My third birthday (1984). It is now obvious to me I need to find another pair of pink sunglasses.

So today is my actual birthday. Thanks to everyone who is helping me celebrate, near and far. As I’m writing this post, it’s only 9:30 in the morning and I’ve already had “happy birthday” messages from folks in three separate countries on two continents.

Here’s to another thirty years. Then thirty more – and beyond.

Brian (5), Maggie (2), Anna (8), circa 1989

My parents decided that my projectile vomiting and incessant crying weren’t enough to deter them from increasing the family size, and in 1984 I found myself in possession of a brother — meeting him for the first time is one of my earliest memories — and in 1987 a sister (“she poops in the bathtub,” I noted in my diary — even at age six a chronicler of historical events). Here we are posing quasi-photogenically in our new flannel pyjamas.

As you can see, we grew up in a house in which there were never enough bookcases. Over twenty years later I’m proud to say that Hanna and I have pretty much the same problem on at least a quarterly if not monthly basis! Hanna just turned to me last night and said, “You realize one more trip to the $1 carts and we won’t have anywhere to store our board games.” I can think of many worse situations to be in.

when the world was still in grayscale

this was my dad’s hat; for some reason I totally adored it

According to my mother, the nurses at the hospital where I was born kept trying to put knitted infant hats on me, to keep my head warm. I did not react well.

Apparently, I’ve always had a good set of lungs.
Even today I’m not terribly fond of hats (it bothers me to have something covering my ears), so I’m kind of surprised that two of the photos my mother picked out to scan actually feature me wearing hats.

Janet, Anna, and Mark (circa late 1981)

When my parents got married they bought an old 1890s fixer-upper in our town’s newly-created historic district. When I was born five years later, there were bare walls and gaps between the boards and a table saw in the living room. My grandmother was appalled. I doubt I cared much. As you can see, we had one of the most important things: a working record player and a good collection of albums (nearly offstage left).

My parents still look pretty much like this. My mother went through an unfortunate period of permed hair in the mid-1980s and Dad now has glasses, but otherwise that’s them. My hair’s a little longer and darker than it was back then. And I’d like to think I’ve gotten passed the blank stare. You’d have to check with Hanna on that one, though. She claims I have this look I get when the cogs in my brain go funky … maybe this photo captures an early instance of such a mental meltdown?