You are 9 weeks today. Your vital organs are formed, your gender has been determined. You are twice the size now then when we saw you on the screen two weeks ago. You are nothing short of a miracle. I wake, I eat, I sleep, I move around and all the time you are growing, feeding off my bloodstream, breathing in the world around you. Can you feel what I feel? Do you know that today I feel tired, a bit grumpy, my head is fuzzy, my nose runny with the early symptoms of hayfever? Do you feel my weariness with this premature heat that engulfs the flat, stifling the air?

Time is starting to move quickly and already you are almost 9 weeks and we have nearly cleared that first hurdle. You're a good child. I know that because you are not causing me any trouble. You made your presence known those first two weeks. Got me up during the night to eat and made sure I was looking after the both of us. But see, I'm doing just mighty fine now and you have settled into a quiet slumber trusting me to make the right decisions. I've got my energy back too now that all my concentration isn't focused on processing a complex web of emotions. What's more, your Daddy and I are holding onto our dream, holding on just real tight. As soon as you join us, then we can realise it. Together. The three of us. And then there were three.

Little one. That's what you are. Exactly 12 mm. Your father and I saw you today, a tiny spec on the screen, heart beating as strong as an ox. Just 7 weeks and 2 days exactly.

Your Daddy and I knew that that was your age - we didn't need an early scan to prove it, We both knew it could only be that beautiful Saturday in March when, hidden away, we grew enchanted by the romance of Amelie and brought you into the world. What better start in life than to be born of such intimate love.

So tired I can't write. So tired I can't sleep. Is this nature preparing me for when you are here? If so, I'd rather wait till then thank you very much.

Four thirty a.m.

Somehow I think you've inherited the early morning gene.

It's only natural to feel a bit scared. Already, in just 12 days I have read too much. I know that raw fish is a no no. Prawns, mussels, forget it. Stay clear of smelly, runny cheese – don't want Listeria. Haven't had your rubella injection? Don't go near small children. As for tinned fish everyday – you're in BIG trouble lady. All this, all this is fine. I never was a cheese fan and sushi nights out just don't fit with our budget. But the one thing I have read and the one thing I keep coming back to is this: 1 in 4. Twenty-five per cent. That's like me in the waiting room at Elsdale Street surgery, with just 3 other pregnant women and one of us will miscarry. At 7 weeks I won't even know if I'm that lucky 75% for another 5 weeks.

Now do you see why I'm scared?

You.

I have always known you. Your quiet presence, patiently waiting behind the stage door for your entrance in life.

Now it is here. Now it is your time and I feel you daily, hourly with the new changes to my body.

You're just 1 cm right now. So tiny yet already I feel a sense of responsibility and nurture that only a mother can feel. I feel protective. I want to do you right and that means for the first time in many years I am doing right by me. Just as I am giving you life, so too do you give it back to me.

But it is not just you and me. Each day as we grow, I grow closer to your father. This thing we have done, are doing together, it's greater than anything we've done before. It's humbling (and I know we both feel it ) that what is happening is older than time itself.

It wasn't all that hard to do and yet, it's nothing short of amazing.