|I was a cute child, wasn’t I?
by Robert Lawton, [CC BY-SA 2.5], via WikiMedia Commons
It was dark and stormy the afternoon I was born. Well, it probably wasn’t that dark, but I hear it was stormy. Though, now that I look it up, I find it wasn’t snowing, either. Well, there goes my dramatic start. Ok, let’s try this relayed tale again.
It was afternoon when I was born.
Much to my mother’s misfortune, I must hated the cold in utero as much as I do now, as I was two weeks late. The end of November in the northern hemisphere is rarely warm.
My birth was far from easy. There was an emergency Cesarean section involved, and my mom had a rough recovery, but as with all wanted children, my parents were happy to finally meet their new baby.
They had their first girl.
Or so they thought.
When they looked at my newborn identification sheet, they discovered an unsettling fact. Their baby girl was actually a baby gril.
Had I come into the world as an outdoor cooking appliance? Do we now need to question everything we know about human biology? Is my dislike of cooking tied to some sort of deeply seated identity crisis?
No. The person who had filled it out was just dyslexic.
And there we have it. Dyslexia has had an influence in my life since the day I was born.