March Kalends

March Kalends, the first day of March. And yes, I am dorky enough to refer to dates using the Roman calendar. (The first one, you know, the one created by Romulus, who just happens to be mythical. And I am nerdy enough to know that without googling.)

Today is a special day. It's the day I didn't get born.

Not that all the 364 other days I didn't get born aren't special, but I wasn't supposed to be born on all those other days. I was scheduled to arrive on March 1st, 1982. I'm guessing my parents were pretty anxious for me to come, because I had two siblings who should have come before me, but didn't. I'm not sure why - even though the late 1970's wasn't that long ago, it was the dark ages, obstetrically. My older siblings were born at the end of the second trimester of pregnancy. I don't know if they were born alive or dead, if they were boys or girls, if there was something wrong with them or not. My mom doesn't know either. She wasn't allowed to see or hold those babies, which is a tragedy.

So my parents were pretty excited for me to be born, and this first day of March is the day the doctor said I was to come. They even did an X-Ray in late pregnancy to determine my size and the shape of my mom's pelvis. (An X-Ray! I know, right?) Today was the day. My mom had felt horrible for a few weeks, because even then I was a bit of a trouble maker, and thought it would be hilarious to jam my fat butt into her stomach, thus causing her to lose her meals shortly after eating them. What a joker I was!

Not long before I was (supposed to be) born, my mom also came down with bronchitis. Every time she coughed, her belly button would poke out, and it hurt, so she taped a quarter to it. My mom is so smart.

Also, and I don't know what this has to do with anything, when my mom was pregnant for me, she was into Little House on the Prairie. She had looooong hair that she wore in two braids, and she favored Gunne Sax dresses with aprons. She also gardened in her tiny back yard, and had a yellow lab mix named Priscilla, who would grow up to my best dog friend. (In fact, my first word was "Pissy," and I didn't get smacked for it, cause I was trying to say 'Priscilla.')

So anyway, my mom was pretty geeked for me to show up. But I was in no hurry. "What's the rush?" I thought. "I hear there's a big snow storm coming in a few days. I'll come then, just to see what happens."

And that's exactly what I did.

Why I'm So Inconsistent.

I spend a lot of time looking for explanations as to why I'm the way I am. The less these explanations have to do with me, the better. It would be great if I could blame all my problems on Chernobyl. Unfortunately, I was many thousands of miles away from Chernobyl in 1986, so that's a no-go. I briefly entertained the idea that it was the power lines that made me this way, and then I wondered if maybe my mother beat me regularly, and I just don't remember it. (My mom got mad when I asked her. "Of course I never beat you!" she protested... perhaps a bit too much, methinks.)

Maybe it's because I was only breastfed for a year. Maybe it's from that one time when I rode my wagon down the steep hill in our backyard and slammed into the back of the garage. Or it could be all those fresh fruits and veggies my mom made me eat. (Just in case, I'm making sure we avoid all these troubles by steadfastedly refusing to allow fruits or vegetables under my roof. Same with whole grains and vitamins.) Actually, I bet it's because my mom would never let me stay inside playing Super Nintendo all day. She never let us watch tv either. I'm sure she hated us.

Turns out, though, it's none of those. It's my personality type! And what a frickin' bummer, too, because that means I can't blame my mom. Don't worry, Mom. I'll find other ways to make you feel like an awful mother. And don't try to pull the John Phillip Sousa card on me either.