Tag Archives: letter

Dear baby…

Dear baby…

Dear baby,

We’ve been so scared, your Mummy and Daddy. Last year was sad for us and you have been so very precious from the moment we found out about you.

Every milestone has felt like a huge achievement – you’re already the thing we’re most proud of and the most valuable thing in our lives. Mummy is a big worrier anyway, and she’s lost sleep, cried, refused to get excited (don’t be offended please, Mummy was just trying to be brave). She’s been the opposite of her normal self – so pessimistic and cautious. But now, halfway through your stay in Mummy’s tummy, we’re slowly letting ourselves smile and mean it. We’re talking about names, thinking about what we need to buy for you, how to decorate your room. You’ve become a part of us – you’ll make our family of two (plus Archer, your fur sibling), a family of three.


But there are a couple of things you need to remember to help Mummy and Daddy be brave:

  1. Keep growing – get big and strong and ready for this big bad world you’re joining. Stay healthy and safe in there.
  2. Take care of Mummy – your kicks and roly-polys are already starting to provide reassurance to Mummy. It’s your way of saying ‘Hi there guys!’ and it’s  brilliant.
  3. You are not a rainbow baby – some people might talk about you as if you are. You are not. We will always be a little bit sad about what happened before you took root and decided to make Mummy your home. But it has nothing to do with you. From the moment we first saw that little nugget on the screen all those months ago, you started a whole new chapter for Mummy and Daddy, and we love you for it. Your job is not to fix us, your job is to simply be wonderful, beautiful you.

We can’t wait to meet you, to get to know you. We know we’ll be tired and grumpy and that it’s going to be hard work getting used to you, but you’re going to be worth every second.

All our love, already and always,

Mummy and Daddy xxx



Dear Daddy, happy anniversary

Dear Daddy, happy anniversary

Dear Daddy,

This time a year ago all of our lives changed – yours the most. Thanks to a little too much John Smiths and a freak fall down the stairs, you changed. I’ve half written this post so many times over the last year. But I’ve had to stop because it just became so depressing. I can’t promise that this won’t be sad and angry, and confused, but I wanted to say to you (virtually) all the things that have gone through my head in the last 12 months.

I miss you. I spout the wise line that I’m grateful you survived, that we still have some version of you. And that is undoubtedly true. But it doesn’t mean that in my more selfish moments I don’t wish desperately for my original dad. You were my rock, my fount of solid, grounded wisdom when I was getting over-emotional, and most importantly, my best friend. While you still make me smile when I’m sad, and you still give the best hugs; the wisdom and the friendly texts are gone. Even a year later, I’ll be having a bad day, or I’ll have something funny to tell you and I’ll remember suddenly that the old you is gone. It’s like grief that never ends. It spins in a circle from heartbreak, to anger, to guilt that I dared to miss you when I still have you. Don’t misunderstand me, I am incredibly grateful that you’re still in my life. But I miss pre-accident-you so much sometimes it’s physically painful.

What if? What if you’d decided to just go home and sleep the day after the wedding? What if I’d thought more of it when you didn’t send me a ‘have a nice honeymoon’ text, and had checked on you? What if we’d asked you for dinner the night before honeymoon instead of our friends? As pointless as it is, I don’t think we’ll ever stop asking these questions. I know it’s childish but I wish so desperately for a Marty Mcfly car to go back to the day after the wedding and stick to you like glue.

Please stop worrying. We are where we are, and none of us see you as a burden. You’re our dad and we’re only doing the same you’d have done if one of us had suffered an injury. I know you and me are peas in a pod, and telling us not to worry is like telling us not to breathe, but please try. Goodness knows you’ve got enough to process as you continue to recover and adjust without worrying about us. We’re big enough, ugly enough, and well-supported enough to take care of ourselves. Please just be happy.

Thank you. Thank you for being so incredible. For being the ray of sunshine in my life every week. For reducing my over-dramatised life back to the simple and important. For loving us even though we’re imperfect, and can’t visit every day, and are sometimes tired or grumpy. Thank you for giving us the most beautiful childhood memories that we treasure and re-share with you even today. Thank you for being everything a dad should be. Thankyou for loving us all.

This could be a really sad anniversary for us all, but I’m not going to let that happen – having you here should be celebrated!

This year I’m in Jersey for my first wedding anniversary, so I’m going to head to the beach, run in the sea, and celebrate my dad. And I’m going to urge Dave and Tam to celebrate you in an equally silly and fun way. Whatever dark thoughts creep in sometimes, you’re here. You’re funny, and kind, and loving and cheeky and ours. We’re incredibly lucky. Happy anniversary Daddy – thanks for fighting.

Bomps xxxx

hilary and andy