Birthdays. I don’t know if I should love them or hate them. For me, the magical day is March 5, which just so happens to be a turning point in our history when the Boston Massacre happened. I know, fucking amazing.

Everyone in this world is entitled to a “golden birthday,” which is this awesome day when you basically get whatever it is you want in this world. Some people are lucky and are both on the 16th or the 18th or, in case of my buddy Robert, the 30th and they can think of great things they want. Me? Well, I was five. I wanted a cake in the shape of a bear and a He-Man action figure. I’m proud to say I received both.

But then things weren’t so great on this golden year for me. A week after my birthday, I come biddy-bopping into the house along with my brother, Jeff, and my older sister, Angel. There, we were confronted by the worst news in history.
“We’ve got something to tell you,” says my dad. He’s standing in the living room with my mom.

For me, this is good news. Why gather us all in one place unless it was something amazing? Perhaps we were getting running water? Was dad adding another room to the house so the kids wouldn’t have to all share the same living space? Were we having pizza for dinner?

“Your mother is pregnant,” he says.

Long pause. While my brother and my sister look a little stunned (ages 12 and 9, respectively, at the time) and my mom and dad share a similar expression, I’m just confused. Come on, I’m five. I wasn’t flinging out words larger than “Skeletor” and “Optimus Prime” yet. The Dukes of hazard and Knight Rider were the greatest things to ever happen at this point. Pregnant wasn’t even in my vocabulary.

So what is this? A disease? Is she going to be the President of the He-Man Fan Club? Is she pregnant with emotion? With pumpkin seeds? What the fuck is going on, people?

“I’m having a baby,” my mom says, no doubt seeing my utter confusion.