Imagine having a daughter.
Imagine the first positive pregnancy test, a CVS-brand in your office bathroom because you’re probably just paranoid and it’s probably nothing, and seeing the plus sign. Calling the doctor, making the real appointment. You’re eight weeks along.
Imagine months of watching your skin stretching. Sonograms. Sharing your food, your blood, your oxygen with another person sitting in your midsection and not paying rent. Feeling the first kick. Puking on your morning commute. Sitting down for a night of TV and watching a tiny elbow press out against your skin. Getting used to it, kind of. Thinking of names.
Imagine childbirth. Imagine a pair of human shoulders passing through your junk and imagine pooping on a table in front of a room full of people while you cry, but none of it mattering because here is this person you’ve been dying to meet. To touch. To see blink back.
Then imagine your daughter growing up to actively participate in the Instagram romance tag.
What a fart into infinity. What a pube tumbleweed on a bathroom floor.