Today is my 50th birthday, and I’m feeling the tug of history...
I remember 13, when my grandfather died.
I remember 22, saving all my money for an engagement ring.
I remember 48, reading to a U.S. President not long before he died.
I remember 14, knowing not to pick up the phone when all the bill collectors would call.
I remember 31, when our first child was born.
I remember 21, watching my father cry because money was so tight.
I remember 14, when my English teacher told me I could write.
I remember 27, publishing a book and wondering if anyone besides my parents would buy it.
I remember 15, meeting that cute cheerleader who I would one day marry.
I remember 36, when my daughter was born.
I remember 21, being told I was kicked out of college because my tuition wasn’t paid (thanks to the Michigan loan people who jumped in and saved me).
I remember 40, saying goodbye to my Dad on his deathbed and telling him he was a good father.
I remember 37, eating at the White House.
I remember 24, getting all those rejection letters and being so broke, we could only afford mozzarella sticks at Friday’s.
I remember 38, when God took my Mom, and gave me our newest son.
I remember 9, watching The Muppet Show with my sister.
I remember 45, being told we found the 9/11 flag.
I remember 23, getting down on one knee at the Eiffel Tower.
I remember 42, going to Kuwait to entertain our troops with the USO.
I remember 28, when the second book didn’t sell that well.
I remember 36, hitting #1 and calling my Mom (who was at Marshall’s because…my Mom).
I remember 29, when my publisher shut down, and it looked like my career was done.
I remember 7, when I’d wear a Batman cape everywhere.
I remember 47, dancing with my daughter at her Bat Mitzvah (to Barbra Streisand because…my Mom).
I remember 18, getting into Michigan.
I remember 49, watching my son do the same.
I remember 17, scooping ice cream at the mall, and the woman who screamed in my face, “You’ll be working at this miserable ice cream store for the rest of your miserable life.”
I remember sitting in a crappy sports bar in Boston, banging the table and declaring I wanted to write a novel.
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