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It was evening. Toys were being cleared, plates were being washed, and Natalie was sitting quietly on her pony-patterned beanbag watching C-Beebies. Something to do with babies and caring for them, but it wasn’t until later that I realised its significance. When the show had finished, she turned the TV off, came and sat next to me on the sofa, and whispered softly into my ear.
“Daddy, what was it like when I was a baby?”
Slightly taken aback by this, I made sure I was comfortable (and in reaching distance of my coffee) and sat her on my lap. She wrapped one arm around my waist, held her faithful little teddy to her mouth with the other, and just by the way she looked at me I knew she wanted to hear her tale.
“Well,” I began, “When you were born, daddy wasn’t around at the start. You came into the world quicker than you should have, when I was in America working for my company. I got a phone call two days before I was supposed to come home to say mummy was ready to have you, so I flew back home as quickly as I could to see you and make sure mummy was okay. Your mother always said that you were born early because you were eager to get things done, really energetic, you know.” She nodded back at me happily.
“By the time I got to the hospital where you and mummy were a lot of things had changed, and your daddy hadn’t heard anything about you because he’d been flying home. When I arrived outside your mother’s hospital room, she wasn’t as happy as you’d expect a new mother to be. In fact, I remember her face like it was yesterday. She was torn, eyes sunk back into her head, tissues everywhere. A shadow of the beautiful, kind, happy woman you and I know her as. She was crying.”
”Why? Why was she sad?” Natalie asked, a frown upon her seven-year-old face. I held her close to my chest and hugged her not wanting to let go.
“When I went in and saw your mother I found out what had happened. I looked over to the cot that your gran and granddad had bought you, expecting to see my first child cradled in it, and saw nothing. There was hardly a trace you’d been born. I comforted your mother, and she told me about everything that had happened. You had been born 3 weeks early, and even if you had been born at the right time you would still have been weak. Mummy told me how you looked the first time she saw you, just a little bundle of skin and bones, so tiny, so incredibly small. She said each of your fingers looked the width of a needle, and your eyes were like brightly coloured beans. And then she reached out for you, to take her first baby into her arms, and she couldn’t. You were whisked away from her. You’d been taken into care because you weren’t strong enough to stay in our world. So the people at the hospital put you into your own little home, especially made for you. It was like the conservatory, only without the chairs. Just a big soft blanket on the floor, with you; tiny little you wrapped up in it. They didn’t know how long it would be before we could have you in our arms, and we didn’t know if we’d ever take you in our arms. It was a nerve-racking time looking at you every day and not knowing if we’d ever even get to touch you. Luckily. Very, very luckily, we did. It took two weeks before we were allowed to bring you back as ours, and no matter how scary each moment was, every one was worth it to hold you in our arms, to raise you in our world, to breathe our heart and soul into you. I remember the first time the nurse looking after you put you in my arms so clearly. You looked up at me and I looked back, and you yawned, and then just laid there, almost motionless, staring back at me. The only thing I can’t remember about the moment is how long I just stood there watching you. Watching my first daughter, my first child.”
It took a second for me to come to my senses, at which point I glanced down to see a dosing, peaceful Natalie, clawing at my shirt, holding on to me every bit as hard as I held on to her that day I took her home. My arms cradled around her as I lifted her upstairs, and to her bedroom, and carefully tucked her into bed, undisturbed.
“That day I took you home was the day I felt the father I am to you.” I uttered, before kissing her on the forehead, and dimming her lights goodnight.
I’m not sure how much she heard of her tale, or how much she understood. But either way, I hope that when she unclasped her eyes the next morning she knew what a special little thing she was to me.
“Daddy, what was it like when I was a baby?”
Slightly taken aback by this, I made sure I was comfortable (and in reaching distance of my coffee) and sat her on my lap. She wrapped one arm around my waist, held her faithful little teddy to her mouth with the other, and just by the way she looked at me I knew she wanted to hear her tale.
“Well,” I began, “When you were born, daddy wasn’t around at the start. You came into the world quicker than you should have, when I was in America working for my company. I got a phone call two days before I was supposed to come home to say mummy was ready to have you, so I flew back home as quickly as I could to see you and make sure mummy was okay. Your mother always said that you were born early because you were eager to get things done, really energetic, you know.” She nodded back at me happily.
“By the time I got to the hospital where you and mummy were a lot of things had changed, and your daddy hadn’t heard anything about you because he’d been flying home. When I arrived outside your mother’s hospital room, she wasn’t as happy as you’d expect a new mother to be. In fact, I remember her face like it was yesterday. She was torn, eyes sunk back into her head, tissues everywhere. A shadow of the beautiful, kind, happy woman you and I know her as. She was crying.”
”Why? Why was she sad?” Natalie asked, a frown upon her seven-year-old face. I held her close to my chest and hugged her not wanting to let go.
“When I went in and saw your mother I found out what had happened. I looked over to the cot that your gran and granddad had bought you, expecting to see my first child cradled in it, and saw nothing. There was hardly a trace you’d been born. I comforted your mother, and she told me about everything that had happened. You had been born 3 weeks early, and even if you had been born at the right time you would still have been weak. Mummy told me how you looked the first time she saw you, just a little bundle of skin and bones, so tiny, so incredibly small. She said each of your fingers looked the width of a needle, and your eyes were like brightly coloured beans. And then she reached out for you, to take her first baby into her arms, and she couldn’t. You were whisked away from her. You’d been taken into care because you weren’t strong enough to stay in our world. So the people at the hospital put you into your own little home, especially made for you. It was like the conservatory, only without the chairs. Just a big soft blanket on the floor, with you; tiny little you wrapped up in it. They didn’t know how long it would be before we could have you in our arms, and we didn’t know if we’d ever take you in our arms. It was a nerve-racking time looking at you every day and not knowing if we’d ever even get to touch you. Luckily. Very, very luckily, we did. It took two weeks before we were allowed to bring you back as ours, and no matter how scary each moment was, every one was worth it to hold you in our arms, to raise you in our world, to breathe our heart and soul into you. I remember the first time the nurse looking after you put you in my arms so clearly. You looked up at me and I looked back, and you yawned, and then just laid there, almost motionless, staring back at me. The only thing I can’t remember about the moment is how long I just stood there watching you. Watching my first daughter, my first child.”
It took a second for me to come to my senses, at which point I glanced down to see a dosing, peaceful Natalie, clawing at my shirt, holding on to me every bit as hard as I held on to her that day I took her home. My arms cradled around her as I lifted her upstairs, and to her bedroom, and carefully tucked her into bed, undisturbed.
“That day I took you home was the day I felt the father I am to you.” I uttered, before kissing her on the forehead, and dimming her lights goodnight.
I’m not sure how much she heard of her tale, or how much she understood. But either way, I hope that when she unclasped her eyes the next morning she knew what a special little thing she was to me.
Nice, slow but not in a bad way, very comforting.
Nice one, teh Ash.
Nice one, teh Ash.
Aye, excellent.
Lovely. Well done. I felt like you were talking to 'me' during the dialogue, as opposed to just reading it as a story. Captivating and sweet :)
Except for:
> It was like the conservatory, only without the chairs
Which made me laugh while trying to drink my tea and nearly killed me :D
Except for:
> It was like the conservatory, only without the chairs
Which made me laugh while trying to drink my tea and nearly killed me :D
That nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Perfect.
Perfect.
It was evening. Toys were being cleared, plates were being washed, and Natalie was sitting quietly on her pony-patterned beanbag watching C-Beebies. Something to do with babies and caring for them, but it wasn’t until later that I realised its significance. When the show had finished, she turned the TV off, came and sat next to me on the sofa, and whispered softly into my ear.
“Daddy, what was it like when I was a baby?”
Slightly taken aback by this, I made sure I was comfortable (and in reaching distance of my coffee) and sat her on my lap. She wrapped one arm around my waist, held her faithful little teddy to her mouth with the other, and just by the way she looked at me I knew she wanted to hear her tale.
“Well,” I began, “When you were born, daddy wasn’t around at the start. You came into the world quicker than you should have, when I was in America working for my company. I got a phone call two days before I was supposed to come home to say mummy was ready to have you, so I flew back home as quickly as I could to see you and make sure mummy was okay. Your mother always said that you were born early because you were eager to get things done, really energetic, you know.” She nodded back at me happily.
“By the time I got to the hospital where you and mummy were a lot of things had changed, and your daddy hadn’t heard anything about you because he’d been flying home. When I arrived outside your mother’s hospital room, she wasn’t as happy as you’d expect a new mother to be. In fact, I remember her face like it was yesterday. She was torn, eyes sunk back into her head, tissues everywhere. A shadow of the beautiful, kind, happy woman you and I know her as. She was crying.”
”Why? Why was she sad?” Natalie asked, a frown upon her seven-year-old face. I held her close to my chest and hugged her not wanting to let go.
“When I went in and saw your mother I found out what had happened. I looked over to the cot that your gran and granddad had bought you, expecting to see my first child cradled in it, and saw nothing. There was hardly a trace you’d been born. I comforted your mother, and she told me about everything that had happened. You had been born 3 weeks early, and even if you had been born at the right time you would still have been weak. Mummy told me how you looked the first time she saw you, just a little bundle of skin and bones, so tiny, so incredibly small. She said each of your fingers looked the width of a needle, and your eyes were like brightly coloured beans. And then she reached out for you, to take her first baby into her arms, and she couldn’t. You were whisked away from her. You’d been taken into care because you weren’t strong enough to stay in our world. So the people at the hospital put you into your own little home, especially made for you. It was like the conservatory, only without the chairs. Just a big soft blanket on the floor, with you; tiny little you wrapped up in it. They didn’t know how long it would be before we could have you in our arms, and we didn’t know if we’d ever take you in our arms. It was a nerve-racking time looking at you every day and not knowing if we’d ever even get to touch you. Luckily. Very, very luckily, we did. It took two weeks before we were allowed to bring you back as ours, and no matter how scary each moment was, every one was worth it to hold you in our arms, to raise you in our world, to breathe our heart and soul into you. I remember the first time the nurse looking after you put you in my arms so clearly. You looked up at me and I looked back, and you yawned, and then just laid there, almost motionless, staring back at me. The only thing I can’t remember about the moment is how long I just stood there watching you. Watching my first daughter, my first child.”
It took a second for me to come to my senses, at which point I glanced down to see a dosing, peaceful Natalie, clawing at my shirt, holding on to me every bit as hard as I held on to her that day I took her home. My arms cradled around her as I lifted her upstairs, and to her bedroom, and carefully tucked her into bed, undisturbed.
“That day I took you home was the day I felt the father I am to you.” I uttered, before kissing her on the forehead, and dimming her lights goodnight.
I’m not sure how much she heard of her tale, or how much she understood. But either way, I hope that when she unclasped her eyes the next morning she knew what a special little thing she was to me.
“Daddy, what was it like when I was a baby?”
Slightly taken aback by this, I made sure I was comfortable (and in reaching distance of my coffee) and sat her on my lap. She wrapped one arm around my waist, held her faithful little teddy to her mouth with the other, and just by the way she looked at me I knew she wanted to hear her tale.
“Well,” I began, “When you were born, daddy wasn’t around at the start. You came into the world quicker than you should have, when I was in America working for my company. I got a phone call two days before I was supposed to come home to say mummy was ready to have you, so I flew back home as quickly as I could to see you and make sure mummy was okay. Your mother always said that you were born early because you were eager to get things done, really energetic, you know.” She nodded back at me happily.
“By the time I got to the hospital where you and mummy were a lot of things had changed, and your daddy hadn’t heard anything about you because he’d been flying home. When I arrived outside your mother’s hospital room, she wasn’t as happy as you’d expect a new mother to be. In fact, I remember her face like it was yesterday. She was torn, eyes sunk back into her head, tissues everywhere. A shadow of the beautiful, kind, happy woman you and I know her as. She was crying.”
”Why? Why was she sad?” Natalie asked, a frown upon her seven-year-old face. I held her close to my chest and hugged her not wanting to let go.
“When I went in and saw your mother I found out what had happened. I looked over to the cot that your gran and granddad had bought you, expecting to see my first child cradled in it, and saw nothing. There was hardly a trace you’d been born. I comforted your mother, and she told me about everything that had happened. You had been born 3 weeks early, and even if you had been born at the right time you would still have been weak. Mummy told me how you looked the first time she saw you, just a little bundle of skin and bones, so tiny, so incredibly small. She said each of your fingers looked the width of a needle, and your eyes were like brightly coloured beans. And then she reached out for you, to take her first baby into her arms, and she couldn’t. You were whisked away from her. You’d been taken into care because you weren’t strong enough to stay in our world. So the people at the hospital put you into your own little home, especially made for you. It was like the conservatory, only without the chairs. Just a big soft blanket on the floor, with you; tiny little you wrapped up in it. They didn’t know how long it would be before we could have you in our arms, and we didn’t know if we’d ever take you in our arms. It was a nerve-racking time looking at you every day and not knowing if we’d ever even get to touch you. Luckily. Very, very luckily, we did. It took two weeks before we were allowed to bring you back as ours, and no matter how scary each moment was, every one was worth it to hold you in our arms, to raise you in our world, to breathe our heart and soul into you. I remember the first time the nurse looking after you put you in my arms so clearly. You looked up at me and I looked back, and you yawned, and then just laid there, almost motionless, staring back at me. The only thing I can’t remember about the moment is how long I just stood there watching you. Watching my first daughter, my first child.”
It took a second for me to come to my senses, at which point I glanced down to see a dosing, peaceful Natalie, clawing at my shirt, holding on to me every bit as hard as I held on to her that day I took her home. My arms cradled around her as I lifted her upstairs, and to her bedroom, and carefully tucked her into bed, undisturbed.
“That day I took you home was the day I felt the father I am to you.” I uttered, before kissing her on the forehead, and dimming her lights goodnight.
I’m not sure how much she heard of her tale, or how much she understood. But either way, I hope that when she unclasped her eyes the next morning she knew what a special little thing she was to me.