With the word ‘mommy’ attached to it, my first instinct is to save it alongside the ultrasound images, framed with hope / the piece of his umbilical cord, unceremoniously placed in a snack-sized baggie after we found it in his diaper / the breastmilk I pumped in the hospital, still in the freezer with a heart on the lid / the outfit he wore home from the hospital with dog ears on the matching hat / and the onesie I bought while pregnant, happy tears in my eyes at the register.
My mommy pouch is the place where I stuck needles, where little bruises formed with each hopeful stick / it is the place where my son grew and grew, his movements turned from cute little flutters to kicks that knocked against my bladder / it is the spot his feet landed when they first placed him on my chest, scrunched beneath his body / it is the drum he proudly smacks with his meatball-sized hands when we cuddle in bed / it can be gone in six weeks, according to an Instagram ad.
