Three years ago today, three years, three whole years ago today, I found out I was pregnant.
It should be such a beautiful memory.
No, damn it, it is a beautiful memory. I took the at last, unmistakeably positive pee-stick into the bedroom and woke H up. And then I propped the pee-stick on the book-shelf next to the bed, and H and I curled up together and admired it in the morning sunlight, and I felt precious, and vulnerable, and joyfully, ridiculously, scared and relieved and ‘what the hell have we just done?’ It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
Oh, Pikaia, if only you could have stayed. You’d be 28 months old now. You’d be learning to use crayons. Tantruming. Using a spoon. Running, jumping, climbing, pointing. You’d even be talking. You’d be having opinions about peas and socks and teddies and who gets to tuck you in at night and with which story-book.
Oh, God, I wish you hadn’t died.
But it’s still a beautiful memory. So, thank you.