You won’t remember me:

Not the part of me that existed before you came along. Before you were safe in my arms and before you were old enough to know that I loved you more than anything or anyone in the entire universe. That your happiness and wellbeing came before everything else in the world.

You won’t remember me:

I used to go to school just like you, I laughed with friends, threw stones and climbed things I had been forbidden not to; I did this with such wild abandon you wouldn’t recognise me, even if you had been there. I stayed out too late and made my parents worry that I was safe, I yelled and slammed my bedroom door without a thought or care about how that made them feel.

You won’t remember me:

My heart got broken in a way I never thought I would recover. I cried every day for weeks about a boy you will probably never meet; I swore I would never love anyone like I loved him. I didn’t believe anyone could replace the loss of that love, that life was unfair, that no one understood my pain. I grew stronger and harder than I thought possible. I learned the power of good friendship, I laughed harder than I have ever laughed in my life and swore no man would ever take me away from those friends who carried me through those days.

You won’t remember me:

I met a man who made me laugh, made my heart sing and made me feel as though I could achieve anything. I loved him intensely, but so dearly that I wanted to be with him forever. I planned a life with him, with you, at the forefront. Me as a mother, him as a father and you, all of you completing our family. I had such hopes and dreams about what you would be like, what motherhood would offer me. And we waited. And waited.

You won’t remember me:

Sat on the bath side, crying because it hadn’t worked again. Questioning, would it ever work? Hounding doctors, trawling the internet, trying every complementary therapy available and living every day centred on my pursuit to have you. Almost two years I waited for that day, the day I could actually say I was going to be your mother. The day I knew I was going to have you will be one of those days I hope to remember with clarity, vivid colours, and sound in years to come when I wait for the end.

You won’t remember me:

Taking those vitamins religiously, eating well, resting and waiting for you to grow. Putting my hand to my belly every time I felt a kick so that you would know I was here; waiting patiently for the day I could finally meet you. Laughing heartily at ridiculous, enormous maternity clothes; laughing a lot less when they actually fit me. Marking your milestones on the calendar, counting the days until you were expected to arrive, hounding your Dad daily for his thoughts on names; scoffing at his suggestions and secretly harbouring a hope that I would get my way on the day.

You won’t remember me:

Enduring hours and hours of torturous pain, gritting my teeth during painful examinations and sobbing in terror when your little heartbeat started to fade.

You won’t remember me:

Pushing with strength I didn’t know I had (and don’t know if I will ever have again) to get you here safely. To make sure that cord tightening around your neck wasn’t the last thing you felt. To make sure that the first thing you saw was our faces, the face of parents who will never leave you, always love you and move mountains and earth to protect you.

You won’t remember me:

Watching you sleep. Stroking your head, making solemn promises into your little ears that I would always look after you. I will always look after you. I know you understand this now, but for all the times you can’t remember, keep this close to your heart.

You won’t remember me; I will remember for both of us.

***

About the Author

Alison Langley

Alison is a former teacher who has given up her teaching position in a British school, to spend more time with her three small children, whilst pursuing her dream of becoming a writer. Alison writes at , her blog is a light-hearted look at life as a wife and mother; often recounting stories of calamity and chaos, told with a hint of sarcasm and an awful lot of love. What Mum should have told me focuses on turning your worst day into a good story, and always managing to laugh at herself in the process.