20181104.0430

Today is my birthday, an event I've marked in this webspace before (here and here). I've written in this webspace on several other iterations of my birthday, but I have not always commented on the fact of my birthday. And it might be thought that, having now seen thirty-six of them, I'd not be inclined to mark any more. There's a reason I do, though; there's a story that goes along with it, and I've noted that I will be working on putting out stories that are mine to tell for a while. To that end, I offer what follows.
I am more than passingly familiar with what happened when I was born. It is not because I remember them directly, no. Instead, it's because I've heard the story repeatedly. Year after year, I get a series of phone calls from my mother on my birthday--and I expect a similar set today, honestly--that narrates the events of however many years ago today it was. I've been told about the delay in going to the hospital, both when and why. I've been told what time my mother had her epidural. I've been told how far dilated she was and when. I've been told when the forceps came out and when they went in. And, at 10:44am Central time each year, I pick up my ringing phone to hear the birthday song yodeled at me once again--a comforting, if silly, bit of ritual.
It's not a story, as such, I know, and not even a detailed description of what happens for me most every year on this day. In truth, while I remember the broad strokes of the conversations, and I remember from being told again and again the progress of events, the details of the conversations have run together for me. And I'm not sure how I'd narrate the narration, in any event. I'm told that reading transcripts of conversations often bores people, even many of those who otherwise enjoy reading; I already run close enough to boring people without going where I know I will do so.
What it is, though, is a small glimpse of who I come from. Many of the folks I've known have families that...differ from mine. What we take as regular jokes and idiocultural touchstones might well be regarded as oversharing; I've gotten remarks about too much information when talking about the birthday ritual face-to-face, and from more than one person. My wife has described it as contributing to something of a collective memory, and I do not disagree. Said memory is one that has been a comfort to me both on days such as this and on days when things are going wrong, when I am more than normally aware of my many failures, small and less so. I am glad to have access to it, and it is the kind of thing to which I hope to give my daughter access, even though there are parts of it I no longer recall. But what does remain, though, I am glad to have--even if I get early phone calls one day out of the year.