My birthday was on December 22nd.
Twenty-three years ago I managed to insert myself into this world two months before my due date. As her first child disembarking two months early, my mom was deprived of normality – aka Lamaze classes, a baby shower… essentially any and all customary preparation.
My seven-months-pregnant mom and my slightly inebriated dad returned home from a holiday party whereupon they both submerged to bed. My mom awoke my dad hours later professing she was having the baby. My dad’s response: “No you’re not, go back to sleep,” coupled with his body rotating away. My mom shrugged, rationalized he was probably right, and attempted to harness sleep. Later, she again determined she was going give birth. She re-woke my dad to the same reaction. She ascended from bed and called the hospital, who adamantly insisted she come in. After another unresponsive reception from her husband, she packed what she unknowingly judged crucial birth-items, and equipped herself for the hospital. She roused my dad, who, once he comprehended she might actually have the child, supported her to the car and drove her to the hospital.
My dad jubilantly called his sister from the hospital at four-thirty in the morning.
My dad: “Hey! Guess where I am right now?”
My aunt: “Jail?”
I was born three hours later.