Are you sure about that? . . .

My mother likes to tell some stories about me that always make me shake my head and say the same thing every time.


"Are you sure about that?"


According to my mother, I was extremely ill and near death when I was born. Apparently I had a feeding problem. I couldn't keep any baby formula down.



Legend has it that I projectile vomited across the room better than Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" and could hit the opposite wall from my crib if fed anything. My mom tells me that they lined my room in layers of plastic because of that.


My response.


"Are you sure about that?"


Take a moment and look at the picture of me and my two older sister's above. I'm the one who looks like she's in a food coma.


Do I look the least bit unhealthy to you?


I think I look more like I'm about to explode.


Whenever I point to the evidence in this picture - - evidence that I look like Uncle Fester's twin - - my mom quickly tells me that this picture was taken after my father found the cure for what ailed me.


Legend has it that my father discovered the one thing that I could keep down. It was something like, virgin Yak's milk, combined with the pinkie toe of a pygmy shrew, stewed in a vat of moonshine with an old baseball bat. It was created by a genius hobo living on the railroad tracks. Apparently it was readily available at the local grocery store, right next to homogenized milk and sour cream.


My dad bought cases of the stuff and fed it to me.


The picture is proof of that.


That's the end of that story.




Another story my mom likes to tell is the story of her 30th birthday.


Legend has it that I fashioned a picket sign out of a large sheet of cardboard that was attached to a long wooden stick. On that sign I wrote, "Today is my mom's birthday. She is 30 years old." According to her, I marched in the nude throughout our neighborhood while hoisting this sign, like an angry union member, for all the neighbors to see, while I chanted and yelled her age like the town crier.


My response.


"Are you sure about that?"


I was only 1 when my mom turned 30.


I'm pretty sure I couldn't write, or make a sign, or carry it, or speak, or leave the house through the front door and march through the neighborhood without someone noticing that I wasn't in my usual spot - my baby crib .



The tables have turned.

I tell my mom stories about herself these days.

She had a stroke last year and her memory was affected.

Stories about what she used to be like.

Her response.

She smiles and says, "Are you sure about that?"