On this day, many, many years ago, I was pulled from the womb of my unconscious mother with forceps. Later, according to my mother’s account, when a nurse brought me to her, she refused to take me, saying, “No, I haven’t had my baby yet.” A few friends and loved ones seem to think that this somehow explains not only my unusually misshapen head, but the fact that I suffer from anxiety, depression, and any number of other ailments that contribute toward making me a miserable human being. Personally, I don’t think the circumstances of my extraction were all that traumatic… at least relatively speaking… as, just a few hours later, a stranger with a box cutter was allowed to mutilate my genitals for the Lord.
Anyway, it’s something that I think about often, and have written about at length before, in comic form. Here, if you haven’t seen it, is a panel, which I drew about a dozen years ago, showing my extraction… My mom, as you can see, has feet like overcooked elbow macaroni.
This year, my birthday was spent at home, tending to sick family members. I’d like to be angry at them, but, as I’m the one that gave them the flu, I guess it’s only fair… And they did get me some great gifts. (Much better than the year that Linette bought me a comb for my birthday.) I got a really cool cookbook by the Southern Foodways Alliance, and a 19-disk Norman Lear box set… So, instead of writing about the Pope this evening, as I’d intended to, I’ll be reliving my childhood with Archie Bunker, Fred Sanford, and Maude Findlay, as my loved ones call for my help in vain.