Six months ago today my not so little third child made his exit from me and entered this world. When I think about it now I envision a caricature of myself bent over with legs spread in my bathtub. My face is twisted into some exhausted grimace as I grasp the tub’s edge, white knuckled and holding on for dear life as my companion and my midwife stand on each side of me – with one hand on my son’s cartoon-ishly large head, and a foot on their (my) respective butt cheek for leverage as they try to pull him out. The baby, of course, has a huge grin on his face - (because as everyone knows children plot against us… and he finds the whole thing hilarious.) and my mother is standing by with the oxygen tank. The whole ordeal seems rather humorous now.
Though I suppose it wasn’t so dramatic…
no one planted their feet on anyone’s butt cheeks.
Eventually the bruising went down and he got a nice red colour to him, *lol* then he turned orange - but what can you do?
and if I find my camera I may add one of the little half birthday boy here. stupid missing camera.
These were his first socks (and Babylegs):
and here's his bed that is about to get lowered, and switched to the hungry caterpillar sheets in preparation to move him into his brothers room.