Meeting James
I’ve always fantasised about time travel—not to witness grand historical events, but to revisit moments that were so precious, yet so overwhelming, they slipped away. In my mind, time travel would be for observation only, like a ghost silently standing in the corner, watching without interfering.
If I could go back, I’d choose the morning of 1 April 2004—the day my son was born. It was more than just a pivotal moment; it was a transformation. I had longed for motherhood for as long as I could remember, and when James arrived, it didn’t just change my life—it became my life.
In this fantasy, I’d watch as my then-husband rolled over to silence the 3 am alarm. He glanced at the empty bed, knowing I’d been pacing the house all night. The doctor had told us to return to the hospital at 4 am for a C-section, and in the still darkness of an Autumn morning, we were preparing to leave as two and return as three.
Ghostly observer me would sit in the backseat of our old Volkswagen as we drove the deserted highway, both of us silent, lost in thoughts of what the next few hours would bring. Would we have a son or a daughter? Whose features would the baby have? Would everything go well?
At the hospital, we waited. And waited. For paperwork, for preparation, for the moment our lives would change forever. When they finally wheeled me into theatre, I wish I could have whispered to my younger self some of the wisdom I have now. That the sleepless nights would pass, that the days would be long but the years short, and that before she knew it, she would have an incredible young man by her side.
As the anaesthetist tried to ease my mind with stories of Winnie the Pooh, I wasn’t really listening. But then, in a moment that felt both surreal and utterly real, I heard the doctor say, “Today is the day.” A perfect line was made on my abdomen, and though I didn’t flinch, the reality of it all began to sink in.
The radio was playing a Backstreet Boys song—a band I wouldn’t normally choose, but the lyrics seemed to fit…
“There you are, wild and free
Reaching out like you needed me
A helping hand to make it right
I am holding you all through the night.”
Then, suddenly, there he was. A tiny face, a wail that shattered the silence. I looked away from the anaesthetist and saw my son for the first time—a robust and beautiful boy making his presence known, as he would continue to do throughout his life.
And so our journey began. If I could, I’d lean in, kiss my younger self on the forehead, and whisper, “You’ve got this.” Somehow, looking back, I think she heard me anyway.
