For Meggy on your 9th birthday.... -

Meggy,

Today you are nine and even as I type those words I can’t quite believe that they are true. I say this every year but it feels like just yesterday you were placed in my arms, your little face all red and angry, screaming at the top of your lungs, and I think it’s safe to say our lives have never been the same since. Through those hazy newborn days when it broke my heart to see you suffer, those toddler years when I served as your very own punchbag, and your early childhood when you struggled to make sense of your emotions, it feels like now, at long last, the dust has finally settled and you have emerged the most eloquent, kind and talented little girl we could ever hope for. And gosh you were worth the wait.

If I had to choose I’d say that eight has been my favourite age with you Meggy, the year you soared in confidence, blossomed in your abilities and really learned the importance of being yourself. You amaze me with your wisdom, your philosophical outlook on life and your unwavering belief in following your dreams. Every single day you remind me to seize the moment, be more present and open my eyes to how beautiful life really is and honestly, with you beside me, I feel as though I am learning from you every step of the way.

It’s funny that although you are baby number four, you have adopted the “big sister” role to a tee, always making sure that your siblings are okay, the first to rush to them should they hurt themselves, the first to offer up hugs and kisses should they appear sad. You are forever mothering Harry whether it’s holding his hand when we cross the road, tucking him up in bed at night or whipping out your first aid kit should he take a tumble. I guess the fact you have a first aid kit at all says a lot about you Megs and although I could use a million and one words to describe you, your kindness will aways come out on top.

This year has been a wonderful year for all of us and through our many adventures and each of our travels you have seized every opportunity to make the moments count. Although I could reel off each of our big adventures and tell you how exciting they were, it’s the little moments I will remember the most. The time glamping in the Lakes when the wind battered against the canvas and we huddled up together in the cupboard bed and talked about the names you would call your future dogs as you drifted off to sleep, the week we spent down in Cornwall and how every beach we went to you’d pick out the most beautiful shell, press it into my hand and tell me, “This a special one for you Mama”.

I’ll remember our Summer road trip on the South coast and how, every time I’d look over at you trying something new, be that Segways or archery, rock climbing or body boarding, your eyes would be wild with panic, your cheeks flushed with concentration, but in no time at all you would flash me the worlds biggest smile and shout, “Look at me! I’m doing it!!” and then put us all to shame with a new found skill.

I’ll remember the days we spent on the beach in South Wales and how you were never happier with a pile of rocks and a marker pen, writing inspirational quotes or messages of hope to leave for other people to come across. The nights we’d watch the sunset and how you would write Joseph’s name on every shore line, point out his star in every night sky, and squeeze my hand so tightly because you just knew, you always know, how bitter sweet those moments are for me.

I’ll remember dancing with you on Barmouth beaches, taking outdoor baths together in Pembrokeshire, toasting marshmallows over a campfire down in Dorset. And I’ll remember how you made me feel in those moments, even on the days when I’d been stressed and snappy, as though I was your whole entire world wrapped up in one person and you loved me unconditionally, and I you. Always.

I’ll remember your excitement at visiting Croatia, our first holiday of the year where Lewis graced us with his presence, and how you held his hand at every given opportunity and sat next to him at every dinner table. I’ll remember how you were never happier than when Carbonara was on the menu and how you’d plead for a lemonade just so you could sit and crunch the ice. I’ll remember watching the talent show at the nightly entertainment and the rest of us rolling our eyes at how utterly awful it was whilst you laughed out loud and told us it was the best show you’ve ever seen in your life.

I’ll remember the look on your face when you watched Matilda on the West End, your very first musical and by no means your last, your gasp of amazement at seeing the Christmas tree at Covent Garden, dancing in the snow at Trafalgar Square, your squeals of excitement exploring every single floor of Hamleys and making notes to ask Father Christmas for a hundred and one random things as a result.

I’ll remember the moment you had your ears pierced, after years and years of begging, and how it took eight attempts for you to allow the lady to finally pierce them, with tears streaming down your face in panic as you sobbed, “I really want them done but I’m scared!”. I’ll remember how you admired yourself in every single shop window afterwards and how you haven’t stopped since.

I’ll remember kissing you goodbye when I went to the Sahara and how you had whispered in my ear, “You can do it!”. The way you had ran downstairs at 11pm on the day I returned, your eyes bleary and your hair bedraggled, and how when you flung your arms around my neck and told me “I’m so proud of you Mama!” I felt a thousand feet tall. I remember the solemn look on your face when you promised me that one day, when you’re all grown up, you will go on adventures of your own and you will know, without a moments doubt, that you are capable of just about anything.

I’ll remember our trip to Finland and your joy in building a snowman on Suomelinna or trying your very first sauna at Loyly. I’ll remember how you spent the entire week with rosy cheeks and countless layers and how you’d walk beside me, with your arms round my waist and your hands in my pockets, snuggling up for a little extra body heat.

I’ll remember the way you danced in the old ballroom in Rouen, the sound of your laughter as you ran through the gardens of the most beautiful chateaus, your complete and utter gratitude when we allowed you to choose a pendant from the Dieppe markets and how you and Harry were convinced they were magic amulets and Eva cried because she felt left out. I’ll remember how you found magic in the mundane and how, even on the days when life felt overwhelming, seeing the world through your eyes kept me smiling,

I’ll remember how eight was the year you still loved your boyfriend Zac with all of your heart and how you almost burst with pride when he presented you with a bouquet of flowers at the Valentines disco. The year you loved to paint, to draw, to swim; the year you spent hours writing poetry or stories, composing songs or writing lyrics, and how hearing you and Harry rehearse in the playroom was one of my favourite moments of all.

I’ll remember how you felt everything so much deeper than any child I’ve ever known, whether you were crying hysterically at bedtime for fear that one day Oscar would die, or laughing until your sides hurt at something crazy you’d watched on YouTube. I’ll remember how Eva was still your favourite person in all the world, how you would do just about anything to make her happy and how the nights she let you climb into her bed for a cuddle were so very special to you.

And I’ll remember that at eight years old you were the funniest, craziest, most imaginative little girl who in the space of a year wasn’t quite so little after all. Today, on your ninth birthday, as we celebrate with countless ice creams and mocktails in the Cretan Summer sun, I want to say the biggest thank you for loving us all the way you do, for taking care of us, for motivating us and for showing us that life is so incredibly beautiful if we simply focus on what’s important. You are so special my little Meggy Moo and I hope, at nine, you never change.