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I was two weeks late arriving.  Every night my father would tell my mother, “Have it tonight.”  Before they knew it, New Year’s Eve had arrived and I still hadn’t.

My parents decided to go to my aunt and uncle’s house for to watch football bowl games and celebrate the New Year.  After two chili dogs with onions, my mother was tired and ready to take my inebriated father home before midnight. 

“Don’t have it tonight.”  (Slurring.)  “I'm too tired.  Just don’t have it tonight.”

Obviously I was a difficult child from the beginning.  At around four o’clock in the morning, my mother went into labor.  Approximately eight hours later I arrived.  Yes, I was a New Year’s baby who made her parents miss getting a tax break by a measly twelve hours and fifty-four minutes. 

With a serious headache and dressed in his oh-so-fashionable overalls, my father took pictures of me through the nursery window while my mother spent the next nine hours sleeping off the Demerol.  Indeed these were the good ol’ days when childbirth included lots of drugs and no memory of the birth itself.  I’m not sure how my passed out mother managed to push me out, but I have a feeling that there was a strong possibility that I was trying to outrun the two chili dogs.       

Unfortunately, some other kid was born before me, so I did not win the year’s supply of diapers or get my picture in the paper for being the New Year’s Baby.  But there is something special about being born on this particular day, and I’m reminded of it every time someone looks at my driver’s license.

“Oh, look!  You’re a New Year’s Baby.”

“Yeah, uh huh.”

“Guess that’s a pretty fun birthday.  Everybody always celebrates it.”

“Actually, everyone is usually hung-over on my birthday.”

“Still, it’s gotta be a fun birthday to have.”

And it is.  I can’t begin to count the number of times I have been sung “Happy Birthday” at midnight on the beginning of a new year.  I always start the new year with champagne, cake, and presents, and no one ever has to work on my birthday.  There’s the Rose Parade to watch, black-eyed peas to eat, and resolutions to make.  Everyone always remembers my birthday and even though it’s just one week after Christmas, no one has ever short changed me on the gifts.    

Growing up, however, it wasn’t always so great.  The DMV wasn’t open when I turned sixteen, restaurants and bars are never open which is very frustrating when you’ve just turned twenty-one, and I never had my birthday party on my actual birthday because my father didn’t want a bunch of kids running around while he was trying to watch all of the football games.  Now that I'm older, I really blame him. 

When I was in kindergarten, all of the students who had birthdays in the month of January were asked to come up on stage during a school assembly to be recognized.  Our principal, Mr. Wright, asked each to student to tell the audience their name and birthday.

“And when’s your birthday?” Mr. Wright asked me.

“January 1st,” I told him.

“Wow!  What a fun birthday to have,” he said smiling at me.

“Yes, but I made my father miss watching the Sooners in the Sugar Bowl.” 

I got a big laugh from the teachers on that one.  A 5-year-old doesn’t think up this kind of thing on her own.  Kindergartners usually repeat things that they’ve heard over and over and over again.

Regardless, I wouldn’t trade my birthday for any of the 364 other days in the year.  No matter how old I get, I will always be the New Year’s Baby, and when you’re knocking on forty being referred to as a baby isn't a bad thing. 

Every year for my birthday I am given the gift of everything that a new year has to bring. 

May you and yours be blessed with all of the wonderful things that 2008 will bring.