Is that a child I hear? Rumbling in my future, a-near? Noisy, messy, restless, tumbling down stacks of toys, and my hopes and dreams. Is that the birthing poison traveling down my throat? But stop! The child scraped a knee- and so the cruelest thoughts of pregnancy slip behind me, replaced by a maternal love that I bleed. I bend down to kiss it, make it better; with dire hopes that I succeed. To hear the childβs laughter, to see his brilliant eyes light up like New York city lights, is enough of a thought to make me drink, willingly. A mother remembers her child before anything else; is it a curse, a poison, or a beautiful part of pregnancy?