24 MAY 2017
“Dear Boot,
Terrible name for a baby, I know. It’s a private joke. I won’t go into any more
detail in this public forum. (Is there any child in the world that wants to hear
their conception story?) It’s apt too, given your prowess as a kicker, which
lately you wait until I’m watching telly to show off.Apparently, babies move
more when their mothers are relaxing. Either that, or the latest season of
Homelandisn’t doing it for you at all. It’s been nearly seven months now,
and I feel like I’ve been pregnant for ever. I forget what it is like to wear jeans,
or eat camembert or bend down. There’s a ‘new normal’ of floaty dresses,
and decaf and wicked heartburn. And you, of course. The new normal of
never being alone.
We went for a walk last Sunday morning, just you and me. You woke me
around 6am – that right boot again – and I thought I’d go and sit in a café like
the baby books tell you to (‘while you still can!’). The streets were clean and
empty, and I thought about all the times I’d walked the same walk, younger,
unattached, alone. Everything is going to change when you get here.
Sometimes I feel completely ready for you, and sometimes I am frightened
by what’s ahead. I haven’t spent a lot of time around babies; I know we’ll be
making it up as we go along. I hope our best will be good enough for you.
When I think about it though, I know that everything will be okay. You
couldn’t be luckier, having the dad that you do. He is the kindest, nicest
man in all the world (he will be furious with me for writing that publicly).
No one will love you better, or more. Already you are loved, of course. It’s
overwhelming, the joy that’s come with the news that you are en route.
Grandparents, aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles and hordes
of cousins, from Cork City to the Wairarapa, they’re all celebrating you
already. Not to mention all your honorary aunties, spoiling you early
with bassinets and pyjamas and booties.
That is what I wish for you. That all our love will provide you with
sustenance and backbone as you make your way in life. I want all the other
things for you too, all the usual things parents want for their children; that
you will be kind, and honest and content. Contentment is important, and
underrated in this world of strivers. Philip Larkin knew that, when he wrote
a poem wishing that his best friend’s baby girl would grow up to be dull.
Sounds awful, but listen to his definition of dullness: ‘A skilled / Vigilant,
flexible, / Unemphasised, enthralled / Catching of happiness.’ [FromBorn
Yesterday.] I can’t think of a better wish for you than to be skilled at
catchinghappiness. And if you can cook like your Dad does, then when
you go flatting, I’ll worry about you a lot less. Mostly though, I just want you
to know that, of all the different things that your father and I are creating
together, you are the best.
See you sometime this winter. We can’t wait!
Love
your Mamma, Noelle xxPS Hopefully we will have a better name for you by then.”mates). We now (mostly) sleep through Noelle McCarthy for her baby, due in July.
the night blissfully, Daddy and I are
woken up by your big sloppy morning
kisses and giggles before you bound out
of bed to embrace the day.
You love Transformers and Power
Rangers and Moana and Darth Vader
(although I am working on flipping that
order of priorities).
You love dancing round the lounge
stark bollock naked when you think
nobody’s watching. And you love reading
books about dinosaurs.
You love talking, A LOT (go figure) – the
words pour out of you in a continuous
glorious stream of consciousness. I love
that when things are lost ‘it’s a mystery’,
and that little rabbit’s favourite soup
tastes ‘exquisite’. I love that you
announced suddenly one day your
realisation that ‘dogs don’t cry, eh
Mummy?’ soon after proclaiming your
need to ‘buy a gun’.
And I love that just tonight before you
fell asleep you wrapped your skinny
little arms around my neck, breathing
into my ear; ‘I love you Mummy,’ you
whispered dozily, ‘and I love Daddy, and
I love myself.’
Raising you is the hardest job I have
ever done, hands-down, and I’m still
only an intern. So far, you’ve taught
me far more than I’ve taught you. And
please know, come what may, you are
lovedinawayIcanbarelycomprehend,
let alone communicate, and you always
will be.
Your grandmother, my gorgeous
mother, the one in the photo you always
think is me; she died 20 years before you
were born and it breaks my heart that
youdidn’tgettomeether.NeverhaveI
missed her as much and felt robbed of
herasmuchasIhavesincebecominga
mother myself. What I would give to be
able to sit down with her over a pot of
Earl Grey tea back home, the sun pouring
in, just yarning for hours as you clamber
all over her begging her to read you
Hairy Maclary andScarface Claw again
and again.
To be given the chance to say, ‘Mum, I
get it now. I never really understood what
it took for you to raise me, to nurture me,
to care for me, to love me the way you
did. Now I understand.’
Thank you. And I love you.”