The Record
The hospital lights were harsh, but it couldn’t compare to birth. Mothers would usually say something like that. I wasn’t sure if I’d say that. They say that giving birth was the hardest thing they'd ever done, but also that they would do it all over again if given the choice. I wasn’t sure what to think yet.
I held the baby in my hands, swathed tightly in cloth. The little bundle had little eyes, closed, pinched like they couldn't bear the lights. Tiny fingers curled into fists. The whole baby was curled into a ball and breathtakingly beautiful.
I couldn't believe I made such a beautiful thing.
My husband sat in one of the chairs. He was happy and he was angry all at once, which I understood, because I was also happy and angry. We produced the same emotions, but we held them different ways. He throttled his; I coddled mine to my chest.
The baby wasn't really a baby, except that it was. It was pink, and it was breathing, and it was beautiful, and it was in my arms, and I couldn't let go. I wouldn't let it go.
My husband sat with his hands steepled across his lap. He kept oscillating between leaning over his knees and leaning back in his chair. One of his knees bounced up and down; a sure sign his brain was churning. He was running calculations. He was running through his thoughts. He was running, running, running away from here.
He was running as fast as he could back to before the nurse had come in with that paper. It lay on the overbed table. It shouldn’t be there. I wish it wasn’t there.
If it had been a Certificate of Live Birth, it wouldn’t have been there. It takes weeks to apply and receive the certificate from the Department of Vital Records. Unfortunately for us, we wouldn’t have to wait.
Despite the paper being basically identical, minus a few small words at the top, a Certificate of Reproduction didn’t carry the same weight. It would still be filed with the state, but would not hold the same significance as a birth certificate.
The baby had screamed when it came into the world, and it was so relieving to hear that scream. So relieving that I hadn't even thought of what was next. I was exhausted after 22 hours of labor. My body hurt and it was numb. The weight on my chest grounded me in the bed, like my entire world now revolved around it. It was so real. I nuzzled down and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander off, chasing after my husband to “before”.
Following that initial scream, they had put the baby in a small incubator bin next to the bed, and the nurses had crowded around to see. They took a handprint and a footprint. They pricked a finger and drew a vial of blood for routine testing, and they cooed. They cooed over that sweet little face.
Eventually, they had handed the baby to me.My husband bent down over us, and we had whispered our hellos. For a few beautiful, wonderful moments, we had been a family of three.
I turned my head to the side. My husband roiled in his chair; his leg bounced faster, twisting the plastic chair with each beat. His hands tugged his head down by the hair and ears, curling his body into itself at an excruciating curve. I wanted to run my hand down his spine. Instead, I ran my fingers gently down the baby’s. I couldn’t see, but I could feel it adjust itself against me.
The doctor came in. He sat on the rolling stool and scooted his way over to me. My husband didn’t get up, but he froze in his posture. The doctor went through all the normal things. “How are you?” “How is everything feeling?” “We're glad everything went this way.” “Great job. Great job all around.” He nodded at my husband and fussed over the baby.
I reached out with my hand and slid the paper on the overbed table a centimeter to the right.
My husband sat up at the sound. He looked at the doctor with wet eyes. It stirred the happy-angry feeling in my chest under the baby’s weight. I tucked back into the baby, trying to settle myself.
“Yes,” he said, the doctor’s voice changed. The tone evened and his mouth pressed into a line. He looked at the baby with that same monotone in his gaze. I almost pulled us away.
In a flourish, he spun on his stool and stood. When he faced us again, he was transformed. He smiled and hovered over the baby again.
My husband looked hollow, like the doctor had stolen the energy straight from him. “And, what does it mean?” But he knew what it meant. And I knew what it meant. And the baby had no clue. I pressed my lips to the baby’s scalp.
The doctor looked to my husband and then to me and then to the bundle in my arms. He said, "This little nugget,” he gently trailed a finger over the blanket, “this little nugget is over 3% microplastics.” He cooed the last little bit.
I made this baby out of me, out of the same stuff I’m made of. How had I made the baby out of microplastics?
“Run the test again,” my husband stood suddenly, shifting closer to the bed. “We haven't had anything with added plastic the entire pregnancy. We got rid of our plastic cutlery and our cups and our plates. We didn't use the freezer bags or the ice trays.” He pinched at the edge of the bed’s leak-proof case. He’d run out of steam, now face-to-face with the document laying on the table in front of him. “We were so careful,” he finished quietly. “Run the tests again.”
The doctor swept his eyes over to him, fists at his side, demanding a recount. He pitied him, and me. His words were firm and factual, “The water has plastic in it. The food comes in plastic wrapping. The natal supplements come in plastic bottles. Plastics are in everything. Unless you plan to go old-school, farm-to-table, and artisanal on everything, to up-end your entire life for 9 months…” He trailed off, seeing my blinking look. We thought we had. His soft expression grew tight between his eyebrows, “We can run the test again, but it won’t be covered by your health insurance.” He nudged the rolling stool to the side. “The first test was, but a subsequent one likely won’t be.”
My husband's fists squeezed tighter. They opened and stretched out. They squeezed closed again. I watched their routine until I remembered that he was close enough to touch, so I grabbed his hand. He deflated, his hand going lax in mine. He sat, defeated, on the edge of the bed. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but that's where he sat, staring at the floor, then the wall.
I watched the doctor leave, excusing himself politely and pulling the door mostly closed behind him.
I squeezed my husband’s hand. Though I found his gaze reflected in the window plex, he did not see me. I cupped the bundle on my chest.
A nurse came in to take my vitals. I had to shift awkwardly to accommodate the blood pressure cuff without letting go of my husband’s hand. The nurse removed my IV, then he helped me reposition higher in the bed and told me everything was looking good. He promised I’d be on my way home soon. He left to collect the discharge paperwork and the compression garment that the doctor prescribed for my recovery.
The Certificate of Reproduction was still on the overbed table.
I wanted to flip it over, but I didn’t want to let go of my husband’s hand.
Under the social contract, all people are products. Unfortunately, some are deemed more so than others. These lesser products cannot be insured with health insurance. They cannot obtain dental or vision insurance. They cannot be written off of taxes, and they cannot enroll in school. They aren't people, only products.
The baby didn’t appreciate my upright position. I bounced the bundle softly when it made an uncomfortable grunt. It sounded like people. It looked like people and squirmed like people.
I looked down at that face. How was this beautiful thing not people? I made it. I grew it inside me and labored for hours. How did I do it wrong? Am I not good enough to make a baby?
But it cried. And it wailed. And it grunted.
In my arms, it scrunched its little nose, still unimpressed by my sitting. And, it wasn't a baby?
I knew my husband, and he wasn't a bad man, but he did see the numbers. He was thinking about the extra expenses on natal supplements, on pregnancy clothes and bedding, on the nursery. He saw the private insurance and private school expenses. He saw the tax statements and the extra paperwork. He saw a gate made of dollar signs slam shut between us and the bright future he’d envisioned for our baby. I squeezed his hand. I needed him to see the baby and to see me. He still looked at the wall. “What are we going to do?”
I shook my head at him. He was devastated. I was too. We could be angry and devastated together later, but I wanted to be happy right now. I needed him to be happy with me.
It’s a piece of paper. I glared at it. The paper had different fields we had to fill in and spots for us to sign, taking responsibility for our property. And it was all so infuriating, but there was one thing that was the same.
I looked over to my husband, tugging at his hand. “We have to name it.”
“Her,” he responded. He finally looked at me. “We have to name her.”
I knew my husband, and he wasn’t a bad man. I had made our baby out of microplastics. I had called our baby “it”. I felt the tears well in my eyes.
He grasped my hand back. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
It was like time had started moving again. I was crying, and he was holding me and our daughter close. He was whispering to me, “I love you. She is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
And it was all true. I managed to speak between my wet breaths, “We never picked a name.”
“Yeah, we did,” he spoke into my hair. “We were going to name her after your grandmother, Dolores.”
I cried harder. “We were,” I agreed.
He shushed me gently. He wiped my face. He loved me.
I drew in an ugly breath, then let it out slowly. I was still crying, but it was more controlled. I smiled down at the baby.
Morven Moeller (they/them) lives in Virginia with their two cats. They write, and they dream, and they generally have anxiety over our current technological moment. With a degree in Systems Engineering and a career working with data, they constantly choose to focus on the human factor in the systems that keep the world running.