The Gift of Gabriella

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was expecting a boy. To me this was fact. I had no medical proof of the gender. I didn’t want or need any. I had my own special powers. I innately believed that the little being I was carrying was a boy. And for me, this belief was enough. I gave him a name. He was to be Alexander, after my late grandfather Alexander Robert Trevor Gray. I bought blue paint for the nursery. I even painted a whole wall myself before my ever-pragmatic husband intervened and toned the blue to a more gender-neutral grey. I kept aside all my eldest’s clothes. I envisaged another version of my son. I prepared myself for the arrival of our little boy. Somewhere in my psyche I’d convinced myself that I wouldn’t ever have girls. I’d be a mom to boys. That was that. I had nothing against girls. I just didn’t think that I’d be a good mother to a girl. I figured that boys were simple. Girls were complex. I wasn’t adept at complex – so simple is what I’d get. I had it all figured out.

At around 8am on the 1st of November 2011, our gynecologist delivered our healthy 3.75-kilogram baby. Into my arms he presented a dark haired, chubby-cheeked little girl. A little girl! I was in complete and utter shock. I’m ashamed to admit that for a while in that post-delivery drug-induced state, I actually believed that there had been a mix-up. Someone else had my boy. And I had been mistakenly given this little girl. She wasn’t mine. Despite my insane protests, I was kindly reassured that there was no mistake. She’d come from me. She was my baby. She was the complete antithesis of what I’d imagined. Of what I’d expected. My son was a bald, skinny and quiet little chap. He barely made a peep when he was born. I was holding a baby with a mop of dark hair, she was chubby and she screamed like a banshee the moment she'd drawn her first breath. And she was a girl. The anesthetist remarked “she’s a feisty one your daughter”. My daughter! The sound of that word ‘daughter’ was so foreign. In my mind I kept repeating, “I have a daughter, I have a daughter.” While my husband went with the nurse to bath her while I was being stitched, I wept. I wept at the shock of it all. I wept for being so stupid. For being so stubborn. For failing to honour her with the proper welcome into the world that she deserved. For allowing my own fears and insecurities to rob her of the first nurturing embrace she needed. For the shell-shocked fumble she ended up getting. On that morning in that theatre room of Parklands Hospital, I made a couple of vows. I vowed that I would get over myself. To her I vowed that she would be loved. She was my daughter. I was her mother. She would be loved.

And so began the process of getting to know my little girl. Of her getting to know me. Learning how to be her mother - a role that’s an ever-evolving journey rather than a destination absolute. I have written a lot about the wisdom I’ve gained from our son. The lessons I’m received from from him on how to live with feeling, to express oneself honestly no matter how difficult or painful. Truth is that I’ve also been taught so much from a little girl who I never gave the courtesy of a place in my imagined destiny. In just shy of two years of life, she’s shown me that love can be unconditional. She’s shown me that happiness can be found in a smile, a laugh, a song and a dance. There’s such uncomplicated joy in our little girl, it positively radiates from her. She’s been such a comfort in this time of transition. She’s been a constant for me. A constant source of delight. I understand that we’ve got a long journey ahead. Our relationship will go through seasons and not all of them will be good. Some will be tough. But I can honestly say that I’ve been blessed with a little soul who has taught me that happiness is a choice. No matter where one is. A million miles from normal. Under the most foreign of circumstance. One can choose to take the good from life. Find the positives. Belt out the Lumineers’ Ho Hey and dance around the living room like a lunatic with two littlies in tow. Jump on the bed and have tickle-fests after bath. Sing the Barney song in the car. Play peek-a-boo until it’s not possible to do it even just one more time. Moments of joy are everywhere. In the mundane. In the routine. They’re not just reserved for special occasions.



When I get home in the evening, I open the front door and every day without fail, there will be a little body that slams like a rocket into my legs. A greeting of giddy glee and pure unadulterated delight. I lift her into my arms she rests her head on my chest. She’s all big blue eyes, blonde curls and soft skin. “Love you”, I whisper. To which she replies, “Mommy I love you much. I love you most.” 



I never wanted a little girl. Now I cannot imagine a life without this girl. My daughter. We’re far away from that theatre room in Parklands Hospital. In so many ways. We’ve travelled a great distance together. I look forward to the rest of the journey with this precious gift. A beautiful happy little girl called Gabriella who has taught me to laugh more and worry less.