Finding Me by Michelle Knight, Michelle Burford Page A
Authors: Michelle Knight, Michelle Burford
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years. Each night before I went to sleep I rubbed my belly while singing a little song I’d once heard at that Baptist church: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” I’d recite. “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” It was a simple prayer, a beautiful melody. A call to a God I hoped was real.
A few weeks before my due date I started thinking of names. I picked out one that I really liked—Juliano. But when I mentioned the name to my family, they didn’t like it. “Don’t give him an ethnic-sounding name,” one relative told me. That’s how I ended up going with another name I liked just as much—Joseph. For short, I’d call him Joey.
My son came early—by an entire month. I was sitting in the bathtub one evening when my water broke. My mother rushed me to the hospital. The labor was long; as hard as I kept pushing, the child just didn’t seem to want to come out. But finally I heard his cries. A nurse cleaned him up, wrapped him in a white blanket and handed him to me.
I looked down at my new baby boy. He burped, and then opened his tiny eyes. “Oh, my goodness, he’s so gorgeous,” I said. He had my face and his father’s small nose. I let out a giggle. “How are you, little Joey?” I asked. I loved him from his very first burp.
On October 24, 1999, I finally settled something—there had to be a God if I could have been given a gift like this. I will always think of Joey’s birth as the happiest moment of my entire life.
M Y LITTLE HUGGY BEAR —that’s what I called Joey most of the time. Every time I cradled my son close to my chest he just felt so warm and snuggly. So when I lifted him from the bed, I started saying, “Hello, my little huggy bear,” and the nickname stuck.
Joey was the sweetest baby. Unless he was hungry or wet, he hardly ever cried. He and I shared a small bedroom on the second floor, and within just a couple of months he was sleeping through the night. I didn’t have enough money for a crib, so I kept him with me in the bed, which was a twin-sized mattress stuck into a corner of the room. After carefully wrapping Joey in a blue blanket, I’d sing to him as I rocked him back and forth. One of his favorite melodies seemed to be “I Will Always Love You,” the Whitney Houston hit. Whenever I sang that song, his eyes would get so big.
Joey grew fast. Because I wasn’t working, I depended on Social Security checks; when I turned eighteen, they came directly to me. It wasn’t enough, but at least I had a little money to buy diapers and formula. I wished I could have just breastfed Joey, but because of some medicine the doctors put me on after his birth, I couldn’t.
Not long after my parents parted, Ma began seeing other men. Over time one Latino man seemed to be around our place a lot. I’ll call him Carlos. He seemed like a decent enough guy—at least at first. When Joey was about six months old, Carlos moved in.
A S J OEY WENT from cooing to crawling to walking, the two of us had so much fun together. He loved 101 Dalmatians , so we’d watch that together. And he loved to sing along with me; I was always teaching him songs. He really liked “The Wheels on the Bus,” so I sang that to him a lot. One evening he was playing with his toy pot and stirrer.
“What are you making, honey?” I said, smiling.
“Sketti!” he shouted, trying to say “spaghetti.” Then he lifted his spoon up in the air and clapped it against his left hand. We had a joke that whenever we ate spaghetti and meatballs, he’d try to steal one of my meatballs and I’d pretend not to know where it went. He’d laugh hysterically as I looked all over for it.
Later on that night, after I bathed him, put lotion on his body, and started fastening his onesie pajamas, he jumped up and pranced around the bedroom to the beat of a song on the radio.
“Come here, huggy bear,” I called out. He came back toward me so I could finish
A few weeks before my due date I started thinking of names. I picked out one that I really liked—Juliano. But when I mentioned the name to my family, they didn’t like it. “Don’t give him an ethnic-sounding name,” one relative told me. That’s how I ended up going with another name I liked just as much—Joseph. For short, I’d call him Joey.
My son came early—by an entire month. I was sitting in the bathtub one evening when my water broke. My mother rushed me to the hospital. The labor was long; as hard as I kept pushing, the child just didn’t seem to want to come out. But finally I heard his cries. A nurse cleaned him up, wrapped him in a white blanket and handed him to me.
I looked down at my new baby boy. He burped, and then opened his tiny eyes. “Oh, my goodness, he’s so gorgeous,” I said. He had my face and his father’s small nose. I let out a giggle. “How are you, little Joey?” I asked. I loved him from his very first burp.
On October 24, 1999, I finally settled something—there had to be a God if I could have been given a gift like this. I will always think of Joey’s birth as the happiest moment of my entire life.
M Y LITTLE HUGGY BEAR —that’s what I called Joey most of the time. Every time I cradled my son close to my chest he just felt so warm and snuggly. So when I lifted him from the bed, I started saying, “Hello, my little huggy bear,” and the nickname stuck.
Joey was the sweetest baby. Unless he was hungry or wet, he hardly ever cried. He and I shared a small bedroom on the second floor, and within just a couple of months he was sleeping through the night. I didn’t have enough money for a crib, so I kept him with me in the bed, which was a twin-sized mattress stuck into a corner of the room. After carefully wrapping Joey in a blue blanket, I’d sing to him as I rocked him back and forth. One of his favorite melodies seemed to be “I Will Always Love You,” the Whitney Houston hit. Whenever I sang that song, his eyes would get so big.
Joey grew fast. Because I wasn’t working, I depended on Social Security checks; when I turned eighteen, they came directly to me. It wasn’t enough, but at least I had a little money to buy diapers and formula. I wished I could have just breastfed Joey, but because of some medicine the doctors put me on after his birth, I couldn’t.
Not long after my parents parted, Ma began seeing other men. Over time one Latino man seemed to be around our place a lot. I’ll call him Carlos. He seemed like a decent enough guy—at least at first. When Joey was about six months old, Carlos moved in.
A S J OEY WENT from cooing to crawling to walking, the two of us had so much fun together. He loved 101 Dalmatians , so we’d watch that together. And he loved to sing along with me; I was always teaching him songs. He really liked “The Wheels on the Bus,” so I sang that to him a lot. One evening he was playing with his toy pot and stirrer.
“What are you making, honey?” I said, smiling.
“Sketti!” he shouted, trying to say “spaghetti.” Then he lifted his spoon up in the air and clapped it against his left hand. We had a joke that whenever we ate spaghetti and meatballs, he’d try to steal one of my meatballs and I’d pretend not to know where it went. He’d laugh hysterically as I looked all over for it.
Later on that night, after I bathed him, put lotion on his body, and started fastening his onesie pajamas, he jumped up and pranced around the bedroom to the beat of a song on the radio.
“Come here, huggy bear,” I called out. He came back toward me so I could finish
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