The euphoria of wish fulfillment—the mental fist-pump at sticking the landing on reincarnation—lasted exactly three seconds after my first breath. Then the reality of being a newborn hit me like a freight train.
As Brian Wilson, I'd had at least a veneer of dignity. Sure, I had a Napoleon complex, an unhealthy attachment to acid-wash denim, and a tragic inability to grow convincing facial hair, but I was still a functioning adult human. As Braeden Love, I was reduced to a wriggling, helpless meatloaf whose highest aspirations involved eating, burping, and not soiling myself mid-yawn. It was a downgrade so steep it felt personal.
The sensory shock was brutal. My skin prickled with cold air, my tiny lungs burned with every shallow gasp, and the swaddle pinning me down smelled faintly of talcum powder and something sour-sweet, like warm milk left out too long. I could hear my own frantic little heartbeat—thump-thump-thump like a hummingbird trapped in a tin can.
And my limbs… God, my limbs. I'd asked Lyra to make me tall, to make me proportionate, and she delivered because even as an infant I could tell my arms and legs were long. But trying to use them was like piloting spaghetti with a brain stem. Every flail was jerky and useless, as if someone had replaced my nervous system with dial-up internet.
The auditory landscape was no better. Gone was the calm, weightless hush of Lyra's divine waiting room. Now I was drowning in high-pitched cooing, muffled voices warbling in the condescending cadence adults reserve for puppies and babies, and the occasional shrill wail from… oh wait, that was me. Add to that the rhythmic beeping of some nursery monitor and the rustle of pastel fabrics, and I wanted to beg for noise-canceling headphones and a double espresso.
My eyesight was a disaster. I'd wished for striking blue eyes, but what good were they if they couldn't focus on anything? The world was a blurry smear of light and color, occasionally resolving into huge, distorted faces looming over me like benevolent kaiju. It was like living inside a badly shot art-house film directed by someone with a caffeine problem.
Then came the culinary insult. In my old life, I could at least enjoy a lukewarm slice of gas-station pizza or a sad Lean Cuisine. Now? My diet consisted entirely of a bland, body-temperature liquid, delivered via rubber nipple while I was awkwardly cradled and jostled. Every feeding felt like a public spectacle. If I'd tried to voice an adult opinion such as,
"Excuse me, could we make this a ribeye instead?"
I was met with gurgles of amusement and a pat on the back. The condescension was unbearable.
My parents, David and Emily Love, though it took me months to piece that together, were smitten. Emily had warm brown eyes, a soft voice, and salon-perfect blonde hair. David was tall, sharply dressed even at home, the kind of man whose handshake you could feel even through my infant fingers. They doted on me endlessly.
And what a setting to be doted in. The house was a Mediterranean-style villa high in the hills—arched doorways, terracotta roof, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking palm trees and perfectly manicured hedges.
Even through my fuzzy vision, I could tell nothing in the nursery had ever seen a clearance rack.
Everything matched. Everything gleamed.
It was the polar opposite of my old Boise apartment, where "decor" meant mismatched furniture and the faint smell of microwave popcorn permanently fused into the walls.
Yet despite this picture-perfect family tableau, I was a wriggling ball of sarcastic misery.
My internal monologue ran nonstop, the only way to pass the time.
Oh look, it's my hand again. Riveting.
Mother, your off-key "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" is life-changing. Shall I alert the Grammys?
Father, the airplane spoon maneuver needs more lift—you're coming in too shallow for a clean landing.
Of course, none of this translated into actual speech. Just coos, whimpers, and flailing that my parents interpreted as signs of brilliance.
The irony was thick enough to spread on toast.
The early months blurred into an endless cycle: eat, sleep, poop, repeat.
The indignity of diaper changes, being wiped down and powdered like a fragile artifact, triggered endless internal screaming.
I tried to communicate my outrage with the eloquence of Brian Wilson, Certified Adult. What emerged was a noise somewhere between a dying seagull and an airhorn with low batteries.
Time crawled, but progress came. My eyesight sharpened; I could finally make out Emily's delicate features and David's perpetual, photo-ready grin.
My limbs gained coordination, enough to swat at dangling toys and eventually roll over, an accomplishment that made my parents cheer like I'd just won Olympic gold.
Yes, behold! I have mastered the ancient art of… lying on my side. Alert the media!
Bits of my old self seeped through. I was unusually alert, scanning my surroundings with wide blue eyes, soaking in details no ordinary infant should care about.
When music played, especially anything with an 80s synth line, a spark of recognition flickered inside me, a tiny refuge from the soul-numbing monotony.
David was often away on business, real estate development, judging by the snippets of phone calls I overheard, but returned with expensive gifts and booming affection for his "little man."
Emily stayed home, running the house like a CEO in designer loungewear, fussing over every detail of my schedule and diet.
They were loving, attentive, and exactly as I'd requested.
As Lyra had promised, my body developed quickly. Taller. Stronger.
By the time I was crawling, I moved like a tiny predator stalking prey, earning quiet envy from the other mothers at Emily's upscale Mommy and Me groups with the neighborhood moms.
I pulled myself upright early, my muscles already hinting at the athletic gifts I'd bargained for.
Inside, though, I remained Brian Wilson: sardonic, restless, and craving something more than pastel toys and mashed peas. I missed the taste of black coffee.
I missed rain on asphalt. I even missed the boring predictability of my accounting job.
Anything beat being an intelligent mind trapped in a drooling body.
Then, one morning over breakfast, I caught it. Emily's casual remark to David,
"I saw on Instagram that your old friendDaniel LaRusso's daughter, Samantha, is starting kindergarten this year. She we find a chance to connect sometime? We haven't been on a date for a while. It could be fun..."
The words sent a shock through my tiny chest. Samantha LaRusso.
Two years older than me. Right on schedule. The timeline was unfolding exactly as I'd arranged.
Later, lying in my crib gnawing on a garish plastic rattle, I stared at the ceiling and let the implications settle.
This wasn't fiction anymore. This was my world. Would I follow Cobra Kai? Miyagi-Do? Eagle-Fang? Or carve out something entirely new?
The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
I wasn't Brian Wilson anymore. I wasn't even just Braeden Love, unfairly handsome toddler.
I was a player in the Valley, in a story I already knew. At least, the version I remembered.
And for the first time since my birth, the wriggling sausage of discontent that is my body stopped complaining. It started plotting...