THE NATION’S STRONGEST BABY

My sister gives birth to the nation’s strongest baby. The nurses know immediately because the bassinet buckles. The pediatrician enters with a whistle and two spotters. This child has shoulders like mushroom clouds. He bench-presses the hot blanket. He grips my finger and I see, very briefly, the hill where I will die. My sister is radiant in the way most new mothers are radiant. “He’s latching,” she says, while the baby drags an entire side table toward his mouth. The hospital pivots quickly. Sponsorships arrive in a minute. A tiny shaker bottle. A mobile made of kettlebells. The baby does tummy time already. He refuses milk unless someone thins it with oil. By month three he is doing farmer’s carries with two family corgis. By month six he has a feud with the local government. We all pretend this is normal because families are only as strong as what they can’t fix. At his first birthday he splits the cake in half and crashes the high chair. Frosting everywhere. Splinters. Tears of glory. My father, who has never said “I love you” to me fixes the baby in an embrace and weeps openly into his shoulder. “That kid’s got it already,” he says, looking yet not looking at me. The baby looks at us over his enormous shoulder and laughs the laugh of someone who has never once had to hurt, inside or outside. We all look out the window and stare into the soft darkness of the night.