When I turned ten, my mother told me she couldn’t poop for several days after giving birth to me.
On my eleventh birthday, she told me that I weighed in at nearly ten pounds, most of which was attributed to the size of my head.
When I turned twelve, she called me “her little intruder,” and told me I never would have made it into the world without an “episiotomy.” When I asked her what that was, she told me. In great detail.
Is it any wonder I send flowers?
Thanks Mom, for another trip around the sun.
(You too, Dad!)
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