明天是你的生日,儿子。 当我提起笔写下这些的时候,突然骄傲得不得了,我终于完成一个女人最神圣的任务。儿子就像我的一幅作品,为了这作品,我就像海岩上用唾液筑巢的母燕,当儿子因调皮不肯好好地在肚子里待够时辰,我就吐出自己的血和精髓去安慰他,让他感受到母亲的爱。当儿子快临盆时,我每天来来回回地在河边路旁散步,嘴里还不停地念叨着“宝宝乖,宝宝好,妈妈最疼是宝宝”,一副当母亲样儿。 Tomorrow is your birthday, son. Suddenly proud when I mention pen to write these, I finally completed the most sacred mission of a woman. My son is like a piece of my work. For this work, I am like a mother-swallow nesting in saliva on a sea rock. When my son refuses to be well-nourished in her belly, I spit out my own blood and essence Comfort him, let him feel the love of his mother. When my son was about to come to bed, I walked by the riverside road every day, walking back and forth. There was a constant talk in my mouth. “Baby is good, baby is good, mother is the worst baby,” a mother-like child.