My daughter loves hearing about how she was born. I tell her about her beginning as a tiny baby the size of a pea growing inside my belly. I tell her about how happy I was when she grew big in my belly and I felt her kicking against me. I tell her about the dream I had of her being held by a larger-than-life statue of the Madonna whose face looked like Freddie Mercury. I tell her that dream meant she had the gift of music.
I tell her that a few hours before she was born, her Daddy and I took a walk around the neighborhood and rescued a lost dog. I tell her that when it was time for her to come out, three midwives came to our home to help me. She likes thinking of them as three fairy godmothers. I tell her that at some point I hugged her Daddy and he could feel her kicking against us, pushing just as hard as I was. I tell her that when she finally came out, she blew all the fluid out of her nose and let out a strong cry, her first song. I tell her that when she was all wrapped up warm in a blanket, her Daddy sang her the “Macaroni” song.
I tell her that three days after she was born, she started turning orange. I said, I don’t want a pumpkin. I want a baby! So we went to Children’s Hospital and put her under bright lights. In a few days she was back to being a baby and we took her home.
At five years old, she began adding to the story. She says that once she was an angel who wanted to be human. She looked over all the mothers and fathers in whole world and picked us. Then she came into my belly and started growing there. I tell her how lucky we were that she chose us.
I suppose it is natural for humans to be curious about our origins. Where proof ends, we speculate. Cultures create and appropriate their own versions of creation myths. Even Science has its own unproven theory of our beginnings. We need these stories to give us a sense of identity. These stories, like stars, guide us as we navigate the future.