52 years ago: Another birth to tell you about

Today is Flag Day again. On this day in 1963, flag day or not, my mother's utuerus yawned and heaved until around 3:30 pm out I came. She was in Allen Memorial Hospital in Oberlin, Ohio, attended by Dr. Siddall, who presided over the births of most everyone I came to know. I had a head full of coarse black hair, which the nurses pulled together with a tiny bow at the top of my head. My father was invited to sit in the waiting room, where no doubt someone came out to exclaim, "It's a girl!"

June 14, 1963

Since the small town anesthesiologist took summers off, there was only a machine attached to a mask with some sort of ether-gas to ease the pain. Self-serve. As she'd done for my sister's birth three years prior, my mother took a little whiff when she needed it. Two years later when my brother came in April, who needed an anesthesiologist?

I was born on Friday. Back then, mothers and new babies somehow spent about a week in the hospital after the birth. I walked out the very next day after both of mine, so I do wonder what Mom and I did that week. I know she breastfed. Somewhat counter to prevailing 1960's culture, she nursed three babies about nine months each, going straight from breast to cup--no need for bottles.

At our house, Granny watched over Julie, who asked every day during that long week, Is it Saturday? Granny patiently explained, No, it's Monday or It's Wednesday. When Granny finally asked her why she wanted to know, Julie exclaimed, Because Saturday is pancakes! (Our mother's trick to limit Julie's daily wish for a messy breakfast. Saturday is still pancake day when you visit my parents.)

Home from the hospital to live with sister Julie.

I don't often think of the umbilical connection to my mother or about the months I spent tucked inside her. Each one of us comes from that experience--so far as I know, there's no other way to arrive as a mammal on this planet. And here is my welcoming sibling--somehow exactly me and somehow entirely different. Isn't she a cute almost three year old? (The hilarious hair I was born with fell out and was replaced by softer actual baby hair.)

Julie's baby.

When I got language, I called her Dee. I'm told I stood with my face pressed to the front screen door whenever she went off on her own with a little sadness in my voice saying, Dee go out? I know I welcomed her home like a frolicking puppy.

On the day I was born, cousin Sarah, who was already big sister to cousin Ken, lived in Portland, Oregon. That day she went out ringing the neighbors' doorbells to announce a confluence of events: Today is Flag Day, and Grandma and Granddad are getting married again because there's a new baby in the family.

Factoid: 52 years at 52 weeks per year makes me some kind of perfect square today. I'm 1,144 weeks old.