We woke up early - but not too early. The Doctor is an early riser (usually 6am, if not earlier) - but today gave us a sleep-in 'til 7ish. Maybe it's a new seven for 7am thing.
We opened presents in bed, then he requested breakfast. In bed. He wanted pikelets, so I set to work whipping them up to be devoured amidst a mess of flannel sheets, wrapping paper, and presents.
A lazy day at home was enjoyed. We watched Diary of a Wimpy Kid (gosh that is SUCH a funny film - highly recommend), hung out together, I mustered some energy to bake (I've got a cold. Poor me) a birthday cake. Cuddled. Reminisced. Cuddled some more. And altogether had a lovely day at home.
I tried to get the Doctor to go ten pin bowling but he wanted to stay home. So what's a mama to do?
We did as he wished, then went out for Chinese (as his heart desired) at our local. Because that's the way we roll. I estimate the Doctor ate about a bowl full of fried rice before declaring that he was ready for cake. READY FOR CAKE! We hurried up with the eating - and then brought out his dream cake... A Freddo ice-cream cake. I know I've talked about this cake before - and I struggle with this cake!
So above is the cake we're having after dinner tomorrow. To celebrate both boy's birthdays and to continue the birthday festivities. Because that's the way I roll.
You can read the Doctor's birth story here. (If you're that way inclined.)
My little newborn is turning seven tomorrow.
I can't quite believe it.
I so vividly remember everything from before his birth right up to to his birth. Everything. - vomiting spaghetti bolognaise, to telling Matt quite tersely that he'd better hurry up and anticipate my needs. And stop turning the damn lights on. I am an animal. I am in labour. I want to labour in the dark. In the nude. And PS - do not mess with me.
I remember walking over 2 kms the afternoon before the birth - hiring Sex and the City and laughing when the guy shrilled "see you soon". I remember in my head thinking - "you will NOT see me soon sucker, I'm in labour!" I walked all the way home, having to rest every hundred metres or so while I rode out a contraction.
I remember when Matt got home that evening. He worked as a framer (as he does now) and hugging him and bursting into tears.
I remember my sister driving like the clappers to get us to the birth centre. The labour aid exploded all over my foot. And her car. Oops.
I remember arriving at the birth centre and quite literally tearing my clothes off.
And I remember coming home with that newborn in my arms. Terrified - the revelation that: "I am responsible for this baby surviving and thriving."
Happy 7th Birthday to my beautiful little man. I am so, so happy and proud that you chose me to be your mama. Ever since we first found out about you, you've brought us great joy. Thank you. x
I am really excited to see this documentary ASAP. If you're a long time reader of PMM, you'll know I am very passionate about birth. If you're new to PMM, FYI - I am very passionate about birth.
It features one of my all-time favourites, Sheila Kitzinger. During my pregnancies I read a lot of her books. I love her, she's pragmatic and passionate and just down-to-earth and smart.
And Michael Odent - the man gives me goosebumps.
You can read Jodi's post on The Face of Birth here.
This time six years ago I was in pre labour. I walked over a kilometre to the supermarket to buy lemons to make Labouraid. I dropped into the DVD store to hire Sex and the City. I stood next to the rows of DVDs in a contraction and rode out that wave. I walked over a kilometre home, stopping intermittently as the intensity increased. I imagined that small babies head knock-knock-knocking on my cervix. I am the Queen of visualisation, thank you Marie Burrows. I got home. I squeezed those lemons. I made the Labouraid. I spilt it all over the kitchen floor. Later it would explode over the floor of my sister's car on the ride to the birthing centre. Sorry about that, Choc.I ate spaghetti bolognaise. I went to bed. I vomited up spaghetti bolognaise. I woke up later. I went into a darkened room. Matt turned the light on. I turned the light off. Matt turned the light on. I turned the light off. I laboured at home. The intensity turned up a notch or two. Matt turned on the light. I turned off the light and screeched "YOU BETTER START ANTICIPATING MY NEEDS!" Matt called the midwife. The midwife told us to wait. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. Mother's instincts. My sister arrived. We three drove like the clappers at 5am down the highway, to the birthing centre, behind a garbage truck, in half light, into the tunnel, we drove. Every bump I felt as I continued riding those contractions. We arrived and I tore off my clothes. It was all I could do. I got into that delicious bath. I laboured. We waited. Matt went to sleep. Matt woke up. I got too relaxed and my contractions stopped. I had to get out of the bath. I pushed. Two hours of pushing. I got tired. I screamed "COME ON!" like Lleyton Hewitt. And then I held that wee baby, I held that warm, beautiful, loved baby against my chest. That warmth. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat for my beautiful soon-to-be six year old. My delightful, talkative, bright six year old.
