A Stranger and Her Son – Classifying the Human Heart
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I have no genetic link to my son; we share no DNA common denominator.
My wife produced the egg. A donor supplied the sperm. I packed the hospital bags.
In fact, to date the only common between my son and me is our love of casting skeptical looks – mine intentional, his gas (same, same but different).
He’s a tiny stranger, but he’s my tiny stranger. I’m on the birth certificate. He’s on my health insurance. Unquestionably, I call him my son. Unquestionably, others call me his mom.
And some part of it feels unfair. Just entirely too easy.
In
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33 days I’ve achieved a higher title in the hierarchy of the textbook nuclear family than my stepdad has in 33 years.
33 years he’s spent protecting, caring, teaching, and loving me. But to the world looking in, he’s just my stepdad. A default descriptor to explain our stitched together wolf pack.
It’s a new kind of nature vs nurture – a new definition of a parent. Nature, the one that gives you the genetic code to live, or nurture, the one who teaches you how to live. And sometimes they reside in the same soul.
My son is only a month so the
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nurture, nature debate hasn’t matured. He’s all nature right now, 33 days of nurture can’t offset that.
I know the ending though, I’ve read this book before. I grew up in its pages. I know that when he looks at me he doesn’t need to see the same smile as his, the same locks of hair, the same curves of the chin. He just needs to see the same heart.
A heart that protects him when monsters poke through the darkness. A heart that schools him on how to exist but also encourages him to chase after the people, the moments, the passions, that make
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life sweet.
Not a heart three times removed, not a half-heart or a step-heart. Just a heart.
A heart that he knows beats for him.
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Meg Ferrill - 8 Feb 16
I have no genetic link to my son; we share no DNA common denominator.
My wife produced the egg. A donor supplied the sperm. I packed the hospital bags.
In fact, to date the only common between my son and me is our love of casting skeptical looks – mine intentional, his gas (same, same but different).
He’s a tiny stranger, but he’s my tiny stranger. I’m on the birth certificate. He’s on my health insurance. Unquestionably, I call him my son. Unquestionably, others call me his mom.
And some part of it feels unfair. Just entirely too easy.
In 33 days I’ve achieved a higher title in the hierarchy of the textbook nuclear family than my stepdad has in 33 years.
33 years he’s spent protecting, caring, teaching, and loving me. But to the world looking in, he’s just my stepdad. A default descriptor to explain our stitched together wolf pack.
It’s a new kind of nature vs nurture – a new definition of a parent. Nature, the one that gives you the genetic code to live, or nurture, the one who teaches you how to live. And sometimes they reside in the same soul.
My son is only a month so the nurture, nature debate hasn’t matured. He’s all nature right now, 33 days of nurture can’t offset that.
I know the ending though, I’ve read this book before. I grew up in its pages. I know that when he looks at me he doesn’t need to see the same smile as his, the same locks of hair, the same curves of the chin. He just needs to see the same heart.
A heart that protects him when monsters poke through the darkness. A heart that schools him on how to exist but also encourages him to chase after the people, the moments, the passions, that make life sweet.
Not a heart three times removed, not a half-heart or a step-heart. Just a heart.
A heart that he knows beats for him.
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New York City based, New Parent, Storyteller, Comedian, Writer, Cheese Junkie, and lover of all things with paws.
Find me here:
megferrill.com
medium.com/@megferrill