Dear Emma, today is the last day of 2018!

Some days, especially when I see how you've grown, I am astounded by how time flies. Now, reflecting back on the last 365 days I am even more amazed at how much can happen in a single year.

I lost my mom this year. And so, it will always be remembered as a year of stark contrasting emotions. So, contradictory. Growing as a mother. Grieving a mother.

There are not enough words nor any number of tears that can quantify the loss of my mother. There's a rising panic that I feel when I realize in absolute terror that I am about to live in a year that my mother never existed in.

Since my conception I have never encountered a world that she didn't occupy.

I'm devastated knowing that it has been 306 days since I last heard her voice.

305 since I last saw and touched her.

Every tomorrow is another day further away from our last point of contact.

And then there is the plateau upon which you and I reside. Where all that you are and all the love that I have for you is entirely untainted by the grief that I feel.

To explain my state of mind: I am not depressed and or looking to you for healing.

I don't need to dig deep to lift myself out of any sort of funk in order to appreciate your sweet face. What we share is so easy and so natural and so massive.

I feel like my mom’s absence doesn't take away from you. Rather it's as though your presence enhances my appreciation for the mothering I experienced. Loving you has given me insight into the love my mother had for me.

She is the voice in my head on nights when, like so many mothers, I feel that my tank is empty and then stumble across a secret stash to pour into your care.

She's the creative inspiration when I arrange the food on your plate into smiling faces and when I sing you songs with crazy voices and funny actions.

Sometimes she's in the story I tell you while we're out for a drive. Sometimes she's the choice of song I sing as you fall asleep.

Your aunty and I sometimes take turns reminding one another that we are less sad than we are grateful to have the kinds of memories that we do.

And so, as midnight approaches and with you hopefully fast asleep, I intend looking 2018 square in the eye as I say goodbye. And, thank you.

This year I brought me her first birthday. Your first birthday. My first birthday. CT without her. First Christmas without her.

What was taken from me helped to build me. And what 2018 gave me, built you.

I have a whole wonderful new bank full of incredible highs.

So here is what 2018 did that was beautiful:

I heard you laugh for the very first time! Right from your belly, at the top of Aunty Nicci's staircase. (Feb)

You, daddy and I sat on the floor of a holiday rental in CT (March). Significant because it was the first time you sat up all on your own!

You cut teeth.

We cried happy tears as you took your first steps.

You took your first long haul flight.

You drank milk that my body produced and ate food prepared by my hands.

You graduated to the big bath tub.

You learnt the concept of throwing a ball, where socks and shoes go, to flick light switches on and off, that touching screens make them light up and that knocking on doors is a thing.

You started clapping your hands, blowing kisses and waving goodbye.

You laugh at sneezes and still have a dramatic fake cough.

You love animals and children and dancing and music.

You can’t resist opening drawers or lifting t-shirts. You hate the word "no" and you go "aaaahhhh" followed by a chuckle after every sip of water.

We started 2018, literally at 00h01 with a crying little girl, woken by the new year’s fireworks display. You weighed around 2.7kgs and we thought (and still do) that every inch of you was pure perfection.

You've grown so much and brought us so much joy. My wish for our family for the next year is just an abundance of happiness and health.

Happy 2019 sweetheart.

All my love, this year and every year, Mommy.

Xx