It seems like just yesterday I was 9-months pregnant with my daughter, hemorrhaging in the delivery room. My husband ran frantically from one side of the bed to the other searching for the call button. “That is for popsicles!” I calmly explained. “Please get the nurse!” Okay, my memory may be a little off. I may have been shouting something along the lines of, “I don’t want to die” over and over and over.
My little diva is celebrating her 4th birthday today. I still have a few more years before I can give the “I almost died giving birth to you” speech when she misbehaves. It will definitely come in handy during the teenage years. (I should know. I was a complete ass when puberty hit. My mother is a saint.)
My daughter is smart and funny. She is my best friend. In fact, she pinkie swears that we will be BFF’s forever. (Any good lawyer will tell you a pinkie swear is a rock solid contract.) Sure, she will occasionally wish for a new mother because she couldn’t have a second cupcake, had to go to bed, etc. I tried calling her bluff during the last tantrum. “Okay, I will find you one.” She told me to make sure her new mom liked cupcakes, too. Of course, minutes later she decided packing all of her princess gowns, Barbies and Polly Pocket dolls would be too much work. Well, that and she loves me too much to leave. You have to be careful with Polly Pocket. I learned that the hard way, decapitating one with the vacuum cleaner. It is one of many stories my daughter will be sharing with the therapist. Then, after each appointment I will remind her that I nearly lost my life giving her life and all will be forgiven.