How I Came to Be (and other interesting tidbits)

At first they attributed my mother's acute illness to the most obvious diagnosis. After months of building a boat together in a muddy, poorly ventilated ship yard in Richmond, it was no wonder she came down with fiberglass poisoning. It wasn't until more obvious symptoms became apparent - like a growing tummy - that they considered the startling alternative.

Convinced that they were having a boy and resigned to the reality of imminent parenthood, daydreams of flowing day dresses and a sweet-smelling, cooing baby boy filled my mother's head. They named me Maxwell - Max for short - and knew I would grow to look exactly like my handsome, dark-haired father. It was with a smug nod that my father observed my thick head of black hair as I emerged into the world; I am sure he whispered lovingly to my mother, "Here comes our son, Sweetheart".

It must have come as a terrible blow when the rest of me slithered into sight and he first realized that crucial bits were missing from this son of his and a mix-up had been made. In the wee, sleep-deprived hours that follow a long labour, perhaps they even wondered who exactly was responsible for this boo-boo? Regardless, being essentially good people, they accepted the gaffe with good grace.

As there exists no female version of Maxwell, my parents scrambled for a new name. Never conceiving of the possibility that Max wasn't Max at all, Mom reached deep in to her exhausted mind and came across a book she had once read as a teenager. Forever Amber chronicled the lascivious lifestyle of a 19th century British whore who slept her way right up to the throne, showing tremendous cunning in the face of hardship and adversity. This was the perfect name for their little bundle.

Dad, a soft-hearted man, took to a girl with surprising alacrity, lavishing his toddling daughter with down quilts, white rabbit fur coats and beautiful dresses. Mom a practical Capricorn and with somewhat less enthusiasm, strapped me into a life-jacket, cut my hair so that I looked like a little boy and signed me up for swimming lessons in case I fell off the boat.

Despite all attempts to toughen me up, including providing me with a baby brother who tormented me with cheerful regularity, I bore no evidence of tomboyish qualities. My imaginary friend, Big Girl, was a willowy brunette, my barbies made regular, passionate love in the back of Ken's pink car and my maternal instincts manifested themselves clearly in my devoted care of Basically Baby, my doll.

Luckily for Dad, his next daughter proved to be made of tougher stuff. My sister showed zero interest in dolls, stoutly refused to conform to any kind of bathing regime and liked to dress up like Mr. T . She also loved to go for long meandering walks, canoe in the wilderness and looked at me with wary suspicion when I begged her to wear the frilly dresses and outfits I made Mom buy her.

If not for my siblings and had it been up to my free-wheeling, bohemian parents, my life would have continued in a very different vein. Camping trips for three spent in the front basket of Mom's bike. Roaring across Georgia Straight in a Boston Whaler, the wind whipping the breath from my tiny lungs and turning me blue. Regular, unplanned trips off the end of the dock and into the oil-slick water of the marina where our boat was moored.

As it turned out, and despite the unfortunate reality of my pronounced girl-ness, all these things were still possible. Indeed, my resourceful parents managed to teach all three children to jump start an outboard motor, work the bilge pump on our boat, gut salmon and clamour over beach logs. An unplanned life, a course they may never have chosen for themselves but a rich life indeed and the story of how I came to be.