JUNE THIRD was the beginning of Summertime and it was always swimsuity and warm and happy all over and I could feel a wheel turning and myself getting a little bigger while staying safely little.
But I've been counting time in trimesters and weeks old and dirty diapers and trimesters again, in a circle, since I was 22.
JUNE THIRD doesn't feel very much like the start of anything anymore. It feels like 29 weeks pregnant, three years old, 21 months old, crummy floors.
And just as I was starting to feel the tiniest bit sorry for myself about this, thinking that kids have sucked the "Erin" out of me and turned me into an ageless functional person called "Mom". . .
Clark, telling me a silly story about a pencil with a pom-pom on top, stopped talking and grinned at me.
"Happy Birthday" he said.
He grinned again.
"This is gonna be a loud one," he warned.
"HAPPY BIRTH-DAY!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Happy Birthday" he whispered.
"Three Happy Birthday-s. I love you."
No one has said "Happy Birthday" to me with so much genuine enthusiasm since I was safely little.
My name is Erin and today I am 27.
June 3, 1986