Leslie and I spent months and months - in fact a large part of our whole relationship - talking about having a baby and planning our lives so we would be in a position to do so. In early 2011 we spent two months holidaying in Europe where we planned to start trying to get pregnant. We had such an amazing time and we felt like our life was coming together just as we’d dreamed it would. I wished mightily for my little baby to come to me quickly and at Notre Dame in Paris I lit a candle for it’s little spirit to tell it I was ready. I spent so much of our idle time, on planes, trains and buses, thinking positive pregnancy thoughts. One day, on a fast train in France, I spent the journey writing my future baby the letter you will find below. I did not get pregnant until a couple of months after this, but my hopes and wishes for my baby remained (and remain still) the same. This letter was hard for me to re-read after I lost Max as it made me realise the depths of my feelings for this baby boy had started very long ago and were invested with so much longing and love. Here is what I wrote that day on the TGV.
My dear baby,
I am writing you this letter to tell you how much I can’t wait to meet you, and how long I’ve waited for you to come. I’ve thought of you and imagined you into being for so many months that it feels as if you are already real even though you are at this time just a recurring dream; a gentle wish. There are so many people who love you already, and then there’s me, who I hope you’ll choose as your constant friend and most careful protector.
For as long as I can remember I have imagined a little son or daughter coming to me as though out of thin air; their arrival sparking an unexpected sense of remembering, like we might have met once before, not so far away, in a time that has only just slipped us by. That baby is you, and when I think of you you are tiny and blonde, with long, delicate fingers and a mysterious gaze turned towards the bigger people and the bright things that pass you by.
You’re a little like me, of course, in your quiet manner and easy disposition. But not too much. You have nothing of my melancholy. You are light and unencumbered by worry, by fear. You are quick to laugh and quick to love. You are a wonderful observer of the world around you, and a passionate participant in all of its wonders. You could be an adventurer with a restless spirit always urging you towards new things, or maybe you’ll be driven from an early age by just one particular longing. Either way, I will do my absolute best to help you follow your star, and I’ll always be there waiting when you come home again.
A wonderful home I will make for you - warm, welcoming, and full of your things and your spirit (which no doubt you’ll have in abundance). There’ll be animals to share your secrets and stories who’ll be devoted and loyal to you when you feel lonely or misunderstood. There’ll always be books within your reach to take you to whatever place and whatever time you can imagine, and music to afford you an escape from any cares you have upon your little shoulders. There’ll be warm baths and cosy cuddles, and as you grow there will always be room for you to share your home and your family with the friends you’ve carefully chosen - those who make you laugh and bring out your very best.
I can’t imagine what will be your favourite things to do. Perhaps you’ll surprise me with a penchant for tennis, or with strong shoulders that will lead you to the swimming pool - though no one would then believe you were a child of mine! I’ll leave those things for you to try, though I dearly hope you’ll love to dance and that cultural things afford you pleasure, so that we might share some quiet winter afternoons together, even when you are grown.
I’d like to think that I have chosen for you a caring, constant father who will adore you, even at your most awkward age and through your strangest interests! I know, right now, that he’s excited to meet you, though he is not quite as impatient as me, who has to learn to wait, to wait, to wait, and to give control of time over to you, for a little while at least, as you learn the funny ways of this world and prepare for your journey into our lives.
There is a place for you, little baby, when you are ready to come. It’s made out of fresh, soft air that will tenderly cushion your journey and shape itself to your particular form; that will become full with your particular grace - a sense that I hope will soon be as familiar to me as my own breath.
Come soon, little one. I can hardly wait to look into your eyes and tell you that you’re home.
Your mummy xox
Oh how sad, so much love and anticipation for your darling boy. But still, I can't help but be glad that he had that. All that hope and care and tenderness. Even if it was not for as long as it might have been, as it should have been.
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