This is my girl. She’s my baby and she’s turning one. One whole year has passed since we bundled our precious little daughter up and brought her home. She was born in the middle of an earthquake storm. The fault lines that run through Wellington had been rubbing each other up the wrong way for weeks. Sometimes their tussles were violent enough to have us rushing under tables or looking for heavy structures to hide under. I must have looked quite the sight, hurriedly trying to wedge my heavily pregnant body under various structures in our house – the dining table, the kitchen bench.
While they were a nuisance, these earthquakes perfectly signified the crescendo of what had been an extremely stressful pregnancy. Although the wriggles and kicks of my unborn baby assured me of her vitality, I could never truly allow myself to believe that she would be born alive after the death of her big sister just one year earlier.
She was born alive though. This daughter of mine, she opened her eyes and she cried out. She was pink and she was perfect. The anxieties of the past 38 weeks were shed in an absolute instant. The indescribable bliss of holding my living, breathing daughter. This girl, was my girl.
That was one year ago.
Every day since, I have held her and luxuriated in the act of breathing her in. Her warmth and the way she curls into my body when we cuddle is a novelty that never tires. This girl who loves peekaboo and books; who says cuddle and cat; who laughs when her brother laughs. This girl is my girl.
Happy birthday precious.