The tears flowed freely when I heard my mum’s voice on the end of the phone.

“Nothing’s happening,” I sniffed. “I thought it was all kicking off yesterday, but everything’s stopped. I don’t feel like it’s safe in there anymore!”

I heaved my whale-like body into the passenger seat of a hot car and patiently allowed myself to be driven around the countryside by the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine, in the vague hope that the movement of the car might encourage this baby to make an appearance.

At eleven days past my due date, this was one stubborn child. Even the speed bumps at our local supermarket couldn’t get things started.

Returning home, laden with goodies for a barbecue (my husband knows the route to my heart), I was greeted with a surprise visit from my sister and mother. They bathed my newly fat feet in cold water and massaged my sore back.

And then it started.

That was two years ago today. The next morning I greeted my stubborn, beautiful little baby into the world.

She’ll be told this story tomorrow. And every other birthday I share with her.

(For the record, she’s still stubborn. And still beautiful.)

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Meet my sister, circa 1992.

There are nearly four years between my sister and I. So I was firmly used to being Number One Diva in the house by the time she arrived. To soften the blow, I was given a pair of roller skates and a pair of tap shoes the day my sister was born. Apparently she was a wonder child, who miraculously exited the womb to pop to the shops and find presents worthy of buttering up an older sister. Of course I was won over the instant I saw her – those were some very special tap shoes.

My sister (her name’s Lizzy, by the way) spent her formative years being carried around by yours truly. She was far more interesting than any dolls I owned. She was also a very willing audience member in The Molly Show; she was happy to sit and watch while I performed my latest choreographed piece to Kylie Minogue or Bonnie Tyler. I mean, she was only five months old and hadn’t learned to crawl yet.

As Lizzy grew, so did her personality. She was mischievous and annoying. But she was also very keen to please. I still feel guilty for the times I used to make her come to the park with me on holiday, only to ditch her when new, “cooler” friends came along. I was a pretty mean older sister.

But while she was my nemesis, Lizzy was also my best friend. When she was eight, a friend of the family told her off during a trip to France. I huffed off to her room with her, indignant that someone had the audacity to speak that way to my little sister – only I was allowed to do that.

As teenagers, we fought and made up and fought again. And borrowed clothes. And went on holidays together. And fought. And made up again.

Then, when I was pregnant last year, a twist of fate meant Lizzy was there when I went into labour. It wasn’t planned that way, but she ended up coming to the hospital and rubbing my back along with the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. She was the third person to see and hold Frog. That meant a lot.

Over the past year, she has been to visit every month or so, despite completing her first year as a doctor and working incredibly long (and stressful) hours. She’s bought presents and cooked meals and listened to my minor moans. She’s also told me to shut up and snapped at me in the way only sisters can.

Today has been another one of those days. As the NLM is away up north on his stag do, I’ve come down to the South Coast to visit Lizzy. Frog, Lizzy and I have spent the day paddling in the sea, eating lunch in a restaurant on the beach and browsing in shops.

The tables have now turned and my little sister is the fashionista in the family. So I will leave laden with cast-off lovely clothes (doctors get paid more than journalists, you know), safe in the knowledge that years of lending are finally being re-paid. My belly will be full with takeaway food and wine and my arms will be light from a day where someone else has held the baby.

So, to my ten year old self I say, “You are lucky you have a sister. It might not feel like it now, while she steals your Take That tape and draws in your diary, but one day you’ll appreciate her. One day she’ll buy you food and wine.”

And to a four year old Lizzy – “Don’t ever let Dad cut your fringe. It’ll look rubbish.”

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You are tiny, little Frog. Purple, you don’t even look human really. Your little feet are all crooked from where they’ve been scrunched up inside me  so long. Your little hands make angry fists.

The midwife asks if you are a girl or a boy. I say “A girl, I think”. And then burst into tears. I didn’t realise how much I’d secretly wanted a girl until I saw you.

That was how we met, you purple and me crying, this day 12 months ago.

It’s been a funny old year. I’ve had the best and worst moments of my life. Motherhood has raised me up, brought me down, chewed me to pieces and spat me out. But it spat me out whole.

I am me now, I just didn’t realise you were missing before.

Love is waking at 3am to a bed covered in poo and not (really) minding it. Love is smelling your hair. Love is seeing you clap when I walk into a room.

Happy Birthday Frog.

Love is you.

Brand new Frog

Sleepy Frog

Elvis Frog

Sightseeing Frog

Holiday Frog

Swimming Frog

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Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be one of those posts where I regale you with the gory details of Frog’s birth. I’m saving that for another day. No, what I really wanted to do was offer a word of advice to expectant fathers out there – or any other prospective birth partners.

You see, the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine shot into fatherhood with a bit of a bang – an “explosion” if you will.

Let me explain. It was 8 o’clock at night and my contractions were coming regularly, one on top of the other. This baby was coming and I needed a hospital. So, like the dutiful birth partner and expectant father that he was, the NLM merrily handled me into his unsuitable non-family car and set off for the Maternity Ward. There was lots of heavy breathing from my end and a bit of nervous laughter from his.

We arrived at the hospital and I trundled up the stairs (that’s a lie actually - I used the lift) to the Delivery Suite. The woman did her business “down there” and pronounced that it was still early days and this baby was not going to make an appearance any time soon. Great.

So off we were packed, back home, to get on with the business of dilating to the “correct” width for my pain to be taken seriously. And it was on this journey that the NLM made the error that has haunted him for the past year of his life. I’m never going to let him forget it. Ever.

I was in pain, you see. And I wasn’t particularly happy about being sent back home and told I wasn’t “really in labour” (it bloody well felt like it – if this wasn’t “it” how much would the real thing hurt?). I was tetchy and nervous and far from in the relaxed zen-like zone I had envisioned when drawing up my “birth plan”.

I felt hot and claustrophobic in this ridiculous sporty car that was too low to the ground, highlighting every bump in the road and intensifying the pain of each contraction. I couldn’t breathe properly. I couldn’t focus on the pain.

And then the NLM farted.

It wasn’t just a little trump either. It was a fully fledged blow-off the likes of which a P&O ferry would be proud of. And it smelt like rotten eggs and mouldy sausage. As a new wave of pain washed over me I had no choice but to take a deep inhalation of the putrid air around me. I couldn’t even speak to demand the window be opened.

And, rather than apologise and beg my forgiveness or make some feeble excuse for the wind that was causing me to retch through each contraction, the NLM made this statement:

“That’s your Gas and Air.”

Now, call me ungrateful, but I wasn’t really in the mood to appreciate his offer of natural pain relief. So, when the torrent of pain died away I was left with a burning rage. And it’s at this point that I would like to apologise to the people in the car next to ours at the traffic lights.

I’m sorry for the scene you witnessed which probably left you traumatised for life. I’m sorry for the screaming banshee who suddenly stuck her head out of the window next to yours, heaving in between the bluest language imaginable. You didn’t need to see (or hear) that.

But this is what happens when you mess with a woman on the edge.

So, to all you expectant fathers, do NOT let rip while your labouring woman is in the car with you. And if you really, really can’t hold it in – open the window. If you ignore these two pieces of advice don’t – whatever you do – attempt to disguise your mistake as a deliberate method of natural pain relief.

It’s not funny. And it’s not clever. You have been warned.

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I spent hours walking up and down the stairs, hoovering and then bouncing up and down on a birthing ball. Hours. I was pretty fed up with being pregnant.

As Frog’s first birthday hurtles ever nearer, I’m constantly reminded of what I was doing this time last year. The blanket I knitted, the walks with my lovely neighbour and her toddler, the bouncing on that bloody birthing ball, the obsession with internet forums on labour and birth.

I’m also reminded of the people who helped stop me lose my big fat pregnant head during the last few days.

So I thought I’d write about them:

Dad. You rang me every morning to see how I was. You didn’t discuss babies or labour or anything mildly related to my huge belly. Instead, you chattered away about the mundane; what you were cooking for supper that night, the latest crossword clue to stump you in The Guardian. Those phone calls helped distract me at a time when I desperately needed distracting. So thank you.

Mum. You were there at the end of the phone when I rang with my first proper pre-birth wobble. The words “your body can stretch in the most amazing way” helped calm me down. You turned up as a surprise that afternoon, with delicious food for a barbecue. I went into labour that night and you rubbed my back. Thank you Mum.

Diz: Aunty Diz, you were there too. You had just finished the most stressful period of your life by completing your final medical exams. Your grinning face and sisterly banter helped me forget the fact I was too huge to fit behind the dining table. You brought your foot spa to soak my swollen feet. You rubbed my back. You were there at the hospital and laughed at me as I mumbled rubbish, high on gas and air.

And then you came back to stay a week later, with cake and casserole. You held my baby when I needed a bath, or sleep. You cooked more food. You put the washing on. You were the best aunty a Frog could have. So thank you.

The special ones

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As Frog hurtles closer and closer to her first birthday, I can’t stop looking back. I can so clearly see what I was doing this time last year. I was huge, swollen, fed up.

And then she was born and that was it. Life had begun.

The weekend after Frog made an appearance, her Northern grandparents came to visit. It was a special weekend, as my mum, dad and sister all joined in too. We had a barbecue and I stuffed my face, making the most of the “extra calories” I needed for breastfeeding.

Frog was dressed up in an array of outfits bought by Granny from the North (having had three boys herself she just can’t resist the chance to buy anything small and frilly) and was cuddled constantly.

But aside from the cuddles and the clothes and the constant cooing, it was a momentous day for Frog; it was the first time she ever laid eyes on a proper moustache.

I think you’ll agree Grandad from the North has a tache not to be sniffed at:

The best tache in town

This is my entry to this week’s Gallery. To view the others, head over to Sticky Fingers.

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And in yet another act of unspeakable generosity, I’ll give a little recap as to what Introducing actually is. This is for anyone who’s new here, or who just hasn’t been paying attention.

Every Tuesday I send out an elephant-style trumpet for new friends. This is your chance to email me and introduce yourself. Then on Thursday, I pick three new friends (for this, read “blogs”) to bring to the rest of the blogosphere. The rules are simple but strict. All you have to do is email me with a link to your blog, but the limit is three a week. Anymore than that and I fear my brain will explode.

If you missed the sterling job Frau Fancy did holding the fort while I was away, catch up here and here. She brought us some brilliant new blogs and proved she’s as capable of work as the rest of us non-fancy lot.

So, this week the choices are mine. Oh, the power…

Circus Queen

For a funny, honest and thought-provoking read about pregnancy, this is the woman to visit. Circus Queen is on the eve of giving birth to her first child and writes so engagingly about her journey through pregnancy, I am as excited about the birth of her baby as I am any “real life” friends I know! What’s more, she lives in Bristol, which is where I’m from, earning her a big Introducing bonus point.

Her Melness Speaks Out

OK, so my daughter’s only ten months old. But I’m a regular visitor to this blog to see what lovely situations lie in wait for me when she becomes a teenager. Her Melness calls the subject of her blog The Gibberish Generation and writes about teenagers, parenting, relationships, the menopause…all sorts really. She has a raft of tips and anecdotes for living with teens, such as some must-read and very funny insights into how to tell if your child is lying. I’m personally storing all this as ammo to use once I make it through the baby years.

Not Missing Out

This is the go-to blog for anyone who needs to follow a lactose or gluten free diet. With recipes like Easter Bunny biscuits and Nachos, I defy anyone to leave this space without feeling slightly peckish.

That’s your lot for this week. Don’t forget to come back on Tuesday to answer my call for next week’s Introducing stars.

The post Introducing: The home edition appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

No, scrap that – it’s a HUGE day. Because today sees the launch of Maternity Matters, the brainchild of Susanne at Ghostwriter Mummy and Jayne at Mum’s the Word.

I won’t go into too much detail, as I know you’re probably heading over there to take a look right now.

As part of the launch, I’m linking up to the Maternity Matters Meme over at The Life and Times of a Domestic Anarchist, to promote this great new site. We’re asked to link up a post we’ve already written about being a parent.

I’ve chosen my Rod Off post. Which one will you choose?

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I’m a little stunned. And rather smug.

I’ve been wandering around the house all evening demanding everyone ask for my autograph. But seeing as I only live with one man and one baby, I haven’t signed as many as I’d have liked.

The reason for my decision to thrust pieces of paper at my family and start wearing sunglasses indoors? I’ve won an award.

The lovely Deb at Making Life More Beautiful has awarded me with the Kreativ Blogger award.

I’d love to bang on and on with a lengthy acceptance speech. But alas, this award comes with rules.

These are:

1)      Link 10 blogs 2) Tell these bloggers about the award 3) Write 10 facts about yourself.

So here goes…

1)      I like Take That and LOVE Gary Barlow.

So much so, that when I saw them live in 2009 I burst into tears when they appeared on stage. Much to the amusement of my sister and the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. What can I say? It was an emotional time for me.

2)      I’m scared of, and a little obsessed with sharks.

My favourite documentaries are ones about sharks. But I’ve never been able to watch Jaws all the way through. Far too scary. I have, however, dived with sharks. But they were only wimpy little ones in Thailand. Not the real deal like this fella…

3)      The midwife who delivered Frog was called April.

I know this because the only thing I can really remember about the whole horrendous experience was moaning “I love April, good old April, she’s the best”…

4)      I once found myself naked in front of five firemen.

In my bedroom. But not in a kinky way. I’m saving the rest for another blog post. Suffice to say if you think the lolling breast episode was embarrassing, this beats it hands down.

5)      When I was around seven, I went through a superstitious faze.

This involved having to do a very odd little thing before either walking through a door or walking down the road. I puffed out my cheeks, held my nose and twirled on the spot. No idea why. I just did. It was my thing.

6)      I have hairy toes.

But you know this already.

7)      I rather like Poirot.

And Midsummer Murders. And any murder mystery type thing really. It may not be the coolest but I can’t help it.

8)      I went to two universities.

Ooh, get me with my varied education. Alas, I don’t have a PHD. I have a degree in English Literature and a Postgraduate Diploma in Broadcast Journalism (for which I received a distinction. Not so thick now eh?).

9)      I once read the news in my bra outside a shopping centre.

Photographic evidence that I’m not actually lying:

10)  I love prawns.

Add an avocado and I’m yours. I can’t help it, I like 70s food. Yum.

It’s now my turn to share the award (feel free to roll out a red carpet and demand wine be brought to you on a silver platter)….

Kate Takes 5

The Crazy Kitchen

Dummy Mummy

Northern Mummy with Southern Children

Manana Mama

Mummy from the Heart

Waterbirth Please

Ghostwriter Mummy

Circus Queen

Nimble Fingers Steady Eyebrows

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