When I born?

The story of my birth is indeed more interesting than me. For a change, on a lazy winter morning when the sun is yet to sit by the porch ready for a day-long tan; sleepy hawker preparing to brave the daily-bargain-trauma I was suddenly called for. Surprisingly, the nurse quit her job no sooner did I born and gone for hiding. In fact, the only living witness ever crawled under the sun who could claim to have seen my mother crying much before the baby [Oh-no honey! She wasn’t complaining of labor pain rather she could drop things at ease, anywhere] never heard of again.

Therefore,…when I am born, I am born and there’s no greatness attached to it (except my mother who bribed the pediatrician for an abortion that failed miserable) and she carried her swollen part gracefully for 9-months. Blame it on the father who tried hard but forgotten to keep his Y-chromosomes on check and passed them on one carnal night to my mother’s womb. My parents never shared a cordial glance ever since after that winter. Holy cow!

So, the greatness of Great! The ever whimpering, wailing, and complaining ME, with my butts safely hold by a gentleman *doctor*, was dumbstruck listening to a wailing mother and runaway nurse (hold on, I was only few minutes born). I couldn’t cry until my mother has finished hers and when I did, I stuttered. Doctors prescribed it as simple hiccups until it full blown and one Mr. Webster has diagnosed it cleverly and call “speech impediment.”

What impediment? Hey, come on! I’m not on hearing aids…just I can’t say *please* with a single ‘p’ or a single ‘e’. Vowels or consonants—I need an extra supporting pad unanimously. Eew! Otherwise, I am born fully decent, a nutty jerk left to wonder rather wander. It’s only my mother who gets me female accessories on my birthdays, and wishes, I may turn to a petite beauty with pigtails. I wonder.