Two years ago this morning, nothing felt like it was going fast.

For a week, I’d been struggling through discomfort and end-of-pregnancy misery. I was hormonal. I was tired. I was having off-and-on contractions (which had also happened with S, who’d arrived a month ahead of his due date).

In fact, two years ago this morning, I was lying in my bed after arriving home from the IWK at about 5am. I’d been given morphine and an anti-emetic and sent home to try to rest until I saw my doctor a couple of hours later. I was 1.5cm dilated and I was ready to not be pregnant anymore.

My afternoon appointment with my delivering doctor was the final straw to kicking my labour into full gear. We left the appointment and got sausages and French fries, which I couldn’t eat by the time we’d made them an hour later. I laid in the bathtub for 2 hours, then called it: we were going to have to go to the hospital…

… but not before my oldest came home from his first round of hockey tryouts. So I paced and I braced myself against the waves of contractions until we finally got in the car at 9:30pm. I’ll never forget the realization that the bridge was closed, or the panic I felt when I realized I wasn’t sure we could make it.

Elliot Mac was born about 40 minutes after we arrived at the hospital. We didn’t even unload the bags from the car. I was 10cm dilated when I walked myself into the hospital and all the way to Labour + Delivery.

E is, and has been since that very first night, a spark of joy.

As he rockets into toddlerhood (and I do mean rockets – this kid has one speed), I’m constantly amazed by his energy and resilience. He’s as rough and tumble as they come and it just so happens, he also gives the biggest and sweetest hugs.

I’m sure most parents find themselves struck by how different their children can be. This is certainly the case for me – especially when I look at E and wonder if we accidentally shrunk F in the dryer somehow.

Watching E’s personality develop has been as exciting as it is exhausting.

He’s a goose, and like those at the pond near our house, he’s got a temper. He mastered the art of irritating S, and does so with the type of gusto you can’t help but appreciate (even if it always ends in someone screaming and crying). He’s the epitome of the baby brother: wild, cuddly, and full of mischief he almost always manages to get away with.

Despite being a near carbon-copy of his big brother F, he’s entirely his own being — but there’s no one he loves more than his giant twin. Watching the three boys play street hockey together melts my heart every time.

As E rockets into his “twos”, I have a sneaking suspicion we’re in for the terror version and not the tranquil. But, honestly, I wouldn’t change it.

Happy birthday, my sweet wild child. My last baby isn’t a baby anymore.