Birthdays

I am 22 today. Born at 1:30 a.m. my mom's smallest baby, cone-shaped bald head consisting mostly of eyes. Due on March 2, I slipped into the third just barely, probably breathless or laughing. Most likely my spirit felt the panic and punctuality of mortality and I couldn't put it off much longer. 40 weeks is a long time to wait in the womb.

Three months from today is Charles Lamb Cole's due date. The two of us our huge compared to our status two weeks ago. Every day I expect to find Wesley's paper-chain countdown to June 3. He's anxious to see his son. I am, too, but I could use another three months for preparation.

Three is my favorite number. I'm the third child, born on the third day of the third month. My name starts with the third letter of the alphabet and has three sets of pairs in it. It makes weird sense to me that my first child would be due three months from my birthday. I could be forming correlations that don't actually exist.

God and I have a deal about my birthday (I joke about this, but partially believe it). My birthday is always a beautiful day--springy if not sunny. This has happened since the day it snowed on my birthday (the year I received stretchy purple shorts and a big wheel I couldn't take outside for days, maybe weeks). We're celebrating with a picnic today, the clouds hint at rain, but the blue sky and temperate weather feel otherwise. Every year I forget how much I love my birthday. I forget the childish excitement that fills me with glee just knowing this is my day. (Wesley's goal for the month is to give me the happiest birthday ever. And each is, especially since we're married). Silly me, but I can't stop grinning.

Birthdays should really be a celebration of the parents (I felt this way before pregnancy). Birthdays mark the progress of their creations. I always feel compelled to say, "But what can I give you?" I hope I remember this question every year and try to answer it, knowing of course, that I never will.