Three years ago, under a harvest moon and as people banged on pots and pans and sang and danced and yelled, one moment we were two, just me and Steve listening to too much Nick Drake and Elliot Smith and watching the ocean from our one bedroom in San Francisco. And the next minute we were three. A little family. Mom, Dad and a little moon man who we would call bug and wiggle worm and sweetie bear.

I grew up in a single parent household. I’m an only child. I never knew what it meant to have a family. I never knew what a Mama – Dada sandwich felt like.

When Steve and I were in our worst moments, I would cry and tell him he was my only link to my past, to San Diego.

“Oh,” he said, “I’m your family.”

And he is. And we are a family of three. Unconventional — mom and dad will never, not ever get married — but here we are. In our little house in a pretty city we moved to so the moon man could grow up around trees.

Trees! I said to Steve. He must grow up around trees!

And as we drive around this pretty city, the wiggle worm says, “Ooh look at the trees. They are amazing.”

“You’ll learn to climb them,” I say. Broken arms be damned.

Three years ago today. Under a harvest moon. I told Steve to get my mother. I was going to push the baby out. My mother was in the cafeteria. The doctor said not to worry, it would take two hours at least. I grabbed Steve by the shirt and told him to get my mother.

My mom came running up the stairs, disappointed to find that they hadn’t even raised the table.

“I’m going to push this baby out now,” I said.

No one believed me.

“You better get ready,” I said.

The doctor shrugged and raised the table. I remember her putting on her booties so slowly.

And then I pushed.

Twenty minutes later I was holding him.

And that was the last time, in three years, my will has won out over the bug.

Happy Birthday, little man.

Mama and Dada love you more than the sun and the stars and a thousand guitars.