You don't want to think about your parents in any way other than the following:
- people who give you presents
- people who would do anything for you
- people who annoy the (bleep) out of you
- people who worry about you non stop
- people who will always think your birthday is one of the greatest days ever
- people who love you so much
That's how I like to think of my parents. They love me, I love them. They drive me CAR-AZEE.
My Dad and Mom always call me around 8:23 a.m. on May 4. It was the time I was born. This happens every year. Like clockwork. And, in life, it's been one of the only consistent things I have ever been able to count on. And I love it.
I know the story of my birth so well. I was supposed to be born on April 19th. I was late. Really late. And Mom was fat. Really fat. So fat that she had to hold her stomach up when she went for a walk around the block. "Your Mama is so fat..." And she was. This is all true stuff, folks.
But, you guessed it, the day after that walk, she went into labor.... right after waving my father drive away on his way to work. His car pulled out of the driveway, and - with my eternal sense of perfect timing - I had evidently come to the conclusion, "yup....it's a Friday. Let's get this weekend started!" And that is what all babies think when they decide to break water. Babies are notorious party fiends.
But, I digress. Mom immediately called Dad's work, they sent him right back home, Dad got Mom and me to the hospital, and within 30 minutes of being at the hospital I was born. All told, I think the whole labor was an hour. (Once my Dad parked the car, they threw scrubs at my Dad's face, and said, "if you want to see your baby being born, get in.")
And I was fat ... just like my Mama was. 8 lbs., 8 ounces. Everyone can agree, though, I was a cute little tiger.
This was me. Not the day of my birth. But you get the point. I was and still am - adorable. And yes, I still like watermelon with the hunger of a shark on "Shark Week."
And if you like Big Bird, just as much as I did as a baby:
Anyways, I can't help but always (happily) think of my parents on my birthday. It's just as much as their day, as it is mine.
And here's where my story goes from heartwarming to dark comedy! And by dark comedy... I mean frightening.
My father called me on my birthday, but I inexplicably missed his call. I saw the missed call on my iPhone and was sad. He called earlier than 8:23. He was at work and it was the only time he could call, and I missed it. I got to talk to Mom at 8:23, but without Dad - it wasn't the same.
Dad, Mom and I talk every Sunday morning, though (also like clockwork.) So, on Sunday May 6th, Dad and I talked. And toward the end of the conversation, Dad got funny.
"You know... if you do the math from your birthday.... don't you know who's birthday that would be???"
He outright implies that his birthday was 9 months after HIS birthday.
Sheer panic arises. Horrified, by having to do actual math, and horrified, by the implication, I quickly showed my wit and as you remember, dear reader, I was supposed to be an April 19th baby- which would only have been 7 months from his September 20th birthday.
And thank God for all of that. Math and the fact that I was a supposed to be a April bundle of joy. Hooray. They had sex in July. And yes I just cheered for sex (who hasn't?) After all, the normal thought process is: sex did lead to my being on this earth. So yay for sex!
Relief washed over me, though, I have to say. Dad, however, liked his little joke and chuckled a bit.
I, on the other hand, did not laugh. Just relieved. Simply, quietly relieved. Because no one wants to be thought of their parent's birthday present!
Love,
Me
No comments:
Post a Comment