"All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won't be the truth; it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story."
The Thirteenth Tale
My story began thirty years ago tomorrow. My mother and her mother were picking beans in our neighbors garden, sitting on a bucket in the morning sun, hoping that sometime soon I would finally choose to make an appearance in this world. I was two weeks over my due date and my mother was tired; how she found the energy to pick beans on a hot August morning is beyond me.
My father had taken almost all the two weeks off work and postponed many important business meetings to be home, "just in case", but he could wait no longer. That morning he had kissed my mother goodbye apologizing for not being able to continue in the waiting game at home and left explicit instructions to call if anything was to happen. My grandmother suggested that it would be good for my mom to do something other than sit and wait, and my mother agreed (she has never been one to sit and wait for anything:). I often wonder what that morning was like in the bean patch across the street - was the conversation about me or was it chitchat? Maybe there wasn't conversation at all, but the content kind of silence that only comes from trust, love and time.
Whatever was happening that morning was trumped around 10am when my mother realized I was coming. The contractions came fast and that meant that I was close to follow. True to my nature since birth, I was on my way and once I had decided it was time there was no turning back. The called my father and he couldn't be reached so they called the nurse. After explaining to the nurse how fast the contractions were coming they were given instructions to go to the hospital immediately. My mother could never imagine going to the hospital, after being in the garden, without a shower; so, true to her nature since birth . . . she took her time and cleaned up before calling my grandfather for a ride to the hospital.
I love the idea that my grandparents were involved and around at the time of my birth; both maternal and paternal sides of the family were anxiously awaiting another member of their posterity. I think that talks to the importance of family and roots, honoring where we come from and being aware of those who are to come.
All the rest of the story is kind of a blur for me and this is a reminder that I need to hear the tale again from those who know it best. What I do know is that I was born that day, August 9, 1982 and given the name of Mia - "mine" in Spanish. I was always to remember that I belonged, that I was someone's and maybe somewhere down deep they hoped I would turn to that knowledge when it mattered the most . . .