This time in 2016 I was a fat waddling mess. You, my son, were two weeks late and I had had enough.
I went into hospital to be induced only to find you were in distress and hours later you were born into the world, dragged through the sunroof to the voice of Freddie Mercury and the sound of Queen. He gave you your middle name. It seemed apt.
You had the cord wrapped around your neck.
You weren’t breathing and you were resuscitated and whisked away to SCBU while I was being stitched back together. There was talk of brain damage and moving you to a specialist hospital. I begged to see you and was wheeled down in my hospital bed. Then I saw you for the first time. You lay in the incubator, covered in wires, helpless. Our children like to make dramatic entrances your big brother had a similar birth
I was taken back to a room.
Daddy and I spoke at length about you. Scared for your future. Worried about the extent of the damage. The unknown. How would your big brother cope? But we agreed we would fare with whatever the future held.
In the morning I insisted on having the catheter removed. I got out of bed and used the loo and I walked to SCBU. I got told off by the nurses.
You had had a fit in the night
but the consultant explained that was expected. I expressed milk for you. Tiny tiny amounts. The days passed and you grew strong. Eventually I was able to feed you myself, making the journey from the post natal ward to SCBU every few hours to feed my baby son. Shuffling along the silent corridors in my slippers. Buzzing to be let in to see my beautiful boy. Waiting for the nurses to unlock the doors to the ward. I can still smell the soap I used to wash my hands.
Then I was able to have you in my room. The doctor that delivered you came to see us and couldn’t believe how well you were doing. He said you looked like “a different baby” and had feared the worst.
Well my darling son, you proved them wrong.
You’re a demanding, sleep depriving son of a gun. You can stand. Crawl. Laugh. You can hold your cup to drink. You do a good line in “Da da da” and “Mum mum mum”. You love your big brother, I think he may be your hero. He makes you laugh every day.
Fast forward another year,
you will be two soon. Now you are walking, it took you a while bUT once you were up you were well and truly up. In fact you are on the chairs, table you name it you climb it. You are partial to a bickit and miwk (as am I to be honest), and love animals. Boy! Do you love animals, your favourite is hippo but cat -meow, dog – woof, cow – moo the list goes on, you love them all.
You can talk,
“No!” or the above animal names and sounds. You get excited when Daddy comes home from work or if you see granny at the window and you are just about settling to sleep by yourself at night time – thank eff for that!
Your big brother is still your hero.
You think he’s hilarious, as does everyone else. You giggle together and cuddle each other. You give the best cuddles – on your own terms. You are a stubborn, cheeky, beautiful little boy and the best “surprise” I could have asked for at a time when I thought I would never have another child.
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