A new scarf, in deepest raspberry pink, coils around my neck in protection from the cold. Late September, this year, has not bestowed mellow autumn days upon the north, but a brisk wind, daily and unseasonably cool. The baby is suspicious of the scarf, and tugs and chews this new addition to her mothers neck. In plums and blush and shades of pink, we make a bright and rosy pair.
When pregnant with my daughter, I was convinced she was a boy. When sonographer, doppler in hand, tilted the screen in our direction and said 'girl' I was certain of her mistake. My husband laughed when - eating chocolate for the shock - I declared with utter conviction that our child was a boy.
How liberating then, this girl of mine - living, breathing, growing proof that one can be entirely wrong. That we know not what our future holds. That anything is possible. My girl, not yet a year, is a miracle to her mother, to the consultant who frowned at the odds, and to women the world over who know that healthy babies don't come easy to us all.
She is resplendent in her pink - a rosy glow amidst our sea of blues and green. So surprising, welcome and embraced, that I have not the words to say... x