I was eight years old, sitting in the back of my parents car with my brother (two years younger than me) heading to a cabin on Lake Charlevoix Michigan with our parents, when my mom said to us, "today is our seven year wedding anniversary." I paused and thought for a while. My mom recalls hearing me giggle in the back seat. She asked, "Steven, what is so funny."

I responded, "oh... I'm one of those."

Even at the young age of eight I knew I was born a bastard. I was definitely not planned.

Story goes that my father immediately asked my mom to marry her, to make an "honest woman" of her but she said, "no." She says that she wanted him to ask her because he really wanted to be married to her and raise me. She was 18, he was 20.

He went off and worked for an oil company, putting up rigs in Minnesota. After a 6 months he came home and they made it work and were married shortly thereafter. Compared to most married couples I know they've got a good thing going.

I'm sure my dad's parents weren't that thrilled that their son knocked up some poor mexican girl and I KNOW that my mom's dad must have been insanely pissed that his little girl was pregnant. -there are still scars there between them, I know it.

In fact, I bet my dad's parents weren't thrilled about him marrying my mom, but their other two kids ended up divorced, one of them twice and still my parents (definitely the underdogs) chug along. They've been married for 35 years now.

Was I planned? Nope. In fact, I have thanked my mother several times for not aborting me. -No joke, I know there were people in her life that would have suggested it.

Glad I'm alive.