Pearl Harbor Day...

AKA - Not my birthday.

On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Some 36 years later, my parents were celebrating the birth of their first child (that would be me). Oh wait, no they weren't. I wasn't born on Pearl Harbor Day, I was born 36 years and one day after that historic day.

I always wondered why my parents insisted that they recall Pearl Harbor Day as the day I was born. Now almost 29 years later, I've finally figured it out. It's because they had such a good time enjoying the last day of peace and quiet that they would ever experience, that the pain and agony of my coming into the world a day later (at least, I'm sure it was painful for my mother) was eclipsed by such celebration.

We often remember these last days with fondness and sentiment - our last day of high school, our last day of college, the last day in a particular locale. So it makes sense that my parents would remember their last day without having to worry that their child was sneaking out of the house at 2 AM, or was going to bring home scary friends with multi-colored hair (oh wait, that's my brother). And the last day that they would not fear hearing the fatal word coming from the next room - "Oops", the days before carpool and "I want X, Y and Z."

So, happy Pearl Harbor Day to my parents. I know it's been a long time since y'all had so much peace, but I hope you can still channel the memories.