1963
The year it all began. On an unseasonably warm December day in a small to mid-size northern midwestern city. Shortly after JFK was killed. I came an early, tiny baby just a few months after President Kennedy's own son had been born early and tiny. My mother has told me she was concerned but the doctor told her that premature girls generally fared better than premature boys and that I'd probably be fine. I was. Fine, that is. Although there are those who likely disagree. But I was fine enough to be released from the hospital a mere 16 days after my birth (on the actual date of Brad Pitt's birth, coincidently). I've always been curious about how often my parents visited me during those 16 days. They've said it wasn't every day. Something about that has always bugged me a bit. Of course, it was quite a drive to the hospital. There was a blizzard at one point. There was work to be done. I was being taken care of and breastfeeding supposedly wasn't allowed for premature babies in 1963. So, I guess I'm fine with that as well.
