Way’s “bulge” so there you have it.)
Yesterday, moment after waking, he thrust a book about constellations into my hands.
“We’re having a book about stars now,” he commanded.
We got to Taurus, his birth sign, and he pointed at it between the eyes.
“I was born in the bulge,” he told me again. “See? It’s the bulge, where I belong.”
I used to think I knew where babies came from. I’m not so sure anymore.
And speaking of birthdays, happy 129th to the spirit of this person:
Also, to the considerably younger father of mine, as well as my dearest childhood friend, all born on this important (in my universe) day of the fishes.