Sabrina August 20, 1992

Both my kids like the story about the day they were born. Sabrina was our first and with that came all the books about birthing babies and raising them and what to expect and all the other nonsense we're sucked into believing as the gospel truth.

I didn't expect false labour, 5 million times, nor did I expect an eventual forcep delivery, where she rightfully is known within our immediate family as the ugliest kid ever born. Her face was bruised and marked up as blood and womb guts spurt out hitting the ceiling. Hubby felt obligated to watch, because of the books, apparently gagging at each stroke of the butcher's knife as he slit my vagina up into a smile, like the Black Dahlia's.

Out she came, an ice cream scoop, as I held her close to my chest, all covered in syrup, the cardboard bowl positioned under my chin as I ready myself to puke an over indulgence of sugar. Instead, I fainted due to blood loss, as bells and whistles rushed hubby out of the room, only after briefly grasping her little hand that had squeezed back, hello daddy.

There really wasn't a hello mommy. I think a hello Auntie Corinne came first, then how y'a doin' gramma and grampa and cousins and who in the hell ruined my first photo shoot!

It's like I just woke up from coma and already she's 16 frickin' years old. It was just yesterday.