I remembered my dad telling me the story of how I was born. He liked to tell it every year on my birthday. Apparently, my mother was very strong. In high school, she ran track (because she loved to run), and at the meets, when the team had to do the field events, the coach convinced my mom to throw the shot put because no one else was any good at it. According to my dad, my mother had great running speed as well as upper-body strength. This was always the way my dad would start the story.

Then he’d say, “But she didn’t have a lot of common sense,” and that was the line I was supposed to laugh at, because we both knew what was coming. The story of her going into labor and not even realizing it, then nearly giving birth in the front seat of a Pacer (which was a small car my dad thought was funny) while being driven to the hospital by a stranger who had been a customer at the Perkins where she was working when she went into labor.

Where was my dad at the time? On his way to the Perkins to pick her up after her shift. What did he do when he got there and found out she was on her way to the hospital? He drove so fast he got pulled over for speeding, then talked his way out of a ticket because his wife was in labor, even though she wasn’t in the car. This was another cue for me to laugh, because, as my dad explained, driving a pregnant woman to the hospital was one of the very few ways to get out of a ticket. And even then it wasn’t a guarantee.

“There are no guarantees in life, Little Pea,” he liked to say. “So pay attention.”

And when my dad got to the hospital, it was too late. He’d missed my birth, but he was amazed by me and my speed at being born. He said he admired my fire to arrive in the world at exactly the moment when I wanted to arrive.

After hearing that story so many times, I knew I would have more sense, pay attention, and do it better than my mom had. Plus, I had Hal and Ruth breathing down my neck, especially during those last four weeks.

“You look ready to pop,” Ruth would say. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. The same,” I’d say, and it was true.

She’d been coming with me every week for my check-ins with the doctor. He’d listen to the heartbeat and squeeze my hard belly, locate the baby, and give an estimate for the baby’s size. He’d feel inside to guess how ready I was for delivering.

“Any issues this week?” he’d ask.