Happy birthday to my love.
You have been the best thing that has happened to me.
Thank you for being my rock, the one person who can make me laugh, and whom I can be all bimbo and silly with.
Thank you for being the best father our kid(s) can ever have.
Thank you for sacrificing your waistline to pig out on waffles and ice-cream with me.
In fact, let’s make a pact to have waffles and ice-cream ALL THE TIME. Shall we?
I love you. Always. xx
Ah, my old fart.
I mean, my husband.
Mr Thick is turning 40 very soon and I decided to put together a nice little celebration for him. You see, he hasn’t had much of a birthday do since two years ago, when Aidan came along. In that month of March, we were both frazzled and exhausted and I hardly had any wits about me to plan my next meal, let alone a birthday. Last year, we were in Perth with my family and our plans were scuppered, thanks to the Easter holiday which closed all businesses and the lovely Italian restaurant that I had planned to check out. We ended up at San Churro, where I managed to sneak a cake under his nose, complete with a candle.
This year, I decided to up the ante just a wee bit and planned a surprise do for him. It was meant to be a Steve Jobs-themed party and I had requested my friends to come in black tops and geek glasses. But ah well, most of our friends did not come dressed up according to the theme, which was a real shame.
Anyway, I had everything done. Props, checked. Delicious cake from Mrs Ergul, checked. Food, catered, checked. Friends to meet at a certain time before food is delivered, checked.
Yay surprise gonna work!
Until it didn’t.
The food delivery guy showed up a good half hour ahead of schedule and camped outside my door. He rang me and I said I wouldn’t be able to let him in until 430pm and he said fine, he’ll wait. Husband went into the kitchen to get a drink, saw the delivery guy waiting outside and asked why there was someone there. I lied through my teeth and muttered something about it being the neighbour’s clearly, since I hadn’t catered anything.
Phew.
And then that annoying man went into the kitchen AGAIN and the delivery guy saw him. The delivery guy promptly WAVED AT MY HUSBAND and said, “HELLO, DELIVERY!”
My confused husband then opened the door and told the dude that he had the wrong house. The delivery guy insisted that he was at the right place and husband asked to see the receipt. Of course, my name was there and Mr Thick turned to shoot me a suspicious look.
Meanwhile, I was trying to dig a hole into the floor of our flat and crawl into it.
“Is this one of your surprises again?” he asked, trying hard to contain his amusement but failing.
“GO AWAY INTO THE ROOM AND DON’T COME OUT UNTIL I SAY SO,” I commanded. He walked off, with a grin on his face.
I duly gave the delivery guy a scolding (“There is a reason I specifically said 430, right?! I told you to wait, right?! You spoil my surprise for my husband lah!”) and hauled the food in.
Five minutes later, our friends arrived at our doorstep and shouted “SURPRISE!”
You know what, someone up there is clearly trying to tell me that I should steer clear of planning parties. All my parties, so far, have “failed” in one way or another. Next time, I’m just going to buy a cake and say, “NAH. Happy birthday.”
Dear Two,
And just like that, we are into the last stretch. In less than 12 weeks, we should finally lay eyes on each other for the first time. And I cannot wait.
Right now, I’m entering the phase where everything is starting to be quite uncomfortable. I’m lumbering around, I can’t take deep breaths, my stomach has been displaced and I can no longer tolerate heavy meals, walking can be painful sometimes etc.
But you know what? I’m the odd sort who really enjoys pregnancy, I do. I love the connection that I have with my unborn child – you – and the fact that this is something that can never be replicated. For these past 28 weeks, you have been a part of me and I am all that you know. And that’s an experience that I can never relive again. I want to make sure that every moment is lived positively and not wasted on whinging about how tough it is, especially since you are going to be my second and last baby. I only have 12 more weeks to go and already that fact is making me a little sad.
So I’m relishing in every ticklish wriggle, every cute little hiccup, every odd sensation. I laugh when I HAVE. TO. GO. PEE. NAO. because I know that you have somehow moved your little ass (or head, I wouldn’t know, really) on top of my bladder. I smile when it’s just you and me in the dark of the night or the cool of the morning. I feel your limbs poking out of me and I can’t help but poke back at you. I think about the moment when I will finally get to see you in real life, and whether it will be as surreal as it was when I met your brother for the first time. I love it when I read the “big brother” books to Aidan and he lifts my shirt up to “kiss baby”.
You are so loved, my littlest, so loved.
The other night, your papa and I were lying together on the bed. I was playing the Hypnobirthing affirmations and relaxation tracks out on the speakers and you were merrily bouncing away. I told your papa to put his hand on my tummy to feel your movements and you, my darling, obliged. (Your brother NEVER did, he would stop whenever he felt papa’s hand and then perform his tricks again once papa moved the hand away. He’s still as cheeky today.)
And so we laid there, his hand on my tummy, large and warm and secure and comforting. You delivered few wriggles and kicks, now and then. And we fell asleep like that, in a hypnotic haze of exhaustion and love.
12 more weeks. Stay inside me for as long as you can, my little one. And then you will be coming home with us.
Love you to the moon and back (yes, you too),
mama
Two years. Wow. Have they flown by so quickly?
I have been a mother for two years. And everyday has been a joy for me. Some days are longer than others and some nights more wakeful. But not a day goes by without me being thankful that I have the opportunity to be a mother to this little buddy of mine.
It’s a cliche uttered by all parents but man, can time slow down and let me enjoy being a mother to my baby (read: toddler) just a little more?
I love everything about this phase. He’s in a delightful age where he is trying to string complete sentences, enjoys cuddling up to me (“sit on mama lap!”, “mama carry!” etc), loves reading books, dances to music awkwardly but oh-so-passionately, finishes the sentences from his favourite books and laughs all the time. He kisses us readily, leans his head so lovingly on our shoulders and grins widely when I pick him up after work.
Sure, there are the usual tantrums. There are the odd outbursts which we cannot account for. But these incidents are generally the exception, not the norm.
Over the past weekend, we celebrated his birthday with our families. There is no fancy set up, no elaborate party, no artistically arranged cake/dessert table, no expensive goody bags, no professional photography. We kept it simple, deliberately: just food, the people who love him and us, and cakes. That’s what I remember of my childhood birthdays and that’s how I want him to remember his.
Call us crazy but Mr Thick and I also decided to make him a cake from scratch. Hah, us? He loves trains, so we thought we’d made a train cake. The internet made it look so easy! I baked the lemon pound cake and made the swiss buttercream frosting. I coloured the frosting and then turned everything over to the cake engineer. He sat at the dining table and painstakingly sliced, cut, drilled and frosted the cake.
The result? A really awful looking cake. REALLY. UGLY. Absolutely nothing like what we had intended. My girlfriend jokingly called it the “Pinterest fail”. But hey, we had fun doing it together and had a good laugh at what terrible bakers we make.
And then, MAGIC. Aidan laid his eyes on the cake and shouted out in glee, “Oh train!”
He couldn’t keep his eyes off of the cake, as ugly as it was, and dug at it with his spoon happily. And over the following days, he would open up the fridge and ask for “Thomas train cake”.
And this was how I knew that this is our family: the imperfect love that makes us us.
Happy birthday to my boo boo. Mama and Papa love you to the moon and back (multiply by infinite times).
Yannisms 