Happy birthday . . .

. . . to me!

I was the last of my mother's miracles. That is what she always called us because as a young woman she had been injured to the point that one of her ovaries was totally destroyed. The doctor had told her she would probably never have any children. She and my father were married five years before my oldest sister was born and then two years later my other sister was born. Five years -- and I don't know how many miscarriages later (Mama doesn't remember anymore) -- I was born prematurely. Soon after I was born, I started to develop jaundice and was lucky enough to get the last incubator available at the hospital. I have heard different stories over the years about just how sick I was and just how long I was kept at the hospital -- I think the last version was that I stayed in the hospital for about a month and had at least one complete blood transfusion.

In a warped tradition that has developed, Lawrence will not wish me happy birthday first thing in the morning. One year (1997) he didn't wish me happy birthday until the morning of the 30th. He had been so overworked he was a day behind and thought he was being the first to remember my day. Unfortunately he was the last. Now it has become standard for him to not wish me happy birthday until the last possible minute he thinks he can get away with before missing it totally. Most years that means 11:45 p.m. We'll see how late it is today -- last year was 1997 all over again with him not remembering at all until I told him the next day I had lost a bet with a friend who thought he wouldn't wish me happy birthday until 11:58 p.m.

I'll add a comment tomorrow to let you know when he remembers this year. :)