There are some memories that stay so vibrant in your mind that you can almost relive them when you close your eyes.

That is how the day you arrived is for me.

I’d been having miserable sleeps for over a week, with Braxton Hicks contractions and discomfort keeping me up. Just ten days prior, the day before F’s birthday, we’d gone to the hospital overnight. It was a false alarm but marked the beginning of the end of my pregnancy.

The day before, I went to my regularly scheduled Saturday workout – a HIIT class filled with weights and movements like jump squats and burpees. I pushed my way to the finisher – which was, at it happens, jump squats and burpees – and then I walked home. Each step felt harder. Heavier. Uncomfortable. I sat in a hair stylist’s chair that afternoon for hours, getting more and more uncomfortable as the day went on.

Before bed that night, Dada and I laid on our couch and watched a horror movie you’ll one day think is ridiculous – called Scream.

Through the night, I woke up with agonizing pain. I decided I’d do what I always did on those nights – I scooted down to the basement with my MacBook in hand. I ran a bath, propped my computer up, and turned on a movie. I refilled the tub as the water cooled and, having laid there for more than an hour, I decided I’d dry off and do some writing.

In the living room, I flicked on the fireplace and one lamp. I set the TV to a Spotify playlist called Acoustic Chill and listened to the soft music. It was moody and cozy. I wrote an article for a client while I breathed my way through pains. Then another. And, halfway through the third – at almost 6:30 am – I made my way to the kitchen to make a coffee. I’d been up for about three hours, pains steadily coming every 7-8 minutes.

Coffee made and in-hand, I made my way back to the couch to finish my third article. As I began to sit down, my water broke.

OH MY GOD.

Drenched, I stood there staring at the wet couch and rug. I drank my coffee while I gathered a towel. And then, when I felt another gush, I made my way upstairs to wake your Dada. And then another gush.

We talked about what we needed to do. I tried to keep the floor dry while I got dressed. We woke F and filled him in, then called both of our parents. We were a month early. You were a month early.

While we waited for Nana and Pépère to arrive, I dug out the only thing we had in the house to eat: two Eggo waffles. It was grocery day, and I wouldn’t be getting to the store. We drove through a drive-thru because I insisted Dada eat something. The now-infamous Drive-Thru trip remains a focal point of the day (and a running joke among our friends) because it turns out, Pépère was right behind us!

During the hours in the hospital, we confirmed that it HAD been my water that broke in the triage unit before moving to the delivery room later that morning. I worked for several hours between contractions and insisted on eating before receiving Pitocin to speed things along.

An OB was called in just in case due to my connective tissue disorder, and within only a few minutes of active labour, you were in my arms. My teeny, tiny baby. Just like that: You were here.

And now, you are four.

In the four short years since then, you’ve done so much.

You became a big brother and a friend to so many people.

You’ve been my sidekick at many a hockey game and work-related video call.

We’ve driven thousands of kilometres and flown just enough times to know I’m not really in a hurry to put you on a plane again soon.

You’ve driven me batty. You’ve melted my heart a million times over.

You give the best snuggles. You have the best giggle. You are silly and gregarious and clever.

And now, you are four.

You’re learning how to skate and you strive to be brave and join your swimming lessons.

You can do hard things.

You help your baby brother and encourage him to do hard things, too.

You love to play, to dance, to sing.

You have the wildest of imaginations.

You tell me you’re a big boy now, a “kid”. But you’ll always be my baby… even now, when you are four.

Happy birthday, Sebastian Innis. You are so loved.