I went to bed as a man and woke up as an infant. The resilient, slender legs I had as a marathon runner are now pudgy, fleshy sausages that cannot even support my own weight. I try to avert my gaze away from the aseptic hospital lighting that strains my eyes, but the muscles in my neck fail to move a head that seems too big for my body.
I cannot explain how I came to inhabit this form, and despite the transformation, I find myself at ease as if I haven't learned what it means to be angry or afraid. Is this what reincarnation is like? Is this what it is to be born again? In a way, I am a pioneer. I'm becoming a witness of the event we all experience but never remember.
Luckily, I'm able to shift my gaze around to get a sense of my surroundings. I get the feeling that I am not alone. It must be a nursery. I seem to be in somewhat of a crib, and as I look toward my minuscule, albeit adorable, toes, I make out two blurred figures. One, dressed in white, stands still enough to where I can almost make out distinct features. The other seems to be an amorphous blur. I think he or she is motioning wildly to the doctor as if trying to explain that the impossible had happened. A nurse walks in the door, and my fresh ears catch a few syllables of the conversation.
I recognize the voice immediately. It's my wife.
If only I could yell out to her--let her know that I'm here! Only the babble that all infants share emerges from my untrained tongue. Yet, how could she know? I can only guess at what she is telling the physician.
Forget all of that. I need a plan of action. I am faced with challenge of setting myself apart from so many other bundles of joy. What if I tried to kick with my leg?
Despite the fact that maneuvering this body is much more complicated that driving a shift stick, I manage to move my leg in what barely passes as a kick. However, it seems to catch Rachel's attention. She motions to the doctor, but does not seem convinced. Perhaps I can catch her attention if I wiggle these petite toes of mine. My ten dancing digits catch the eye of my wife, but the doctor still remains as motionless as before.
I'm running out of options here. I lift my right hand as high as a can as if I were trying to ask a question of my spectators. Rachel jumps back and grabs the doctor to make him look at what I am doing. I might just be able to pull this off!
As my coup de grace, I begin to squirm as if my life depended on it. I'm certain that this will do the trick. In my newfound confidence, I look to my left. My hope dissipates as quickly as it appeared. My performance seems to have caught the attention of other newborns in the room, and they begin to mimic my last chance dance. Only a few hours old, I have already gone viral.
I look toward the window, and the blurred figure that represents my wife seems confused. She has lost me, and in turn, she has lost the attention of the physician. I see him turn away to attend to more pressing affairs.
Rachel gives me one more look, and I can only guess she is saying goodbye.
Author's Note: I decided to take my own spin on
The Piqued Buffalo-Wife story from the
Native American Marriage Tales unit. While I didn't discuss marriage in my retelling, I focused on the part where the transformed son tries his best to help his father identify him among other buffalo calves. In this case, the transformation is of a man into an infant rather than a boy into a calf.
Bibliography
Stith Thompson
Tales of the North American Indians
1929
