There’s No Time Like Your Birth Time
MTM set the alarm to Code Red Wail. 3:30am Eastern Standard Time. January 18. He barreled out of bed in a re-enactment of his rocketing forth from the womb.
Only, I was the one who was crying.
He, on the other hand, rubbed his hands together with glee. Smacked his lips together. Pilfered through the room.
“It’s my birth time.”
“Come on, Andra. Wake up. WAKE UP! It’s my birth time.”
“My cake. Where’s my birth time cake?”
Covers head with pillow. Points.
“There’s nothing there. I looked twice.”
Bursts out of bed. Staggers around room. Bangs shin on bed.
Hands MTM tin foil box. Collapses.
“You got me a birth time cannoli? With the filling separated from the shell to keep it crisp? Aren’t you going to have some?”
(Unlike some people, I was born at 1:15 in the afternoon.)
Every year, we perform this ritual for MTM’s birth time, a celebration of the moment he first appeared and started his journey to me.
Happy Birthday, My Dear MTM.
Dear Reader, do you have an unusual birthday tradition?