It all started in a house on a hill.

When I was born we lived in a pale yellow house on Hillview Street, which was actually on a hill and actually had a view (not like how they sometimes name an apartment complex "Pine Mountain" and it's on the flats without a tree in sight), in 1960s suburbia. I was the third of three kids, with two brothers before me. When I was born, Dad reportedly said, "Oh, boy, it's a girl!" My mother was thrilled. She finally had her little dream girl, her little shadow, someone she could do all the mother-daughter things she'd dreamed of with. In a house full of males, there was finally someone to be on her side of the gendered divide.

My brothers were, I think, less than thrilled. My oldest brother M, was six when I was born. My middle brother, K, was three. We lived in a three bedroom house. My parents figured with parental obviousness that one bedroom would be for "the boys," and one for "the girl." And that, of course, began the story my brothers started spinning about how "spoiled" I was and how I always got my way and got all the good things. I was only a baby and I got my own room. The boys got a new set of bunk beds and now had to share a room. Later, when we moved into another 3-bedroom, I remember M complaining, "How come SHE always gets her own room and we don't?" His idea was that he, as the eldest, should be the one to have a room to himself. "Which of you is going to share a room with your sister?" Dad asked. My brothers just glared, and I thought, well, where would I have to sleep?

On the couch?

Move my crib to the garage?

I could picture it all so clearly, and was, for a moment, afraid it might actually happen. I think my brothers would have been fine with any of those so long as they got their own way.

Mom says I was an "easy" baby. I don't know how easy I was as far as babies generally go, or if by the third child she just kind of knew what to expect.

It was all great except the hair.

Of which I had practically none.

I was a bald baby. My mother was extremely embarrassed at having a bald baby girl. I guess I was supposed to be born with a full head of golden ringlets or something. All I had was transparent peach fuzz, so I didn't look girly enough so people felt compelled to ask, "Is it a boy or a girl?" Which was not okay with Mom. No one should be mistaking HER little GIRL for a BOY! Nope. She had a GIRL at last, and there must be no confusion.

Every time we left the house, she tells me, she'd put a baby bonnet on me. To hide my bald head that embarrassed her so much. And to make me demonstrably a frilly little girl so people wouldn't have to ask.

Yep, already. Right out of the box, I was "product not as expected."

Okay, sure. A baby bonnet is not big deal. As a baby I couldn't possibly know any difference. What did I know? Probably all I could make out was manically smiling faces and enthusiastic voices going, "Wah WAH wah WAH WAH waaaahh," like the adults in the Charlie Brown movies. I don't even know if I protested about having a thing tied on my head or if I tried to pull it off as babies so often do.

If Mom thought sticking a bonnet on my little bald head was all it took to make me into her dream baby, she was about to learn it wasn't going to be that simple. I wasn't that simple.

Also, it was the earliest taste of how much of my mother's self-esteem at the time was wrapped up in being a perfect mother to a perfect family, and how much I was to carry the weight of my mother's feelings every time I failed at being her perfect dainty delicate little dream girl.