I’d like to wish myself an early Happy Birthday. I think I better do it now, just in case the world falls apart on my actual birthday.
I am turning 35 on 06/06/06.
There is gathering hysteria and speculation surrounding next Tuesday. In particular, pregnant women who are due in early June are apparently terrified of delivering on the numerically scary day. Some seem to be convinced their babies will pop out sporting miniature devil horns and Hitler mustaches. Others claim they have no problem with the date—they worry other people will make fun of their children for being born on an evil day.
I’m rather fond of June 6th. I took my first breath on that day. I got to meet my parents face-to-face. I do not remember it, but I’m sure it was a lovely time. On my fourth birthday I received a beautiful blue robe which was later stolen by the girl across the street. On my fifth birthday I opened a brown cardboard box, thinking to myself “nothing good comes in brown cardboard boxes.” I was wrong. It was my first Barbie with several divine ballerina outfits. My begged-and-pleaded-for Lucy watch and yellow bicycle were given to me on my eighth birthday—one of the greatest June 6ths of my life.
If June 6th, 1971 was the day I took my first breath, then June 6th, 1987 was the day my parents held their breath. I drove, alone, out of the driveway and down the street. The night smelled of russian olive trees and adventure.
The big days came: 18—so proud to vote. 21—gimme a beer. 25—uh, now I can rent a car at Hertz. 30—whatever.
I am standing on the brink of 35, demographically middle aged with mixed feelings about the milestone. Constitutionally mature and of “Advanced Maternal Age” according to my obstetrician, I can look at June 6th through eyes which have seen many come and go. Ice cream cakes, cherry pies before they gave me hives, melted candle wax on butter cream frosting, birthday cards from grandmas who are now in heaven signed “God Bless You, Granddaughter”, embarrassing restaurant scenes with warbling waitstaff singing to my red face and going to bed that night blessed just as the flowered cards sincerely wished—these are how my June 6ths have been built. All the mothers who fear their babies will hate their birthdays are so very, very wrong. There is nothing to hate in a date.
I still have my Lucy watch. The white wristband is graying, like me. The face has little cracks and lines, like mine. Lucy’s arms extend out, her fingers point, time does not stop. Her work isn’t done. Uncharacteristic for Lucy, she is smiling. So am I.
I was born on a good day.
