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Today is my birthday.

I came into this world exactly 27 years ago, at 8:24 a.m., bright-eyed and curious.

My mom said she and her doctor were arguing during delivery because I would start coming and then I’d stop. They both thought it was because the other was doing something wrong.

Knowing me now, we all believe it’s because I was overthinking whether or not I should make my appearance on that day.

To be completely honest, all my mom’s stories about her pregnancy explain a lot about who I am now.

My mom is not the biggest fan of chocolate anything. She eats it rarely.

Apparently while she was pregnant with me, she ate chocolate ice cream and Reese’s cups every day.

I used to have one or both at least once a week.

While she was carrying me, my dad used to sneak in the house and scare her.

That was to “mark me,” they say. An old wives’ tale says the child will bear a strong resemblance to the person the mom is mad at the most while she’s pregnant. My dad won. The slightest noises startle me, and I look just like my dad.

If that’s not enough, I showed up two weeks early. I didn’t cry when I was born. I supported my own head and looked around at everyone in the room to try and figure them out.

I walked, talked and gave the puppy my bottle three times in one day — all at six months old.

And now, 27 years later, I still overthink everything.
I’m still impatient, sizing people up.

And my parents say I’ve yet to sit down, shut up or stop feeding everything and everybody.

Unless something happens, I’ll be that way for the next 27 years, and I’m looking forward to it.

Until then, I’ll celebrate my first 27. Happy birthday to me!

Contact Tiffany S. Jones at 373-7157 or tiffany.jones@news-record.com.