Dear Rockstar,
Almost 8 years ago, to the day, Mummy strode over to her bosses, colleagues and compliance officers with you, the giant belly lump responsible for a 25kg weight gain, and said, “Off to have a baby in 2 days. Goodbye, everyone.” “Yup!””Ok!””Bye bye..!””See you in 3 months!”
You hadn’t dropped into position, and because of the holiday season and medical staff not knowing why you were still so high up in my tummy, but realising there was probably a complication they couldn’t pick up because of your position, Mummy’s options were a) wait for natural labour, possibly right at Christmas, when her gynea’s most preferred staff in event of complication were off, and risk finding out exactly what the problem was then, or b) take the last available C-section slot and have you out right before the holiday. So Mummy said a prayer, and then went to go and tell your nanny. Then she went to go and tell her nannies. (That’s the people in the dealing room who take care of our scheduling and covers and any other compliance issues, including acceptable value of baby gifts from market counterparts. Compliance. In this case I use the term “nanny” fondly.) Then she went to Mc Donald’s to take away a double cheeseburger and fries.
You were scheduled for around noon. Mummy was told not to eat, about 6 hours before. So she set an alarm for 6am and woke to consume aforementioned Mc Donald’s double cheeseburger.
Which is when we took this picture
Then she went back to sleep for a couple more hours hoping to not feel too hungry before and after the C-section.
Then out you came.
All 7.3lbs of this happened.
And 8 years went by.
And now this.
(Which was the morning after this)
And at some point this (which happens to be some contention between you and your sister about how the lift works. Note the looks you are giving each other.)
Btw when they took you out they discovered your chord was abnormally short, to the point they couldn’t even lay you flat on my half-open belly before cutting it. The chord had also been round your neck, under your chin and obscured from the ultrascans. That was why you couldn’t “drop” into place for a natural delivery. We were told natural delivery would have been very risky (well d-uh.)
Mummy looked up, in Recovery right after, to highly experienced medical staff stroking her forehead and a “Right. You’re good. Rest. And I am off skiing.” “Thank you. Hope it’s a good trip.” “Yup, me too. Bye.” He did your sister, too, teaming up once again with Mummy’s beloved straight-talking gynea. By then Mummy had somehow learned he also owns at least one racehorse at Hong Kong Jockey Club.
You came home from the hospital 5 days later, one cold and quiet Christmas day. And we have much to be thankful for.
Love,
Mum.
