Birthday

I have heard the story a million times, two weeks before my mother's due date, around dinner time on a Thursday, she started to have contractions.  My mother always attributed my early arrival to the bumpy, mystery tour bus ride, taken days before with friends, to the World's Fair in New York City.  The doctor was unfazed by my parents call, and told them to take their time getting to the hospital.  Being my mother's third pregnancy she felt a little more urgency.  "You were almost born on Route 27 and your doctor almost missed your delivery because he wanted to finish his pork chops."  Pork chops and apple sauce have always reminded me of the day I was born.  My father desperately wanted to be in the hospital room with my mother.  He pleaded and begged, but was relegated to the waiting room of pacing fathers.  I was born at 7:11pm, a mere hour after my parents left their house.  "You're my lucky baby," my mother has told me over the years.  As a child, I had a strong affinity for the convenience store in my neighborhood with the same name.  The yard was full of blooming peonies when I arrived home two days later and met my sister and brother for the first time.  My mother baked them cupcakes so they wouldn't feel left out.   Growing up my birthday was always celebrated with vases of light pink and fuchsia peonies cut from the plants my grandfather tended.  To this day, they are still my favorite flower.