Most people glean their birth story, or “birth song”. Mostly, it happens incidentally, in small snatches. However, it’s only when you look back that you discover how important those words were. Here is what happened when I found out a part of my birth story.

A birthday, and a memory

My eighth birthday arrived the first week of February and it was hot. Way too hot for Melbourne, Australia. We were in the middle of a terrible drought.

“Remember this day!” Mum said suddenly. We had retreated inside to the cool, where shade and stillness conquered. Inside our double-brick house.

“When you get older you can say it was 113 degrees* the day you turned eight.” I could tell Mum was wilting. Even her words were coming in short snatches.

Outside, we had scorched the soles of our feet – and not just on the concrete path. You felt your feet sizzle even venturing onto the grass! Just that week, my big sister Jill had nestled her brand-new “I’m in First Year” Uni clipboard to speed-fade in the sun, among wilting vine leaves.

My birth story moment

“It was a day like this Jen,” Mum continued.

I looked up at her. Questions all over my face. What did she mean?

“The day before you were born.” Even though she was already hot, she seemed to go warm-pink at the memory, “. . . we moved into our brand-new house. Because we moved that hot day, you were born the next.”

Looking outside to the shimmering heat over our backyard, I connected the dots. Mum never liked the heat. On days like this one she wilted like a potted pansy in the sun. That day eight years ago, she helped Dad move to our new house, and she had done the pansy thing then too. All the life was drawn from her – including me.

“Remember,” she said.

Do you know your own birth story? Was it one small conversation, like this part of my birth story?  I’d love to know what you find out!

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* 113 degrees Fahrenheit is equivalent to 45 degrees Celsius

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