Is she ok?
They were the first words I spoke after becoming a mummy, literally seconds after becoming a mummy in fact as I felt the wet warmth of a baby on the back of my calves (I gave birth in a funny position alright?!).
No one said anything.
I bowed my heavy head down and rested my forehead on my forearm. Exhausted, nervous. Waiting.
Relief flooded me and I wanted to turn around and I wanted to see her and hold her and touch her but I couldn’t move without help and then suddenly there she was.
But I had checked out already.
I try to remember. I really try. I remember the presents and the special birthday outfit and that walking was new and unsteady and words weren’t there yet.
I remember the cake and the weather and writing in the card.
I remember being just exhausted. Empty, sad. I remember watching from across the room, too scared to get close.
I have this kid and she is amazing. She’s bright and funny and cheeky and she’s mine.
I tell her that I love her everyday and the best feeling in the world is her warm weight leaning into my body, her breath on my neck and her fist grasping my top or my hair.
She’s loopy and we play and sing and chat and she gets me and I get her and I hope that really, all of that stuff that happened before, it’s the past. It’s over and gone and now we’re here, exactly two years since that first cry and first cuddle and she’s sitting on my knee and looking up as I look down and that is the moment that is real and that matters.
It’s not all gone, I’m still recovering and I’m very conscious of that. But I can’t change what was and in wanting to do so I risk missing the moments that happen every single day. And there’s no way I’m doing that.