This day, twelve years ago, I was exhausted, grouchy and felt like my nether regions had been shredded.

I had just spent eight long hours labouring to have a squalling infant claw her way to freedom from the warm cocoon of my uterus, and I was a tad pissed off all the child birthing classes I had attended neglected to mention how my va-jay-jay would feel after pushing out an eight pound, five ounce baby through a tiny hole.

Ten centimeters is not big enough to shove a bowling ball through, let alone a squirming infant with a head bigger than a cantaloupe.

No, those classes snookered me with the promise of unabounding love, wrinkle free babies and the sweet intoxicating smell of your newborn’s grace.

There was no mention of how when you finally pushed your sweet baby through your petunia you would look at said child and wonder who the hell she was because she looked nothing like what you imagined.

There was no mention of stitches and frozen maxi pads being shoved into your pants to cure the fire burning your cooter after hours of torture.

And there certainly was no mention of wondering if you were ever going to be able to poop again with out feeling sheer terror.

Oh, to be twenty again with a new born baby.

Fric was an unexpected child, the by-product of two young adults copulating every chance they could, their lust burning brighter than a comet soaring in the skies. Boo and I were young and in love and slaves to our rabid libidos.

We took precautions but never believed we would need to until one morning I woke up and thought “Oh Shit.” I didn’t say anything to Boo, but I went to the drug store down the block, picked up a pregnancy kit and locked myself into my tiny apartment bathroom, wondering how the hell to pee on a stick with out pissing all over my hand.

I didn’t need the test to tell me I was pregnant. I woke up that morning and I just knew. I needed the pregnancy test to tell me I was out of my ever loving mind, I was delusional, there was no way I could be pregnant. I was twenty. Far too young to be making babies.

Those sixty seconds while I waited for the chemical stick to give me peace of mind were some of the longest seconds of my life. When I saw the positive sign I tried to tell myself it was wrong, an impossibility, even as I made an emergency doctor appointment. Home pregnancy tests are always wrong, I told myself, as I spoke to the doctor’s receptionist.

Turns out those little home pregnancy tests are fairly accurate. Who knew? When the blood test results came back the next day and the nurse from the doctor’s office phoned to confirm the pregnancy and offer her congratulations, I stood there dumbfounded and amazed.

Holy shit. I was pregnant. I went out and bought a pack of smokes and tried to puff my way back to pre-pregnancy reality only to have to rush to the bathroom to toss my cookies. So began my descent into parenthood.

My pregnancy flew by, what with my constant puking, obsessive pizza eating, and my predilection for passing out in grocery stores.

Finally she was due to make her grand entrance. The day came and went and I was getting crankier with every hour. I was ready to reach in and pull her out by her ankles. She wasn’t even born yet and here she was already disobeying my wishes.

I waited and paced the days away and finally, after trying to climb a fence and landing on my ass, I went into labour. Nothing like falling five feet onto your butt to convince your overdue child to finally get the hell out of your womb. She must have thought she’d have a better chance at not being knocked about on the outside than on the inside.

Finally, after a hellish ride to the hospital where my husband ran over and sacrificed a porcupine to ensure I didn’t give birth to our child on some back country road, (a ride where I repeatedly threatened to rip off his testicles and shove them down his throat if he didn’t drive faster), I gave birth to our first child.

A girl. My Fric.

She was everything I didn’t imagine. Short, fat and round. She was perfect and I couldn’t believe she was mine.

Seriously. It was one thing to be pregnant, quite another to be someone’s mother. When the nurse wheeled her into my room, after being examined and bathed, I remember feeling overwhelmed and wondering what the hell to do with her.

I had read so many pregnancy books and was so focused on the pregnancy I never gave much thought to what I would do with an actual baby. It’s not like I could give her back. She started to cry and I immediately burst into tears, overwhelmed with uncertainty. There was no freaking way I could parent this child. This fat baby who looked nothing like the perfect little Gerber babies in magazines. My baby looked more like an angry Ukranian bubba. What the hell was I thinking?

I waddled over to her bassinet, tears steaming down my face as I watched her scrunch her face up and yell at the world and never felt more alone or panicked in my life.

Then I picked her up and shushed her. She immediately fell quiet. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. She knew me. She needed me. I was buoyed with courage and hope.

That lasted until she started to shred my boob with her angry beaver impression.

It was a rough start to motherhood. It was nothing at all like what I saw in movies and read in books. There were no rainbows and unicorns shooting out my arse. Just bloodied nipples and a badly bruised bottom.

Yet I wouldn’t change any of it. (Well, okay. I would totally change the battered boobs if I could.) Fric was my first ticket onto the train of parenthood and she was the reason I knew I wanted more children.

She is my firstborn, my daughter and my heart and soul.

And if I woke up this morning, freaking out a little that she’s now TWELVE, and feeling a bit out of my element with the preteen years staring me in the face, I just need to remember that moment when I picked up my fat little Ukranian bubba and held her close to my heart.

She wrapped her little fingers around my finger and my heart in that moment, giving me strength and courage with her unadulterated love.

It’s that same love which will carry me through her love of boy bands, blue eye shadow and bad attitudes. She may not have such little fingers any more, but they are still firmly holding my heart in her hands.

Happy Birthday Fric. Thanks for finally vacating my womb to fill my heart.

I love you.