Dithereen

What did Tyler want to be when he grew up? What a question for a fetus! He had enough on his plate, certainly, such as navigating that time tunnel into life outside the womb; to cutting the umbilical cord where he must make his own breaths; to how to pay for college.

Tyler's life was a blank slate. Its first inscriptions would be an APGAR score. Would it read 10/10 — perfect? Or: 5/7 — not good. His blank slate clouded a bit.

But Tyler intended to prevail. He wanted birth. He hoped to thrive. How would it play out? He was a prisoner of possibility and could go one way or another.

His father was a famous athlete. His mother was a supermodel. Where would he go with that? Do admirable qualities skip generations, or is there vertical tranmission of the fineness, finesse, and finished fruition?

Would he be happy, unhappy, or vascillate between?

The outside world has a strange sense of irony. Would he be a drug addict? Would he lower the APGAR score of the others around him? Drag them down? Could he help anyone, much less himself?

He dithered.

Tyler turned to his placenta moments before his birth. He tugged on his umbilical cord, like pulling the pullstart of a lawnmower, whatever that was. The traction provided a bit of separation, which evoked stronger contractions.

He didn't know how he would end up, but he decided to press on and would end up something, someone.