Dear Baby Mad,
You don’t exist, and perhaps you never will.
You don’t really have a name either, but in my head I call you lots of names.
Lately I’ve really been liking Amelie. Or Noah, if you were a boy.
I’d love to give you a middle name, either Joyce, after my beautiful Nan, or Frederick, after my wonderful Grandad.
I imagine what you’d look like.
I imagine my Dad, who would be your Grandad, holding you, the proudest he’s ever been.
I imagine bathing you and dressing you and snuggling you silly, even when you wake me up at all hours in the night and I think I can’t take much more of your incessant wailing for food (because, let’s face it baby mad, you’re a product of me and your Dad, and our favourite thing is to eat!)
I imagine all of the adventures we’ll have, and that special Mummy time nobody else will get because I’ll be on maternity leave and it’ll just be me and you.
For most of my life, little one, you’ve been my priority, and you only exist in my mind.
I get up and go to work for you.
I bought this house for you.
Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you.
I have never met you, you don’t exist, but I love you.
I already know that I love you.
Just like I always knew that I’d love your Daddy when I eventually met him.
If it’s even at all possible, I love you even more than your Daddy, because I know you would be a perfect blend of both of us.
It’s very hard at the moment, baby Mad, because it feels like you will never exist and it feels like we will never get to meet you.
It feels as though I will never get to hold you in my arms and tell you, the real you, not the you that exists in my mind, how much your Mummy (and Daddy) love and adore you.
So many times you have saved my life, when you aren’t a life yourself.
How can something feel so real when it doesn’t exist?
I already know I love you.
I already know I’d go to the ends of the earth for you.
So why aren’t you here?
Why do you have to exist only in mind?
Why can’t I grow you and keep you safe until you’re ready to come into our little world?
Why can’t you be asleep in your cot in your bedroom, instead of it being a room full of pointless junk your mummy bought to try to make herself feel better?
Why can’t you distract me from writing this now because you’re giggling or whinging or snoring or crying because you need food or your nappy changing?
Baby Mad I love you, please become a reality