And so is everyone else. Today is Sarah’s 18th birthday, the anniversary of 19 hours of labour, some nitrous oxide and 9 pounds 4 ounces of squalling red baby making an appearance.
Ron and I are tiny people, and yes it hurt (her shoulders got stuck) and the nurses kept double-checking to make sure I had the right baby. She nursed almost constantly, when she wasn’t crying. I switched her over to bottles of whole milk at six months (yeah, kinda shaking my head at that one now) and yet the day her father fed her a piece of bread with peanut butter on it, I freaked at him.
She never crawled, but scooted on her butt. She missed her daddy so much during the day she would dig one of his shirts out of the dirty laundry pile and wrap it around herself. She was such a tall baby too, cruising around the kitchen chairs and banging her head on the edge of the table. When she still wasn’t walking on her own at 16 months, Ron said enough of that and took her outside almost every day to walk and stumble on the rough ground. Within two weeks of that, she was walking fine and running after her idolized big brother. Then she started talking. She hasn’t really shut up since.
By the time she turned two and Meaghan had arrived, I remember her visiting me in the hospital. She hopped up on the bed and said clear as day, “So Mom, when ya comin’ home?” Not two weeks later she asked me, “Can you take that baby back now?”
She looks like Ron but she acts like me. She’s beautiful and smart, with a wicked sense of humour.
Happy birthday honey.
(I think I need to go give her another hug. And YAY another child of mine made it to adulthood!)