Keira, your father took this shot the night before you were born. That is a size ‘S’ Banana Republic t-shirt and pants. I am sticking my stomach out a little. You fitted so neatly, so perfectly inside, that many people didn’t even know I was pregnant until I mentioned the fact. Shortly after this snap was taken the obstetrician came and did certain things I won’t discuss right now to get you to come out – but it didn’t hurt. No, he saved that experience for your brother.
This was taken on your very first night here on our planet. Looking down Gisborne Street, all the way into the city, I remember sitting on a chair (or ‘posed uncomfortably’ is a better phrase. Stitches. Yeoch) by the window with the lights off as you see here and my head turned from one beautiful sight to another: you. the view. you. the view. I was on a high. I don’t think I slept properly for days. I hopped behind the midwife as she showed me how to bathe you, wanting to push her out of the way so I could have a turn. And your father? Besotted. He still brags that HE got to change the meconium poo nappy and not me. And trust me, he’s not bragged about anything nappy related since.
Also in that photo you can see a glass ceiling looking down over the floor below; that view was of the room where you were invited to take your visitors if you wanted a change of scenery or get noisy siblings out of the ward. I never went down there; I can’t tell you if the vending machine worked or what channel the television was on. I was happy to stay in my room, never more than a few steps away from your bassinet.
I remained this buzzed, happy, for months. The lows came, for adrenaline can only be sustained for so long and new parenthood can be a frightening place, but they don’t matter. Not today. Today you need to know that I love you.
At three weeks old.
At three months old.
At ten months.
At four years.
At four and a half.
And forever.
