Twelve years ago, my sister went into labour with my niece. It was Saturday night. I'd flown there Friday night, got in late, and then had to get up to go to the hospital with my sister since they were inducing the baby.
Suffice it to say I was tired, so naturally, I was not thrilled about rushing back to the hospital at 8 at night. I would have much rather gotten a good night sleep, but back to the hospital we went.
I wasn't opposed to my niece being a leap year baby, but she could have been a leap year baby if she'd been born at 12:30. The next ten hours were really just a plot to keep her least-favourite auntie from sleeping.
They were in the hospital for five days, and at one point my niece was mad. I don't know why - there's not too much to complain about when you get fed, bathed, and generally cared for without having to do so much as support your own head - but she was angry. The nurse looked at my sister and said "you're going to have fun with this one".
By the time I came back to Ottawa, she'd figured out that she could straighten her legs. Suddenly she was harder to hold.
The next time I was there was Christmas. Her crib was in my room. (Well, my bed was in her room.) One morning, I woke up to discover her crawling around in the bed beside me. She must have cried in the middle of the night, because I apparently got up and put her between me in bed between me and the wall without waking up.
It's hard to believe that she's almost as tall as me (she's not allowed to get any taller, for the record) and that she wears a bigger size of shoe than I do.
Happy birthday, monkey.
Love, your favourite auntie.
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