It was a dark and scary time. Masks and hand gel, social distancing, fights over toilet paper and soap.
But you were there. Existing, fluttering and growing away inside me. My stomach was a wall to protect you while you grew, then the walls of our home protected me when I was sent home from work. You were my hope.
Hope. Hope is what you gave us in one of the darkest times. We are so happy to be your parents, and you were born during yet another lockdown, your poor daddy allowed to the first ever scan then made to wait in the car afterwards. If he had wanted to go to a football match or the pub, that was allowed, but he couldn't see you kick away on the screen or hear that everything was normal. He had to hope.
Hope was mixed with worry that you would suffer being born in 2020, meeting no babies for months, no playgroups until the following year, limited family because of regulations, but you flourished because of hope.
I hope you don't remember how normal masks were, how normal it was not to know who was congratulating us on your birth. I hope you remember the good times, the time we spent together, and I hope you know how much we cherish those days, as difficult as they were.
I hope you know how much we love you.
Hope was that you would be happy and healthy despite the continuing restrictions for the first couple years of your life and relief when you were. Hope was that things would go back go normal or a new normal so that you could actually experience life, rather than baby classes on TV and video calls with relatives.
Hope was that you don't remember the early days, the fear and uncertainty, and hope is that one day, we can talk about all of this and try to remember the good as well, that no matter that chaos in the world, you were born happy and healthy...because we had hope.