October 5, 1973

Today is my birthday. Thirty-six years ago, when my mother herself was 36, I was born. The story of my birth, like many stories told and retold, year after year, has taken on a mythical quality. As my father often recounts, it was a beautiful fall afternoon in Ann Arbor, Michigan. My older brothers played outside while my mother labored. My father called the doctor to let him know that I was coming soon, but the doctor shouldn't rush. He could finish his late afternoon cocktail first. When it became clear that the doctor wouldn't arrive before I did, my grandmother chastised my father for being unsterile, and my dad, reverting to a five year old kid, wiped his hands up and down his corduroy bell bottoms, as if to say, "look, they're clean enough."

Having given birth to two children myself, I know how my mother must have felt, guided by instincts to allow her body to open up, all the while feeling as though she was being split in two by the pain. It is my father, now, who causes me the most wonder. What must he have thought in those moments as he reached to catch my body. Fear, probably. Exhilaration, certainly. And when I was out and healthy, crying loudly, they both felt relief and joy. I know those feelings all to well myself.

As a kid, and even as an early adult, I thought of birthdays like personal property. My birthday. My life. As a mother, I know the difference. I know how I feel each August 7th and May 27th. The wonder of my children's births comes back to me. The marvel of their lives unfolds in a sequence, as I relive so many events. Hopefully, someday, if they so choose, my daughters will understand the fullness of a birthday, how that single day is much more than simply a bookmark in the passage of life. It's a day of stories, from many perspectives, filled with gifts of love and devotion. It is about individuals and families. Mothers, fathers, and children.

Thanks, mom and dad, for seeing me into this world with such care and devotion. I love you beyond measure. Happy Birthday.