On Christmas night, we walked the mile between your Grandy’s home and ours. It was brilliantly cold; the ice made the town look sugar-glazed and we puffed our breath into the air like dragons. I had worried about how you would cope with walking a mile after bedtime at the end of an exhausting day, whether it would try your enormous hearts and you would end up puddled and crying on the pavement whilst we stood helpless, your baby sisters strapped to our bodies. But you navigated the mile’s walk by fairylight, running from house to house, exclaiming over the beauty of the decorations. You stopped at the roadsides and gripped our hands; yours felt so cold and small in mine. I wish that I had the words to describe how much you mean to me, how I didn’t know that love could start in my chest but encompass my whole body, that I could feel love in my fingertips, until I became your mother. I looked down at your shining little faces, little white moons in the darkness of night, and I felt so happy and proud that you were mine.
You have been calling the festive period ‘my Christmas’. You have taken possession of this stressful, emotionally overwhelming season and you have turned it into something wonderful. I think that my favourite thing about being a mother is in discovering all of the beauty in the world through your eyes; the way that you can take something as ordinary as a walk home in the dark and turn it into something magical. You fill my life with wonder, and for that I am so grateful.
Thank you for making me whole.