I have waited for three years and eight months for this day to come. There have been nights where I was reduced to a quivering tearful wreck, nights where I didn’t think I would make it to morning, that sheer exhaustion would kill me first. Nights where I’ve sat upright for hours on end as your little newborn tummy digested your milk, knowing that if I dared to lay flat you would empty the contents of your stomach over the both of us.
Nights where you screamed and I couldn’t find a reason, couldn’t soothe you, could only comfort you through the mystery ailment. And nights where I sat vigil at your side, when your breathing ran ragged with the croup we soon learned to fear, unable to sleep, unable to switch off, just waiting for those moments when you would stir and call out “Mummy,” and I would be right there waiting to hold you and ease you back to sleep.