I'm sorry I wasn't the first to hold you: a section of a letter to my baby girl

My dearest baby Amelie,
Thank you. You made me something I honestly never thought I'd become. A mother. Already in the few weeks we've known each other you've taught me more than I ever thought possible. You need me. From your day one to my forever, I'll be there to wipe your tears, ease your fears and make your life the best it can be. I'll teach you, but never lecture you; I'll guide you but never push you; I'll work harder than you'll ever know to make sure your world is the most beautiful place to be. And when it isn't, I'll be right there to help you figure out all the trials and tribulations that life may throw at us.

First I must apologise. I'm sorry that I didn't hold you the second you came into the world. I was scared. I'd convinced myself that something would go wrong, as it had so many times before, and just wanted to hear you cry, and to know that you were ok. I couldn't get this far, only to watch you give up on life in my arms, after 9 months in my belly. 9 long months, of which I had spent every waking second with you at the forefront of all I do. I just needed to hear the doctor say you're ok. So I declined when they offered to put you on my chest straight away. Because you hadn't made a peep. I needed to hear you're ok. You were taken to the other side of the room for the doctor to do his checks, but still you made no sound. The doctors seemed in no rush and your Daddy was right next to you the whole time. It felt like all time had stopped and for those thirty seconds, I was frozen. I can't even remember what the surgeons were doing, I had received several injections without even realising until the nurse told me. Then I heard you cry. It was like someone had hit a resume button and the background noise returned. You were ok. And the paediatrician said so. And when I finally held you, I felt the most amazing connection I had ever felt. You became my best friend in that split second.

Your little life is hardly a few weeks old; we've started calling them months now, but I'm already full of fear, worry and guilt over how I've taken to the new job you've blessed me with.

I fear for your safety constantly. I worry that I'm not doing it all as well as I could. I feel guilty if you cry, that I haven't got there quick enough.

Being your mum is the scariest and hardest, but no doubt the best feeling in the world. You will never understand how and why I love you so, but let me offer you a piece of the very start of our journey, my true, miracle baby.

You were our 8th try - and by this time I'd come close to giving up hope. I'd given up on the excitement of a new baby, so for that I'm sorry. I wasn't excited when I discovered your existence, nor did I have much emotion when we first saw you on the screen with a beating heart. The truth is, I was petrified. Something felt different this time - I was convinced it was that I had become totally numb to losing babies and had no emotion left to give. Even though we were offered a chance to see you again, much sooner than we otherwise would have (just two weeks later) I felt next to nothing but an all-consuming fear. A time in the past, we had seen a heartbeat and then were told it had stopped, so I was certain you would have given up by the time the next scan came around too. You hadn't. There on the screen, through blurry eyes, I saw the little flicker of your super strong heart and I felt so connected. From that moment on I began to believe, but still remained sceptical until the gender scan at 20 weeks. When we found out you were a little girl, it became more real. I was beyond excited and by this point absolutely full of happiness, excitement you name it. But I could not let go of fear. I carry this fear of losing you to this day and face a constant daily battle where I reassure myself that actually everything will be just fine. It just has to be.

Every food consumed, activity undertaken had you at the forefront. I consumed an unbelievable amount of protein to ensure I had enough for 'growth and repair' to two bodies. I kept up with carbohydrates so as to ensure I had enough energy - and cakes! I'd happily demolish an entire cheesecake - with the exception of a tiny slice for your dad and felt no shame! Then showers - never too hot as I had read somewhere that it decreases oxygen intake by 50%! No exercise that involved more than walking, PLENTY of rest - I slept any second I had including in between teaching lessons sometimes in my car! It was crazy - almost like an illness mirroring OCD. Only I was actually fighting an 'illness' my body was incapable of carrying a baby up until this point and I had made it my task to fight that. And it did mess with my mind. I know it now as well as I knew it then - so luckily I wasn't actually crazy because I was super aware that over the top was not cutting it. My behaviour was more like a regimented out of this galaxy compared to 'over the top'.

So when I had come to the end of this 9 month battle, there you were held out in front of me - a tiny parcel of perfection, I just needed to know you were ok. I couldn't face holding you, feeling your warmth only to have it ripped away from me. In my mind, until the doctor gave you the all clear, you could've given up just like the other seven babies had, leaving me with no explanation and an unbearable amount of pain. Sure enough, you and I both got the the all clear and when I finally held your tiny little body close to mine, I felt complete. I breathed in your smell which was new but weirdly familiar, kissed your head and just held you, in total shock but wrapped in happiness. A lot of things have not gone my way in life, but for once, I had won. And my beautiful prize was this deep and unconditional ever-ripening love. I really do love you more each day and find a different reason to love you with each one.

We took you home. And began our very own little happily ever after.