Saturday, February 11, 2006

Saturday's Child

I was born on a Saturday Night, in 1965.

Mom and Dad, then strict Catholics, got pregnant on their wedding night: after their Alberta wedding they climbed into a car decorated with powder blue toilet tissue roses and shaving foam slogans, and went directly Southbound. I was conceived in Great Falls, Montana. I guess you could say I was Made in USA.

A few days later, the happy, gorgeous newlyweds were whisked off to France in a Hercules Freight Airplane for Dad's new posting at the local Fire Hall there. (Dad was a Search and Rescue dude at the time.) Whisked off to a land where they knew not the language, nor the customs, nor the food. I think Dad had never even even eaten PIZZA before. Or was it Chinese? My Mother had only cooked one thing ever, a chicken, but that is another story... We're talking poor kids from smalltownville.

Anyhow, almost 9 months later in France, my Dad had gone out to the absinthe bars with his newfound car racing mates, and Mom was at home eating garlicked escargot, smoking Gitanes, and voraciously reading Sci-Fi, when all of a sudden, water broke and all that breederly stuff. I was early.

Off to the hospital in Marville went Mom..., and me, eager to greet the world just like a good ENFP. I came out, ugly. Preemie. No nose. Huge eyes wide open. And smiling and cooing! Oh, and covered in slimy green waste. My character was already entrenched!

Mom immediately wanted to know when she could go back to work. She had used her Science degree to get away from her folks, and dammit, no biological event was gonna stop that now! It would be thirteen years before she and I had our epiphany, made peace, and became friends bonded at the soul. (In anger, I threw a peanut butter sandwich at her and immediately regretted it rather than feeling bratishly RIGHT about doing it.)

Anyhow, back to 1965... Dad came by tipsy afterwards and named me after a childhood memory of words that sounded poetic to him. He was pretty freaked at having adulthood so rudely thrust upon him. He didn't know he would be the wonderful man he is today then.

Even though I have never been pregnant, and (by choice) I am not going to procreate, I am so fond of this story for some silly reason. Maybe because I love my parents unconditionally. They are really, really great.

My friend's incredible step-daughter and her husband are having their first wee sprog very soon and all are wondering when it will be born. Placing my bet for a Saturday in February.

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