I was born at the end of one of the worst winter storms in Ontario’s history. It began on January 28 when the temperature dropped almost 25 degrees. Students were stranded overnight at schools or in neighbourhood houses while buses and cars were stuck in the snow. Human chains were formed to help the stranded in the blinding snow and whiteouts. By the time the storm ended and I was born, cities had issued states of emergencies and cleanup of the aftermath began.

I was contrary from the start. Four days past my due date, still not wanting to leave the womb. I was sunny-side up. I wasn’t coming into the world facing my mother’s backside and the hospital floor. My refusal to turn my gaze from the front and my insistence on greeting the world looking up to the sky caused my mother extreme pain, an episiotomy, and a forceps birth.

When I arrived home to our big, red-brick Victorian, my 3.5 year old brother was so happy. He kept asking, “Is this my baby?” and my parents said, “Yes.” He anxiously asked, “Where’s yours????” He absolutely adored me — until he saw my dirty diaper and he puked on the floor.

At 9 months old, Whooping Cough sent me to an isolation room at the hospital. For a week my mom came to breastfeed me while wearing a mask.

I quickly learned to climb out of my crib. In the middle of the night, I’d sneak down the long, dark hall, climb above my parents sleeping heads and down the middle of their bed. I didn’t move.