|Daisy belly at 32 weeks|
Daisy joined our family on a sunny April day in 2008. She was born in a house built by her Great great grandfather. Jon deserves a medal for coping with a home birth, and I deserve a medal for not killing him during the process.
He was working in Kingston at the time, building Tindall Field, and I called him on the cell to let him know I was having contractions, but that they weren't too bad yet, and not to worry about leaving work yet. Jon gave the guys fifteen minutes, and then left. When I called again, to let him know this was the real thing, thankfully he was already passing Napanee on his way home.
At the peak of hard labour I cracked (yep, I CRACKED!) and begged him to get me my pants- I was going to the hospital to get an epidural and I would not take no for an answer. He looked at the midwife, who shook her head no. There really was no point since Daisy was crowning. He thought he would buy some time by bringing me every pair of pants I owned...then proceeded to go through each pair for me..."Do you want the black pair? Or maybe the beige pair? Jeans wouldn't be comfortable, maybe this soft pair...." At that moment, a big contraction hit.
"JUST GIVE ME MY GOD DAMNED PANTS I WANT MY EPIDURAL!" I am guessing that it was sort of like a scene from a really good demonic possession movie because even I was shocked at how nasty I sounded.
|One of our Midwives weighing Daisy|
Daisy's birth is perhaps one of my proudest moments. I did it, in the comfort of our living room, with no pain medication. I experienced a natural process, and learned so much about myself.
Daisy has spent her life trying to keep up with her big brothers. She started walking when she was 8 months old. Personally I think this is because she's stubborn and fiercely independent. Nothing will stop her once she gets an idea set in her mind! Perhaps this is why I love her so much!
I was elated when Daisy started talking, which I imagine was because Owie was such a late talker and had (and still has) so much trouble with language. We were sitting at the table at a big family dinner, and she suddenly blurts out "Moe meeee!" I know I must have looked like that cat that ate the canary. I got up and remember gushing about how sweet it was that her first word was Mommy, quickly got to her chair to pick her up thinking she wanted me. But as soon as I tried to undo her safety strap she turned into a bit of a fractious cat and struggled. "Moe meee! Moe meeeeeeeeee! Moe meeeeeeeeee!" she cried. Befuddled, I set her back down. Jon pipes up and says "Honey, I think she wants more MEAT." And so she did. To this day she is our "meat-a-tarian".