The 12th June was never a day I expected to be special. I’ve experienced the 12th June 26 times in my life. And only for the last three years has it become a day that rivals Christmas.
My sweet, gorgeous little boy was born at 12:22pm, after 13 days of being overdue, but a short and sweet labour.
I couldn’t control the tears that came when I first held you. I lost control. My hands shook as I tried to stroke your pink skin – so new and so unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
I loved sharing you with the world, but I’ll always remember the night of your birthday, when everyone else had gone and it was just me and you.
I remember taking all of my painkillers, getting out of my hospital bed to shower, drinking plenty of water and trying really hard to be a healthy and fit mother for you.
You slept, but I couldn’t. I kept marvelling at you. I’d waited almost ten months to see that face and all of a sudden I was intoxicated and I couldn’t get enough.
You aren’t that newborn in that tiny plastic cot anymore.
You’re a little boy who can walk and talk and one day I know you’ll walk and talk yourself out of my front door, returning only to visit and tell your old mum about work and maybe a girl that you’ve met. Or maybe the football – if you and Mark can teach me enough about it in the meantime.
I carried you upstairs tonight and I remember the countless nights I have put you to bed. Soothed you to sleep. Rocked you. Sang to you.
And as you ran around your room I just sat and watched you and chatted to you and savoured your last night of being a one year-old. I knew that you wouldn’t wake up a different child (although that’s debatable if the terrible twos are to be believed) but still I wanted to sit and soak up the moment.
And then it occurred to me that I didn’t want to forget the moment.
This is your last night of one. And a message from your mum to you.
Happy birthday. You wonderful little boy. The best surprise I ever had.