To my son, Lestat, on this, the anniversary of his birth:
You came, unexpected, in the early stages of winter. I was in labour with you for well over ten hours, my body aching for release, exhausted and cold, shivering in sweat and tears and blood.
The nurse cleaned you off by the fire, joking that you were more mouth than face, your cries driving out the priest and my maid both. She tutted as she swaddled you, wrestling the squirming limbs into the cloth, shaking her head and gently relating to you that it was indeed snowing outside, and that you would be glad of the warmth and tightness soon.
She arched an eyebrow as I reached for you—she had nursed all of your brothers, what was so special about you?—but acquiesced after a moment and placed you in my arms, aiding me to secure you to my breast. I had never done it before, you see, and while it seemed natural in theory it was strange at first in practice.
But the moment you latched on, your eyes drifting closed, something happened to me.
Something changed. I wish… I wish I had words for it. It feels awkward and fumbling to try to describe what it was, that moment, but the alien feeling suddenly fell away. Reality shifted and the world blurred before righting itself.
One moment, I was a woman. In pain, desperation, frustration and anger.
The next, I was a mother. And you were there, a warm bundle in my arms.
Could I know that nothing would be the same again?
Tanti auguri, mio figlio. Ti amo.
^Accurate: Lestat being more mouth than face, and driving priests away since his birth.
I-want-my-IWTV 