To My Daughter

Dear Kezziah…

As I begin to write, it’s 8.29 on 21st March 2016. At this time, on this date, in 1999 I was in labour.

It had been a long, difficult, stressful event for both of us. By now we were both tired, and were about to enter three and a half hours of…well, Not-Fun. But at the end of it, at exactly midday on the fist day of spring, you were finally born.

You know the story of how I heard the bells of Chelmsford cathedral ringing as you were delivered, and how there were daffodils blooming. It felt like the whole world was as pleased and relieved your were here as I was.

The next few hours were a bit of a blur. Grandma and Grandad came to see us; Grandad held you and you were completely silent, just looking at him. Grandma brought sandwiches and drinks for Aunty Kristen and Daddy (who had both had a worse time of it than either of us, as there’s nothing worse than feeling powerless), and then they took Kris home for a proper sleep.

Later on Granny and Grandad came to see us and you were cuddled and cooed over some more.

Daddy finally got to go home and get some sleep…Although I’m not sure he should have been driving, he was that tired!

And then.

And then it was you and me. On our own.

I looked down at you: small, orange-red, wrinkled and grumpy, and then (this is the point where I’m meant to say I instantly fell in love with you, so sorry in advance) I panicked.

I had a baby.

A small, vulnerable, utterly helpless person who was completely dependent on me for pretty much everything.

In modern terms: O…M…G.

I don’t think I slept at all, that first night. I was waiting for you to die in your sleep without me noticing (I understand this is a fairly traditional first-night activity for new mums), and every time you so much as squeaked, I held you or fed you so you didn’t wake up the rest of the ward (all of whom were dealing with new squeaky people of their own and probably wouldn’t have noticed).

Every so often a midwife would come to prod one or the other of us, and they’d reassure me everything was fine, stop worrying dear, and they’d go away and I’d start worrying again.

You were 8lb 12oz when you were born, and although that’s a really good weight, you still seemed so small. So inexpressibly tiny. And I’d made you!

Maybe one day you’ll get to look down and see the tiny person you’ve made, and maybe you’ll understand. Maybe you won’t. But there really is no word or concept in English to properly convey the mix of love, happiness, terror, excitement, distress and hope I felt every time I looked at you.

We were home by midday the day after your birth (retrospectively a mistake on my part, and I’m sorry) and we discovered that (contrary to popular myth) parenting is not instinctual, mothers don’t just know what to do, and it is in fact the hardest job in the universe. But we learned together. Eventually! (I said that in a Manuel-from-Fawlty-Towers accent)

The seventeen years between that day and this one have been eventful, haven’t they? I don’t think either of us could have imagined or foreseen most of it on that first terrifying day…but we’ve faced all of it and we are doing well.

You’re blessed in your family. Yes, even your brothers! Don’t ever take them for granted. Be there for them, let us be there for you.

You have more potential than you know. There are no limits, and whatever you want to do, we will support you…Unless it’s becoming a serial killer 😛

I hope every day you know how loved and important you are.

I hope every day you realise how proud we all are of you.

I hope you know that we, that I, have always got your back.

I am so proud of you. Of the child you were, the woman you are becoming, and the amazing human being you are right now.

Thank you for being my daughter, Fluffy Duck Bum, Pickle, Baby Girl…my Kezziah.

Happy birthday, Baby. Have a wonderful one, and many, many more.

All my love,

Mummy xxx