Curse of the March Babies

ALTHOUGH this piece is appearing on April 1, it's certainly no joke.

I know I should've written this at the beginning of March, but I'm so bummed out when the month comes around that I can't think straight.

So here it is: A warning for all couples looking to conceive in 2011 - please don't do it in March. Hide the Barry White CDs and the boxes of wine. Don't buy those stinky fire-hazard candles and please, please, please don't watch the Weather Channel - the background music those guys use to let you know about the cold front coming in from Lake Michigan had to be lifted off a "Best Adult Films of the 1970s" soundtrack.

Girls, pull the whole "I have a headache, cramps and my back is sore" - and don't shave your legs.

Guys, go hunting or fishing or get a 30-day money-back vasectomy.

Because (counting on my fingers) nine months from March is December, and if you think you just did a dirty deed in March, your bambino will be the victim come the 12th month.

As a December baby, I was the result of Carmella and Big Pat's partying a little too hearty on his 27th birthday on St. Paddy's Day 1975. I'll never forgive my mom for not just getting him the bottle of English Leather and the Sports Illustrated subscription along with the Harold Carmichael jersey and leaving it at that. Nope, she also fell for his line, and on Dec. 5, their middle child was born.

Being pushed out 20 days before Christmas, you grow up expecting to be shortchanged in life. You get used to not getting fries with your Big Mac, having your cheesesteak witout - and getting a 2-for-1 present combining your birth with that of Jesus.

Relatives tend to think they can kill two birds with one stone - one gift for both occasions. These people are so tight that, when they walk, their backsides squeak like they're trying out for the part of the Tin Man in the community theater production of "The Wizard of Oz." And they got away with crushing my self-worth every December from 1976 to my 18th birthday.

The gift would be wrapped in Christmas paper, and many, many times, I'd have to wait until the 25th to get the birthday booty. My two sisters, both blessed with summer birth dates and showered with birthday pool parties, cookouts, flip-flops, fireworks and gifts not from the Island of Misfit Toys, would watch and smirk as I opened one gift - yes, one gift - as the relative bellowed, "Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas! You're double lucky!"

Oh how I wanted to retort, "Did they give you a receipt at the Dollar Store?"

A friend with a summer birthday tried to make me feel better by saying she never had the glory of bringing cupcakes to school on her birthday or having all her school friends come to her party because school was out, and she'd love to trade for a December birthday. If she wasn't such an overachiever, she could've gone to summer school. That would've taken care of the cupcake envy.

My case of the Curse of December came to full fruition when my favorite (and only) nephew, Johnnie, and I celebrated our birthdays with a big chicken parm Sunday dinner at Chez Kozlowski in December.

If you recall, the Eagles blew away the Patriots (only to be blown away - not once, but twice - by the Cowboys), and Johnnie and Big Pat started to throw the football back and forth across the living room, with Carm screaming that they were going to knock over the manger, the holiday village and our Christmas tree, which (with her being Italian) belongs upstairs at Woody's on Drag Night.

But none of that happened. Even when Johnnie dived for a catch and hit his head on the coffee table, splitting his crown open with an ugly gash that required a 25-minute drive to the nearest emergency room - thank you, Northeastern Temple Health Systems for closing down our community hospital! I hope you all have December birthdays! - a three-hour wait and four stitches, including a partly buzzed haircut.

But none of this would've happened if his parents hadn't gotten it on in March 2001, had a December baby, the Christmas tree had to go up, hence moving the coffee table away from its original spot into the line of living-room-football fire.

So because his parents consummated in March, this poor boy split his head open, and, as everyone rushed to the hospital, his favorite aunt had to spend her birthday cleaning up blood from the carpet. Never would've happened in July.

Patty-Pat Kozlowski will do anything for a summer birthday with gifts not from the Dollar Store.