A child is born

It was a Christmas when I knew that Christmas would never be the same again.

*

It is December 2020.

A global pandemic rages outside my window. The world is unraveling in ways I can barely articulate: fear, worry, so much death.

I lie on the cold floor of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling, holding my 17-month-old close against my body. She claws at my mouth. Fairy lights twinkle outside my door. An iPad plays the audio of another press conference. Soon, her father will tell people on the internet that so many got sick today, so many died. Numbers. It happens at 5:30 p.m. every day. I start to hate the hands of the clock.

He’s in a room where he must distance himself from colleagues to stay safe, but he’s there so he can tell people what is happening.

I relate.

Back in our room.

She is of me. She is me. But I cannot find the child in my arms. She is not in the room. She is not here with me.

Her words left one day. Her eyes went somewhere. Elsewhere. Somewhere. Anywhere. She’s not here anymore - not as she was.

I clutch her feet and trace her nails. She adores me, but she can’t look into my eyes. My very existence in her orbit brings as much comfort as it does distress.

I have to learn to love her in new ways. I will do this.

I sit up and I know.

I know in the knowingness of it all, projecting and thinking, as one does.

I know.

I am her mother.

I choose not to say it for a while, and we have some more time where it’s not a thing.

A something for people to worry about.

We are hardly seeing anyone anyway, so what good is bringing it up now? It’s lockdown. We have no visitors or distractions.

To voice it feels like crossing a line, making it real. So I carry it alone, performing hope for myself.

I know, and yet I know nothing.

Christmas wonder abounds. There are lights, presents, and face masks. There is so much to hide.

I crawl into her cot and beg her words to come back. Old MacDonald had a farm E-I-E-I-O. Clap handies.

I am performing for nobody but myself.

I know, but I don’t want to know.

I have nobody to say it to.

I start to think that some people in my life think I’m mad - or worse for them, depressed. That’s what they think. This is a pandemic, and it’s her first baby. She’s lonely. Projecting.

We go to mass. She cries and cries and cries. I haven’t taken her to a mass since.

We exchange gifts.

She loves lights, noise, my face, and eventually, my eyes again. I love her so much I could burst.

I exchange no lived reality with people who love me but no longer know me. I am different now.

I get to know her again.

It is new. I start to see her in different ways. I imagine her being handed to me again, and we start again.

She is here. She is she, and we are hers.

We silently explore where life is leading us.

We decide to have another baby. She is conceived instantly, which will make sense when we meet her and realise that she has always been here.

Life unfurls, as it does.

*

It is Christmas 2021. There is another baby. She came in September - a new school-year baby.

Her scan at 20 weeks showed a marker for a possible syndrome. This news was for other people to pour over, worry about, panic about. I just continued growing her.

We love her already.

I hold her sister to my bump. The three of us girls are wrapped up in time forever. I cannot worry the way other people worry. There is too much to be done.

B is here, in every sense. She has twiggy legs and refuses a bottle. I knew her immediately. She lives on my breast for six months solidly. D sits at my feet.

Clutching our small bird, we tell people that we are getting an assessment for D.

This is our news to share, but it becomes their grief. Their pain. Their sadness. Nobody comes to my door.

They start looking at B. They don’t so much look at her but observe her. They panic. They know this story.

I take every day as it comes. The day doesn’t come.

Nobody holds us and tells us we’re good at this. I wish they would.

We take many pictures of the two of them. We don't get much sleep and I am always awake. I have two newborns.

I am in motherhood, so deeply.

I am changed. We love them beyond any explanation.

*

It is January 2022. We go into a small office where the assessment happens.

I am a shell.

There are tests with cups and balls concealed. They are ignored. We complete what we can and leave.

I am alone. My husband has to wait in the car.

A week later, it is confirmed.

We sit on our sitting-room floor and worry and worry and worry. We cry and cry and cry. We will never manage this. We are so alone.

I try to get help. I can’t get help. The help doesn’t come.

We spend so much money. We learn and learn and learn. We draw maps of understanding. We hold each other at night and cling to each other’s glances.

We find a preschool place. This is a plan.

We start, and it is hard. But we have something. Something.

*

It is Christmas 2022.

A person trusted to us tells us they’ve Googled the name of someone working with our child. Mistreatment. Complaint.

I spiral.

I didn’t Google it, and I got it wrong. I should have known.

Is it something? It’s nothing.

She has to have somewhere to go.

We don’t tell people what we know. We write a long email to school leadership, and because I don’t know how else to respond, I apologise and empathise with them. This is a tricky situation for you.

She will leave that school in spring.

We start to tell people about her, and her needs. But then, we stop.

People feel like they can say anything to us. They clear their own in-tray of whatabouteries.

I appear strong.

I love my husband more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I avoid most people now.

It is a quiet Christmas.

I don't even try to meet up with people.

*

It is 2023. It is Christmas again.

Our small girl is not autistic, and we know this is a relief to people.

People start to pity us, so we withdraw. I withdraw.

We Christmas so well together. We are safe together - four walls in our four walls.

We go to the homes of grandparents.

We realise that we will never probably ever again see the inside of some people's homes.

I think about all of the people in my life who have fallen away.

We are learning to do things our way. Another way is possible.

*

It is now Christmas 2024.

We are ready.

The weight of past seasons - the struggles, the uncertainty, the loneliness - has reshaped us into a family that knows its own rhythms. We’ve learned to embrace the unconventional, to build a life that works for her and, by extension, for us.

This year, Christmas is not about traditions that strain against her needs or expectations imposed by others. It is about creating the best version of an ordinary day. This is what suits her, what soothes her. So, we let go of everything that doesn’t.

We keep her safe, watching over her as though her joy is a fragile flame, vulnerable to the cold gusts of a world that doesn’t understand. We balance carefully, exposing her to just enough of the season’s magic - lights, music, family gatherings - before pulling back, knowing when to retreat. We don’t explain why anymore. It isn’t necessary. People may ask, but we’ve learned to step away without justifying our choices. What we know is enough.

The food we prepare is safe, familiar, and comforting. There are no experiments, no indulgences for tradition’s sake. Instead, we lean into what works: the meals she loves, the rituals that calm her, the moments that make her feel steady. We keep blankets close, ready to wrap ourselves in their soft folds when the noise of the world feels too much.

Together, we’ve carved out a Christmas that is ours - gentle, warm, and protective. It may not look like anyone else’s, but it is perfect in its simplicity. This year, we own our time, our choices, and our peace. We know what she needs, and we give it freely, without compromise.

This is how we love her best. This is how we love each other best.

This is our Christmas.