On April 19, 1995, my mom went into labor while baking matzo farfel chocolate chip cookies. A few hours later, at 12:06 a.m., the break of Passover’s sixth day, I was born. When my parents were finally able to take me home from the hospital, the cookies were there, waiting for me: My mom, nervous my birth would cause her cookies to burn, made sure my aunt would know when to come over to take them out of the oven.
Sometimes, my birthday and Passover overlap. But instead of celebrating this double holiday, I’ve come to rue it.