When I was a girl, I would sing to my dolls. "Little baby, don't say a word. Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird."
I've never fully grown out of that habit; even now as a mother I sing that lullaby to my baby.
I guess it started when I was younger: that old lady I saw on the street corner in a wheelchair, that had beautiful flowers draped down along the back of it. She a naked baby doll close, while singing, "Hush, Little Baby." I didn't understand why my mother called her crazy. I thought it was beautiful. She sang that lullaby with such passion, uncaring of how she was perceived. I guess my mother didn't see it that way.
When I sang that lullaby to my dolls, and now my baby. I still think of that lovely old lady. There's something magical about motherhood, caring for someone, sacrifice, nurturing. That's clearly what I wss meant to do, I know it is.
People give me money because they think I am a mother in need, someone who takes care of her baby. Maybe they feel sorry for me because I'm in this wheelchair? The flowers at the back of it was a real nice touch, just like that old lady.
When I save up enough money, I'll buy my beautiful baby some clothes for she never makes a sound no matter how cold it may get. And no matter what, I'll always be here to sing to her, "Hush, little baby." My baby doll that song.
A/N: This is a paradoxical story
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