When I was pregnant and ponderous, my mom assembled a small photo album of my baby pictures. Looking through it the other day, my fear of all things science was confirmed: how is it that Clara has exactly the same teeth in her mouth that I had at her age? Down to the right canine that has disregarded the other incisors and jumped ahead of the line?
(Not to mention, if I was as secure as my mom and chose to save for posterity a photo of my child screaming, that’s exactly what it would look like.)
And, how did my womb make a child to begin with? Anyway, I know there are things like equations and genomes and cellular biology to make valid sense of these perplexities, but seriously, look at those babies. There is something very symbolic and juicy about DNA, something about looking at someone you MADE–I made a human. Does it get any weirder than that?–and seeing yourself, but it’s the grownup’s bed time and important connections get fuzzy and elusive when 10 p.m. rolls around.