Heinous Veinous

Last night, I looked down at my legs, and they weren’t mine.

They were my mother’s. My mother’s legs with the varicose veins and those litle reddish purple tangled up threads that I’ve since learned are spider veins.

Wait a minute.

I’m not old.

I’m not supposed to be old.

Oh. Yeah. I had a kid.


Nope, still not old.

Perhaps, perhaps, not so young.

Apparently, varicose and spider veins are hereditary. It’s not just the excess weight and never enough exercise and age. They really are my mother’s legs. And, varicose and spider veins get worse, and I get to look forward to more of them, with each subsequent pregnancy. Oh, goody. That would go on the con side of the perpetual cost-benefit analysis of having more children.

On the pro side is: more children.

The problem, you see, is that on the con side is: more children.

My mother, and her legs, survived three of us. Only slowly, in drops and dribs and tantrums and tickles, do I begin to understand what that meant. What that means. What that will mean.

I have my mother’s legs. I have a mother’s legs. These legs not only bear me, bare me – they have born a child.

This morning, my legs were a garish canvas. This evening, they are a map.


1 comment so far

  1. Moosilaneous on

    My father had, I thought as a child, the most fascinating legs. They had distended, globby vericose veins which I thought were marvellous.
    I was probably right.

    It is all in the perception – inner workings made manifest, or unsightly growths? Another place where a kid’s eye view is probably the best.

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