February 2, 2007
I often joke with people that my mother never liked me because I was a breech birth, necessitating the horror of forceps (somehow, it seems entirely appropriate that I was poised to enter this world butt first). Really, I could hardly blame her. But she blamed me. One of the things she said until her dying day was that I “stole” Dad from her. Witness that he was “too busy playing with me to make room for Mom to lie down in the recovery room.” I was pretty calculating for someone about five minutes old. Even I wasn’t that precocious.