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Three years ago today, I was due with Clara Jane. I spent the day at home, parked on a yoga ball, leaning over the arm of my big red armchair, willing my face-up child to please turn over. She didn't. I watched To Kill a Mockingbird, which I craved throughout my pregnancy the same way I craved cheeseburgers with raw onions, lettuce, pickles and mustard.

On that day while perched on my ball, I called Granny to wish her a happy birthday and apologized for not showing any signs of being in labor. With my due date come and gone, I told Granny that I felt like maybe I was one of those loons who imagines being pregnant. Not the case, as I woke up in labor the next morning, and Clara Jane arrived 32 hours later.

Maybe when she's a little older, Clara Jane and I will make a point of watching the movie and eating cheeseburgers every February 13th after we call Granny to sing her "Happy Birthday" as off-key and loudly as possible, just like Granny's always done to everyone in our family.

After I wrote last night's blog entry, I realized that I'd missed the most obvious topic for yesterday. Clara Jane's birthday is February 15th. My earliest memory occured three days before my third birthday. It was late last night that I realized Clara Jane is now older than I was when my first memory was etched into my mind, and literally onto my face.

It was 1975, and child safety wasn't as much of a concern in those days as it is now, which might explain the popularity of Naugahyde furniture paired with sharp-corned coffee tables. I was climbing onto my mom's lap, slipped on the Naugahyde upholstery, and smacked my face into the sharp coffee table corner.

I remember falling. I remember my mom laying me on her bed and trying to stop the bleeding. I remember going to the doctor's office and being held down while he stitched my face. I remember being really, really proud of my black eye and stitches at the ensuing birthday parties.

Here's what remains as of today:

I've found myself being overly concerned with the formation of Clara Jane's earliest memory, because I know we're around the time that it'll happen. I hope it's not today, when I was anxious and panicky enough that at one point, she smiled and did what she always does if I'm not happy: she asked, "Can I take care of you?" before locking me in a huge hug, eventually asking, "Can you be happy now?"

My worst fear is that her earliest memory is going to revolve around something caused by my defective brain. I know that's unlikely, because kids at her age are so focused on themselves that us adults are generally in the background. Hell, until a few years ago, I thought my fall off the Naugahyde was solo; my mom had to remind me that I was climbing onto her lap.

I heard some Dr. Phil nonsense awhile back that your first memory dictates the rest of your life. In my case, I guess it makes sense that I'm an anxious, panicky person when my first memory involves taking a terrifying, painful fall, followed by terrifying, painful stitches damn near in my eyeball. Okay, so maybe calling that nonsense, only because it came from Dr. Phil's shiny, obnoxious head is wrong, because at least in my case, it makes sense. It also makes sense that I would want my child's earliest memory to be wonderful. Duh.

Today, she told me that she was going to draw a picture of us, together:

That's Clara Jane on the left and me on the right. She told me that the line coming out of the back of my head is my ponytail. The big swirl on my forehead was preceded by her saying, "I need to give you more hair!" Apparently, she got her inspiration from my 1989 high school yearbook. The horizontal squiggle below that is my glasses.

I asked her what we're doing in the picture. She smiled and said, "We're just being happy."

I hope that's her earliest memory.