Could Be Worse

By Dorothy Denne

A friend asked me the other day if I remembered the poem titled “Sunday’s Child.” I could only remember parts of it. It really bugs me and causes me to stew when I cannot remember something. So I turned to my less-than-terrific technical skills to jog my memory. I Googled.

Apparently the rhyme was first recorded in the early 1800s in A. E. Brady’s “Traditions of Devonshare.” Rhymes of this type were used for a kind of fortune telling and character prediction. Here ’tis:

“Monday’s child is fair of face,

Tuesday’s child is full of Grace,

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

Thursday’s child has far to go,

Friday’s child is loving and giving,

Saturday’s child works hard for a living,

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.”

Care to guess the day on which I was born? Yep, it was Saturday. That fortune-telling rhymer was right.

I believe it must have been very late on a Saturday night though because, according to my older relatives, I had some Sunday characteristics too. I was told that I came into this world as a round little nine-pound bundle of joy. All one had to do was cuddle and feed me and my response was to giggle and wiggle then sleep.

What can I say? Those who know me probably would say that pretty much describes me today. I am still a worker. I am still on the round side. I still like to be cuddled. I still giggle and wiggle and I guess we might, at this age, add jiggle.

Hey, it could be worse. I could have been born on Wednesday.

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