It started with a hot, hot morning. The sun beat down on my swollen belly.

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.)