The initial euphoria of wish fulfillment, the triumphant mental fist-pump at my successful reincarnation, lasted approximately three seconds after my first breath. Then came the overwhelming, visceral reality of being a newborn.
Let me preface this by saying that as Brian Wilson, I had a certain level of dignity, a hard-earned sense of self, even if it was perpetually overshadowed by my Napoleon complex and a lingering fondness for acid-wash denim. As Braeden Love, I was reduced to a squirming, utterly helpless lump of flesh whose primary concerns revolved around the immediate gratification of basic biological urges. It was, to put it mildly, a comedically horrifying downgrade.
The sheer indignity of it all! One moment, I was having a semi-lucid conversation with a goddess about the cosmic mechanics of reincarnation, the next I was encased in a damp, restrictive swaddle, smelling faintly of talcum powder and something vaguely milky. My limbs, now pleasingly long and seemingly well-proportioned even in their infant state, possessed the coordination of a newborn giraffe on an ice rink. Every attempted movement resulted in a flailing, jerky mess that only served to further my frustration.
And the sounds! Gone was the ethereal silence of Lyra's waiting room, replaced by a cacophony of high-pitched cooing, muffled adult voices speaking in that condescending baby-talk cadence that made my adult brain twitch, and the incessant, rhythmic thump-thump-thump that I eventually identified as my own ridiculously fast heartbeat. It was sensory overload on a scale that would have sent my former self reaching for a pair of noise-canceling headphones and a strong cup of coffee.
The visual experience wasn't much better. My brand-new blue eyes, the very eyes I had wished for with such gleeful vanity, were currently capable of focusing on approximately zero things with any clarity. The world was a blurry kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, occasionally resolving into the looming, distorted faces of the giants who now controlled my every whim. It was like living in a perpetually out-of-focus art film directed by someone with a serious caffeine addiction.
The culinary situation was equally appalling. Gone were the simple pleasures of a microwaved Lean Cuisine or a lukewarm slice of gas station pizza (hey, don't judge, it was a guilty pleasure). My diet now consisted exclusively of a bland, lukewarm liquid that, while undoubtedly nutritious, offered the gastronomic excitement of wallpaper paste. The entire feeding process was a public spectacle, involving being awkwardly cradled and having a rubbery nipple thrust into my mouth. The lack of agency was infuriating. If I had tried to assert my adult preferences – say, a nice medium-rare steak or even just a decent slice of pepperoni – I was met with gurgles of amusement and perhaps a gentle pat on the back. The sheer condescension!
My new parents, bless their oblivious hearts, were utterly smitten. My mother, a beautiful woman with warm brown eyes and a cascade of perfectly styled blonde hair (a slightly more mature version of the look I'd requested for myself, ironically), would gaze at me with an expression of pure adoration, cooing about my "precious little fingers" and "adorable toes." My father, a tall, handsome man with a confident smile and a firm handshake that even my infant grip could sense, would beam with pride, boasting about my size and apparent "strength" to any visitor who dared to enter our meticulously decorated, pastel-hued nursery.
They were, by all accounts, exactly what I had wished for: wealthy and seemingly loving. Their house, a sprawling Mediterranean-style villa nestled in the manicured hills of what I could only assume was the Los Angeles area (the palm trees visible through the nursery window were a dead giveaway), exuded an air of effortless affluence. Everything was new, expensive, and tastefully coordinated. It was a far cry from my modest Boise apartment with its mismatched furniture and the lingering scent of microwaved popcorn.
And yet, despite the luxurious surroundings and the doting parents, I was consumed by a profound and comical disgust at my current state. My adult mind, crammed into this tiny, helpless body, was a constant source of sarcastic commentary.
"Oh, look, another fascinating exploration of my own hand. Riveting stuff."
"Yes, Mother, your rendition of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' is truly groundbreaking. I haven't been this intellectually stimulated since… well, ever, actually."
"Father, your attempts at 'airplane' with the spoon are appreciated, but frankly, the trajectory is all wrong. You need more lift and a smoother landing."
Of course, none of these witty observations manifested in anything more than a gurgle or a random flailing of limbs, much to the delight of my oblivious caregivers. The irony was thick enough to spread on a cracker. Here I was, reborn into the life I had specifically requested, blessed with the physical attributes I had always craved, and all I could feel was a deep, abiding sense of being a wriggling sausage of discontent.
The early months crawled by in a monotonous cycle of feeding, sleeping, and the occasional explosive diaper situation – an experience I found particularly mortifying. The indignity of having my soiled nether regions fussed over by well-meaning adults was a constant source of internal screaming. I tried to communicate my displeasure, my adult mind formulating eloquent protests, but all that emerged were pathetic whimpers and red-faced squalls that were invariably interpreted as signs of hunger or a need for burping.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, my physical capabilities began to develop. My eyesight sharpened, allowing me to discern the features of my parents and the details of my opulent surroundings. My limbs gained a modicum of coordination, enabling me to grasp at dangling toys and eventually, to roll over – a monumental achievement that was met with enthusiastic praise from my parents, further fueling my internal cynicism. "Yes, world, behold! I have mastered the ancient art of horizontal rotation! Prepare to be amazed!"
My personality, or at least the remnants of Brian Wilson's personality filtered through the lens of infancy, began to assert itself. I possessed an unusual level of alertness, my blue eyes often wide and observant, taking in the world with an intensity that seemed out of place on a baby. I found myself strangely drawn to the television, even though the flickering images were mostly incomprehensible. When the occasional snippet of 80s music drifted from the speakers, a flicker of recognition would spark within me, a momentary respite from the mind-numbing boredom of babyhood.
My parents, whom I was starting to recognize as David and Emily Love, were everything I had wished for in terms of affluence and attentiveness. David was a successful real estate developer, often away on business but always returning with expensive gifts and a boisterous enthusiasm for his "little man." Emily was a stay-at-home mother, dedicating her days to my care and the meticulous management of our sprawling household. They were kind, patient, and utterly devoted to me. And yet, there was a certain… superficiality to their interactions, a focus on appearances and material possessions that felt vaguely familiar, a faint echo of the privileged world I was now a part of.
As the months turned into a year, my physical development continued at an accelerated pace, just as Lyra had promised. I was taller and stronger than the other babies in our exclusive "Mommy and Me" groups, much to the quiet pride of Emily and the slightly competitive glances of the other mothers. My athleticism, even in its nascent stages, was undeniable. I took to crawling with an almost predatory speed and pulled myself up to standing with surprising strength and balance.
My internal monologue, however, remained a constant stream of sardonic observations and nostalgic longing. I missed the simple comforts of my old life – the smell of rain on asphalt, the taste of a decent cup of coffee, the ability to articulate my thoughts in complete sentences. I even found myself missing the mundane routine of my accounting job, a stark contrast to the utter lack of intellectual stimulation I was currently experiencing.
The world outside our gilded cage began to filter in through snippets of adult conversation and the flickering images on the television screen. I learned about current events, about the latest celebrity gossip, about the local news. And then, one day, I heard it. A name that sent a jolt of recognition through my infant brain.
"Daniel LaRusso's daughter, Samantha, is starting kindergarten this year," Emily mentioned casually to David during breakfast.
Samantha LaRusso. The name resonated with the weight of my past life's knowledge. Two years my senior. The timeline was unfolding exactly as I had wished. A strange mix of excitement and apprehension stirred within me. This wasn't just a show anymore. This was my reality.
As I lay in my crib later that day, gnawing on a brightly colored plastic toy, I couldn't help but ponder the future. What would my role be in this familiar yet altered reality? Would I actively try to change the events of the show? Would I align myself with Miyagi-Do or Cobra Kai? Or would I forge my own path entirely?
The possibilities were both exhilarating and terrifying. I was no longer just Brian Wilson, a middle-aged man with a penchant for 80s nostalgia. I was Braeden Love, a ridiculously tall, unnaturally handsome, and absurdly athletic toddler living in the world of Cobra Kai. The irony was still palpable, but now, beneath the layers of comical disgust at my infantile state, a flicker of genuine anticipation began to ignite. The wriggling sausage of discontent was starting to develop a plan. And it involved a whole lot more than just pureed peas. The 80s may be gone for this world, but my internal soundtrack was just getting started. And this time, the volume was going to be cranked all the way up.