I don’t remember much about the day I was born (which, let’s be real, is a bit of a missed opportunity for a memoir), but from what I’ve heard, I definitely made an entrance. Not only did I manage to tie a knot in my umbilical cord (you’re welcome, Mom), but apparently, the highlight of the day was my Oscar-worthy performance: I cried. 

Now, I’m told that’s what babies do, but I’ve got to wonder—was I wailing because of the Thunder Thighs nickname I was allegedly gifted with on Day One? Or was it more about the fact that I arrived in a world that was still obsessed with neon colors, oversized jackets, high-waisted jeans, scrunchies, and hairspray that could survive a hurricane?

Now, let’s be honest: I’ll never know if I was crying from the chaos of entering the world or if I was just gasping for air because I was that overwhelmed by the sheer wonder of it all. But given that I entered the world in 1987, I’m pretty sure I was also just Livin’ on a Prayer, right alongside Bon Jovi, who was tearing up the charts with that classic anthem.

I made my grand debut in Phoenix, Arizona—the land of cacti, heat, and very, very confused fashion choices. (Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to cut our hair in the shape of a  triangle?) Anyway, I was two days late. Two! I like to think I was just savoring my moment, letting the world know that nobody was going to rush this Queen Bee into existence.

Fun fact: it was chilly that day—chilly in Arizona! People actually wore coats. I wasn’t about to freeze, but someone might want to let Arizona know that “coats” aren’t usually in the daily wardrobe rotation.

Now, let’s talk about my dad. This man showed up to the hospital in a suit. And not because he’s some fancy businessman who lives in suits—oh no. He’d just preached that morning at his college and figured, “Why not? I’ve got a suit, might as well wear it to meet my kid.” I was clearly not in a rush (again, two days late), so he showed up in style, looking like he was ready to close a deal.

And then there was my mom—bless her heart—who was dealing with a whole other level of drama. Apparently, she went full-on “hide on the hospital roof” mode, convinced they’d send her home with the classic “Nope, not in labor, try again later!” She was not about to face that kind of heartbreak. So, there she was, literally on the hospital roof (probably wishing she had a scrunchie to tie her hair), while my granny tried to convince her to come inside. 

I’ll spare you the drama: she came inside. While my mom was in the middle of labor with me, my twenty-two-month-old brother decided it was the perfect time to play, “Extreme Makeover: Hospital Room Edition.” As my mom was busy doing, you know, the most important thing ever (bringing me into the world), he was wheeling around all the random hospital equipment like he was their personal moving company. He’d grab a pile of towels, toss them to a corner, and then yank out a tray of medical supplies as if he was redecorating the maternity ward. The midwives just let him do his thing—and even told my mom he could stay for the birth. But she got my dad on the phone and asked for his parents to come as reinforcements. Afterward, my dad, in panic mode, packed five slips for my mom. Yes, five. 

Five. Slips. For a woman about to give birth. Spoiler alert: she didn’t need a single one. 

As my mom winced in pain, my dad– who had just arrived, bouncing off the walls with excitement, eagerly asked, “Is that a contraction?” But my mom, not missing a beat, deadpanned, “No, you just ran over my toe with that doctor’s chair!” 

Anyway, when I finally made my grand entrance at 9:02 PM, there was a brief moment of pure confusion. My dad, practically glowing with pride, shouted, “It’s a girl!” My mom, who had hoped and prayed for a girl more than anything, stared at him, bewildered, and said, “I don’t know what that means.” She had literally convinced herself that a girl wasn’t even an option, but surprise—there I was, all 6 pounds and 15 ounces of pure, unfiltered chaos.

As for my name, my parents decided on Ashley Ruth, a name that felt perfectly 80s and, more importantly, tied me to two amazing women in our family. I hope I live up to the meaning of Ruth—loyal, kind, and compassionate. Although full disclosure, I’ve been known to be a bit of a Queen bee at times.So, here I am, years later, still trying to make sense of that day. Was it the power of Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer, the high-waisted jeans, or just the joy of knowing my mom didn’t have to wear five slips that finally got her into the hospital? We’ll never know. But whatever the reason, I made my grand entrance—and the first thing I did was cry. And probably scream something about needing a snack. That’s how it all started for me.

p.s. Here is the front page of The New York Times from the day I was born.