Before you were born you had a special place where you curled up inside your mommy. For nine months while the weather and the seasons changed outside and the wind blew in the trees it was always exactly the same every day in your place. Safe. Floating. Warm.

You grew there, slept, wiggled, and waited for your birthday. Only you didn't know what in the world a birthday was—or what cake is, or a bed, or a mom and dad, or morning, or a room of toys.

You didn't know anything, in fact, except how warm it was sleeping all curled up.

First you were smaller than a pea.

You grew. Pretty soon you were the size your thumb is now. You kept growing.

Soon you were the size of your mommy's hand. The size of a puppy. All the while you were growing, your place was growing too, to make room for you.

And all that time, what could you do? You could suck your thumb. You could feel your mother's heart beat—thump, thump. You could wiggle your feet. Far off, out in the world, you could hear things roar or rattle as your mommy walked down the street.

If she went to a symphony concert, you could feel the big bass drum go thum, thum, thum. Every time it thummed, you moved.