I incubated in a crystal ball, a glass womb not unlike a snow globe. I jostled this way and that as my mother walked, carrying her uterus under her arm. I grew into the future, each sonogram a weather prediction, an economic forecast. What power I yielded!
If it were up to my mother, she would have stayed pregnant forever, what with the press and special privileges I afforded her. But eventually I outgrew the small town of the snow globe. I started to squeeze the little houses with my fist and suck on the trees. I’d swallowed all the snow-confetti.
I was boy and girl, bird and mammal. I was born the only way the doctor knew how. She tapped the glass with her forceps, making a precise crack. My mother let out a great moan as the push of the water broke me loose. I leapt into my mother’s arms without incurring a scratch, her womb shattering on the hospital tile.
“Look,” said the doctor. “A baby.”
“If you say so,” my mother sighed.
I vowed not to be a disappointment.