Microchimerism

poem

Going and Coming by Norman Rockwell (1947)

Microchimerism
by Abigail Knutson

I could’ve told those scientists about 
swapped DNA. Cells I gave my son cross 
the finish line as my heart pounds in sync
with his chromosomes, and I’m at a loss
for when cross-country became a thrilling
sport. Now I see it from his camera view:
from the leaping lion of his body,
and I thrill to a hunt I never knew.
Another son plays soccer, and puppets
pulled on strings could not better duck and sway
in response to his nimble footwork,
more agile than the mountain goat I claimed
to be when I still trusted I could land
on icy rocks, precarious mishaps,
and balance with a skill I thought innate.
My son passes the ball. I scream and clap
as swirling double helix of delight
remaps a soccer match into my mind
and teaches me the beauty of this game,
which on my own I could not read to find.
Most strongly, I feel chromosomes at play
when driving with the windows down lets wind
and sound and sun come rushing on my face
in sinuous, snakelike swirls across my skin.
My hair dances a dervish round my head
and blows before my eyes. The engine roar
exhilarates my senses without sense.
Young boy DNA within me wants more:
more noise from semi-trucks, more force shaking
our van, more speed as we fly down the road.
Each truck driver who takes the time to pull
his horn for my son’s pumping fist is owed
more gratitude than I can name. How could
they restore my faith? By the thumbs up
my son gives each one, by his brilliant smile
which makes up for a lot and fills my cup.
My DNA still circling his form,
and his in mine, rejoice in truckers’ arms
that mirror pumping fists and pull their horns,
their wide grins reflected in my son’s
as my windshield is dazzled by the sun.
 

---

Composition Notes:

Earlier this summer I read an article on microchimerism and thought it explained a lot about mothering that I had found bewildering. I am no doubt pushing the science far past the terms of its research or conclusions, but I have felt routinely surprised by my sudden onset of interest in sports, action movies, questionable humor, insects, and graphic novels. It’s not just that I feel gratitude for happy children (which is huge in its own right) because in some respects it seems that my own tastes and preferences have broadened far beyond the narrow literary vein I pursued before having five boys. Partly it’s because our boys are the funniest boys I’ve ever met, and their delight in anything is positively contagious. But there is something even deeper at play.

Science validates that during pregnancy mothers swap DNA with their children in a way that changes them forever. I look forward to getting comments from those more scientifically minded who can correct the way I have tortured the data to reinforce my own interpretation of the mystery of the maternal-fetal exchange during pregnancy.

This week as we pack up our oldest and get ready to bring him to college, I am having all the feels. I am so proud of him. I am somewhat resentful that the people who said it would go fast were indeed correct. I am amazed that I can still see the tiny person he was within the man who stands far taller than my head and speaks with a deep voice. When I woke up this morning, I felt a rush of gratitude for the fact that all five of our sons were sleeping under our roof for one more day. These numbered days hold a hard-earned wisdom.

I won’t say too much about the poem itself because it feels a little bit like cheating to spell out exactly how I hope you interpret it, but I will draw your attention to a paragraph from the study which might be helpful in understanding the imagery I used.

"In mythology, the term ‘chimera’ is related to a monster which is composed of snippets of various animals. According to Greek mythology, chimera, a monstrous fire breathing composite creature of Lycia in Asia Minor, composed of the parts of three animals – a lion, a snake and a goat. Usually depicted as a lion, with the head of a goat arising from its back, and a tail that ended in snake's head.”¹

I have been blessed by writers expressing truths about motherhood that I needed to hear this week, and I will close by pointing you to their words. Writing is always a conversation, and I feel that more pointedly here on Substack in a way that continually puts wind in my sails.

• Esther Jane wrote a lovely poem honoring her youngest’s thirteenth birthday, and the accompanying notes gave me much to ponder on the healthy way to look back and remember: “Because of this, I have come to believe that the past should be treated like salt - sprinkle it on in small amounts, regularly but judiciously. It should add flavor and savor to our shared life. Too much spoils the dish. Not enough and the dish has no depth.”

• Leah | Blessed Endurance shared a poem and thoughts on loving a child through health issues that was timely for me: “In placing my son’s health and illness completely under the realm of my control, I had forgotten that God is at work to form not just the grown-up children in His family, but the smallest ones, too. My role as mother was not to remove my son’s cross, but to place my own shoulders under it, through attendant love, to lighten the load his very tiny shoulders were called to bear.”

• When I saw my parents this week, there was a moment when I looked over in a public restroom and recognized my mother’s cute Keens even though we hadn’t come into the bathroom together. When I started talking to her about her sandals across the stall, she said, “What if it hadn’t been me? What if you had reached over like Hannah Lang and it wasn’t me at all?” I burst out laughing and we washed our hands giggling over that hilarious story, which if you haven’t read, you should definitely go enjoy. (This specific story begins at “#4 The Trouble with Toes” but you should just read the whole collab which is with another of my favorite Substack writers, Grace Leuenberger .)

• As I have contemplated the time warp of parenting, it is comforting to consider the much larger warp and woof of time. Daniel Bishop published a beautiful poem called “The Light Dripped In” that I keep reading.

“the thousand years between
bright strokes of stars
to him
as moments
between meteors
consumed
within our atmosphere."

Thank you for being here! The gift of your attention is never taken for granted. As always, I look forward to hearing from you in the comments.

Love, Abigail

1. “Microchimerism: A new concept” by Sandhya Shrivastava, Rupali Naik, Hema Suryawanshi, Neha Gupta https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0379073824004274