For 38 years I’ve heard the story of that 20th day in January. It was a snowy, icy car ride to the hospital from our home in Trenton, New Jersey. Even the tiniest bumps in the road were magnified to feel like mountains of contractions. My mom didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl, although in her heart she longed for a daughter. The story goes that after my birth, she gazed into my eyes and saw my complete persona rather than that of a newborn. She says she saw the world in my eyes.

This is “the story” I would proudly request each year as part of my birthday tradition. I’ve heard it for decades in person, while some years my phone calls from Boston, London, Japan, and San Diego would suffice. “Tell me the story” I would beg, never growing tired of hearing it year after year… for 38 years.

So now, as my 39th year begins, a new tradition has evolved. I will tell my son the story about his grandma MeiMei on the day I became her daughter. Although altered by the life cycle, the story still continues... forever.

Post Script

After my son woke up on my birthday morning and was snuggling with us in bed, I explained that his MeiMei used to tell me a story about my birth. “Want it, want it,” he said with such determination. So I told him the story and he listened quietly. When we finished, he said he wanted to get a book from his room. "On the Day You Were Born" was what he came out holding. What a precious angel. Indeed, a new tradition is born.