Our First Child

I was a single, teen mother. When I was 19, I adopted a three-month old. I knew that it would be tough because I was in college and on my own for the first time, but I felt lonely and I wanted something to love.

I didn't choose him; he chose me, his fuzzy grey little arms reaching through the cage every time I passed by. When I got him out, he sat on my shoulder comfortably. I didn't want a boy; I thought I wanted a girl, but I didn't have a choice in the matter, and I brought him home.

It's 18 years later, and he's spoiled and loud and refuses to get a job. He doesn't care about the election; he's not interested in saving the world. He doesn't listen (because he can't hear anymore), but he still has a lot to say, especially around dinner time and whenever Pete comes home. He has adopted Pete and now could care less about me, but I figure that just adds to his happiness and therefore to the length of his life.
Oh, and he likes to be held like a baby.