The doctor cut my umbilical cord and, after wrapping me in a woolly blanket, handed me to my mother. She had all the signs of a long and painful labour, and the emotions on her face encompassed exhaustion, relief and joy. But I had barely a second to recognise all of this before I recognised something else. The woman herself. My wife. Or widow, to be exact.

The next realisation took a second longer. That means that I am my own child. My father… was me. I could not begin to comprehend the implications that may arise from this. Fathered by myself. Father and son - one and the same. It's not natural. It just isn't.

I'll think about that later. Right now, I feel a fuzzy feeling around the outside of my consciousness, as if there's something missing from my mind, something I should remember, but is blocked off.

Then I realise that I have just been born. The doctors, nurses and my wife (it's hard to think of her any other way) would expect a crying, screaming baby, not a small life form looking more intent upon thought than the most avid philosopher. So I screamed and wailed and pounded and was rewarded by a caring pat on the back from my wi…mum. I calmed down a little, nestling into my wi... mother's arms, to receive a smile and a warm hug from my … I'll just have to get used to calling her mum.

The nurses took me away from her to wash off the birth fluids, and I tried to send her thoughts through my eyes, the eyes she used to be able to read so well. She just smiled, then looked sad, as if remembering me. I mean, me my father. Then she fainted. I found myself hoping that she dreamt of me. Old me, that is.

I was washed, dried, and put in a crib to wait for my mother to recuperate her strength enough to take me home. I decided to scream. I was going to be a noisy baby. At least when my mum wasn't there to comfort me. I hope she'll like that. I know her well enough to know that she probably will. She always had a love for children, who always had a love for her. To be the only thing in existence able to comfort her own child will be a reward for her.

Eventually night came. I went quiet, more so because my throat hurt than because I went to sleep, but feigned sleep anyway. I noticed that the fuzzy, not-all-there feeling had dissipated somewhat, and tried to break past it with my mind. I wanted to know what laid on the other side. I tried and tried, but was pushed back again and again. I finally decided that I was, in fact, tired, and so I went to sleep.

When I woke up, I saw my wife, or mother, staring down on me with both admiration and loss in her eyes, and I could tell it was because I reminded her of, well, me. I wonder why? I was consumed with such an immense love that was from both her husband and son, loving her the way only a baby can love their parents, but also how a man loves his wife. I smiled at her, and uttered nonsense sounds, and reached for her arms the way babies do. She bent down and picked me up, softly patting my back as she cuddled me against her chest. I clung to her ears, as I had done as her husband.

She almost dropped me with surprise. Actually, she did drop me, but I didn't let go, so she caught me before my weight ripped her ears off. I then proceeded to massage her ears, my hands the size of her earlobes. She laughed, and took me back to our car, driving me back home, the place that I had thought I would never return to. I thanked whoever made the choice to send put me in this body, glad I could watch out my child's life, even from a dormant, ignored position. The fuzzy feeling, much reduced from previously, blazed for a minute, then went out completely.

It didn't even cross my mind again for a long, long time.

A/N: Thanks for the criticism, I went back and changed it. This ones a bit short, but I couldn't think of what else to write. Hope you like it!