Epilogue

And so here you are. You tightly folded bud. My tightly folded bud. And you’re not the size of a honeydew melon, or the length of a stick of rhubarb, or the weight of bags of dried goods. Not any more. You’re here, and you’re nothing like fruit. You’re 7 lbs, 2 oz (I refuse to call it 3.232 kilograms) and you’re 49 cm (I know. I’m difficult. This I don’t mind in metric) long. Well within the ranges of normal. Your Apgar score was 8 at five minutes and 9 by ten minutes (no one ever gets a 10, your midwife said, but I don’t care anyway – I’m not going to be that kind of mum when it comes to test scores, I promise). You needed a bit of jostling before you cried, but not too much, nothing scary like you see on Casualty or Grey’s Anatomy, where doctors exchange anxious glances and babies are whisked away. It was all calm and peaceful, just us in the room. The midwife held you, your tiny back in one big, capable hand, and rubbed your chest for a few seconds, very gently, and then we heard it. ‘Come on, baby’, she said, and almost whispered, ‘Let’s be having you.’ It was nearly imperceptible, that confident gesture to get you to breathe – it happened on your journey up from between my legs to my chest – but I am not going to miss anything. Not now and not ever. And then I had you. And you had me.

You have hair. Not masses of it, but a small whorl of dark-blonde, downy fuzz. You have quite long fingers and, when I check under the cotton towel they’ve draped over us, toes too. Long fingers and long toes. People will tell me you should be a pianist. But you will be a cellist, like your great-grandfather Wilfred, if you’re anything at all, and you needn’t be, if you don’t want to be. Your nails are going to need cutting, or biting, if the book is to be believed, soon. It’s amazing to me – that you have come out of me with these tiny nails already growing. Your skin is dry, a bit peely, like after a sunburn. White with tiny blue veins in some places, and blotchy, but the softest, most velvety thing I have ever felt. Your chest rises and falls with your breath and I can almost see where your heart is beating beneath your ribs.

You’re a hedonist I think. The midwife wrapped you in a blanket and washed your hair at the sink in the room, holding you in one hand and making it look so easy. You loved it, craning your neck at the warm water, like a cat moving towards the stroke of a hand. She says you’re too young to smile, and I know it’s true, but the pleasure on your face was obvious.

You are strong and you are fragile. I am capable and I am terrified. I have read about what comes next – the next hours, the next days, months, years. I have read it, studied it, but I know nothing. It’s the most exciting and the most frightening moment of my life, meeting you. And you have no clue about any of it. I’m arms, nipples, a soft voice, a gentle touch. Still, when you open your eyes, your blue, blue eyes (and they’re staying blue, I know), I’m sure they lock on to mine. Perhaps you know me already, darling girl.

You missed your great-grandmother by just a couple of weeks. But that’s okay. I know how she would have felt about you. I close my eyes and imagine her holding you, but it’s not the Iris of the end, it’s the Iris of my own childhood holding you, strong and sparkling – and when her eyes meet mine over the top of your precious head, I understand for the first time all the love in her face.

I’m going to teach you what I learnt about love from Iris. I’m going to teach you right from the start – I wasted so much time, so much. I’m going to teach you that it’s the simplest thing in the world, and that you must do it with open arms and an open heart and no fear. Because it’s all that matters, at the end of the day. All that matters.

We’re all alone now, just you and me. For a moment. The midwife has gone to make me the world’s most welcome cup of tea. We have this while, just us. There are people who are longing to see you. My mum. Holly, Dulcie. Gigi. Olly is outside phoning her now. He was brilliant. Of course he was. He never left us. He’s as excited and proud and emotional as if you were his own girl. I know now that I could have done all of this, and everything to come, without him, but I’m so, so glad I’m not going to be. We’re going to have fun. So much fun, my darling. They’re all going to love you so much, and that fun and that love are going to be the hallmarks of your whole childhood. I’m going to love you most of all …

So here we are. At the very beginning, baby mine. You’ll always be baby mine. But now you have a real name. And your name, of course – and what else could it be – is Iris.