Today is the 26 of February, I have approximately 50 days to convince Meems that I’m allowed in her birth room. This is an on going battle that started when our friend, Kirstie, had enough people to fill a football team at her birth and Meems got spooked:
Meems: “When I go into labour, I’m going to quietly slip away. None of you b!tches will know. I’ll drive myself. F*ck you f*ckers.” (I believe I’m paraphrasing only slightly. These may, in fact, be her words verbatim.)
Me: “Are you kidding me?! Ihateyouyouretheworst!” *foot stomping fit* then, “You’re a liar….”
Me: “You won’t be able to slip me. When it’s close to time, I’m going to tie myself to your leg. Me+You=FOREVER!”
Meems: “Okay, Liss,” she said, of course, in her sarcastic, pandering way.
Me: “For realz. You won’t even know I’m there. I’m that sneaky.”
Me: “I’m like Voldemort in Professor Quirrell’s turban. You won’t know.”
I haven’t won yet, but I will. I’ve 50 days yet to work on her, and I can feel that I’m getting closer to success. On Sunday, I told her I’d be at her side during the birth, holding a leg and shouting up the chute, “Come to Cici!” and you know what? She only gave me a tiny bit of shade. Just the smallest amount of Side-eye. She wants me there. That’s what that means :)