She Gave Me Life, I Gave Her Stretchmarks. Sounds Like a Fair Trade To Me

Thirty-six years ago today, a young woman gave birth to a squalling infant.

That infant would be me.

My birth day. Literally.

That squalling infant grew into a precocious child.

Precocious is generally a polite word for 'annoying know it all'.

Gr.1. I remember that shirt. It was not the last plaid shirt with a bow around my neck that I would wear.

The precocious child grew into a sullen tweenie bopper.

She wore her hair like a boy's and spent most of her days in red stirrup sweat pants and an over-sized red and white striped sweatshirt.

Her fashion sense has not improved much since then.

Ten. My grandma baked that cake. Sigh. Caaaaake.

Time slipped past and suddenly that sullen tweenie bopper wakes to find herself staring smack into age 36.

She wishes she had cake. Or a hair brush.

Oh yay! 36! Sweet baby Jeebus, how did this happen?

Thanks Mom, for you know, the whole gestation and birthing thing you did for me. It was probably the best gift you ever gave me. Almost as good as the bike you and Dad gave me on Christmas morning but not near as cool as that framed portrait of John Wayne you once gave me.

Still. Life. I have it.

36 years of it, thanks to you and Dad. Thanks for the giving me the gift of life.

I'm still waiting on that pony I asked for though.

Just sayin'.

Just kidding Mom. Maybe.