Well, another month has all but slipped away. Make that: another year. My year, that is—the reckoning that began when I stuck my head out of my mother’s belly and thought: “Crap, it’s bright out here!” Moments later, a new thought: “Crap, it’s cold, too!”

Actually, the story goes that I had to be dragged out. “Forceps …” (Is that Dr. Kildare? or Dr. Chamberlen?) Grab that greasy little thing!

My siblings all have nice first-day photos from the nursery at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital in Cleveland: my older brother sleeping soundly, the younger ones just staring vacantly or dozing. My first portrait is a standing joke in the family: eyes glaring at the stupid camera guy, one eyelid puffy like a prizefighter’s, the head slightly lopsided … What a way to start a life!

A product of forceps circa 1954

(Nice pompadour, or whatever it is you call that flip up top.)

Now everything’s just fine—haven’t seen a forceps since.

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