Seven years ago today, my beautiful daughter was born. I have no idea where the last seven years have gone, but I look at her today and she really does seem all grown up! My heart swells with pride as I see the wonderful, caring, gorgeous, smart, feisty girl before me; and breaks a little as my baby grows up. So today, please indulge me as I take a little stroll down memory lane and tell you what I remember.

First week at home.

I remember the moment I found out I was pregnant. I was home alone, and stared at the two lines on the home pregnancy test for ten minutes before I could even move.

I remember waiting for Aaron to get home from his gig to tell him the bad news – that we wouldn’t be going to Paris in the Northern Hemisphere Spring; but the good news was that a baby would be coming in our Spring. ‘We’ll always have Paris,” we laughed at the same time.

Nine months old

I remember watching her grow each time I had a scan. I remember the first time I saw her flashing heartbeat. And I remember holding my breath to hear that ‘it all looks great!’

I remember finding out she was a girl and bursting into tears of joy. My own baby girl. A daughter.

Cheeky grin at eighteen months

I remember lying awake the night before she was due to be delivered, unable to sleep, imagining her face. Imagining meeting her.

I remember hearing her for the first time – a bleat of a sound, and Aaron and I gasping, already recognising our baby’s voice.

In the garden at three years

I remember seeing her for the first time. I remember her head full of hair and her face full of cheeks.

I remember reaching out to touch her with the back of my hand, afraid I would break her delicate, almost see-through skin.

Our girl (aged four) and Aaron – outside the Louvre

I remember as she was placed on my chest and I unwrapped her, desperate to feel her skin against mine; wanting to drink her in.

And I remember the love. The feeling that washed over me the minute I realised she was there. And it has grown and continues to grow each day.

Age 5 – usual baking attire

And I remember in the euphoria of finding out I was pregnant, diabetes rearing its ugly head, warning me not to forget it. I remember the anxiety at any elevated blood sugar level, the incessant hypos, the overnight seizure from a terrible low. I remember the hours and hours spent sitting in doctors’ waiting rooms.

I remember the numbers – so many of them, all the time: twenty BGLs a day, HbA1Cs every three weeks, blood pressure, baby measurements. I remember holding my breath as I waited for each result. What was my diabetes doing to her?

Off to the ballet – age 5

I remember Aaron and me laughing at the middle-of-the-night hypos; telling ourselves that we were getting in training for our new arrival.

I remember bringing her home, first stopping by our favourite cafe to introduce her to the waiters.

Central Park NYC – aged 5

All children are miracles, but I do believe that babies born to mums with diabetes are extra miraculous. At times, it feels that diabetes will do all it can to rain on parades, but the determination I felt whilst pregnant wouldn’t allow diabetes to win the round.

Frolicking – age 6

Happy birthday, darling girl! I love you more than I can say; I loved you the moment I knew you were inside me; the second you were delivered and more and more every day since. I wanted you more than anything. And loved you before I knew you were there.

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