Six years ago today my baby girl was born. Being our second child, I had this mommy thing “all figured out” and anxiously awaited her arrival. And by anxiously awaited, I mean, Get her the hell out! I can’t stand being pregnant.
I hated pregnancy. HATED. I never “glowed.” I never “felt beautiful.” I was never all smiley and all “this is the best thing ever.” HATED IT. HATED. And both my pregnancies were pretty easy and noneventful.
Except early on with The Girl. I was sick with her from week 9 to week 19. For those of you that struggle with math, that’s 10 weeks. 10 weeks of wanting to vomit my brains out. VO-MIT. I finally told my doctor to do something about week 17 or I was going to die. The magic travel wristbands. The ginger. The 18 small meals a day. Weren’t working. I was miserable. He gave me drugs. Still mostly miserable.
So in that way, she made my second pregnancy different. I should have known (and accepted) that this “one” was gonna be different. And holy crap is she different than my son.
But just like me.
She’s stubborn. She’s independent. She speaks her mind and can throw an award winning tantrum. She was born with an attitude and still holds it strong 6 years later!
She’s funny. And she’s fancy.
She’s a masterful performer and sings and dances like no one is listening. She just don’t care.
Happy Birthday to you, my dear sweet Peanut! You’ve challenged me like nothing else in my life, and I love you.
Now let’s go dance, and scare your dad and your brother!! Like we just don’t care.