Tonight I sit on a fold out bed in a hospital room on a children’s ward watching you sleep. You are here because you don’t seem to like your milk, and as such you don’t eat enough.
I don’t know why, but for some reason you seem so much more delicate than your big sister ever did. You seem so tiny and small, and you are oh, oh so beautiful. Your eyes seem to change colour with your mood but we are fairly sure they will settle to be brown and they are wide and glossy, already full of intrigue, wonder and light. Your little nose is like a perfect button and your tiny rosebud lips present the most heartbreaking bottom lip I have ever seen.
My goodness you were so wanted and I could hardly wait to have you in my arms. This time around I felt I knew better how to savour those sleepy first days with you, where all you needed was to lay on my chest to soothe. We nick named you mouse in hospital the day you were born because of all the little noises you made and you still often make them as well as do your level best to talk to us, so you coo and giggle and smile.
My dear little mouse, you are such a worry. Your twelve weeks of life haven’t lent us much time to truly enjoy you. They have been full of ounce counting, nappy weighing, weighing you, medication and milk changes, full of doctors and hospitals and blood tests.
I hope we can find a way to fix whatever bothers you little one, so that we might see you smile more than you cry.