My little girl is 16

My firstborn, Lydia, is 16 tomorrow, and, as usual, I'm having my birthday eve reminiscences.
The second child is not nearly as lifechanging as the first, although the arrival of little Gabe three and a half years later would certainly shake things up a bit.
But when you have your firstborn, you go from single (even if you are married, I think) to family.
The shared act of going through labour, birth, and the early days in hospital, and then bringing home a newborn are indelibly printed on my brain. Such a special time. Cocooned as you are against the outside world, your sole focus this new family unit and the love (and challenges) it brings.
This tiny baby, so amazingly beautiful (even though she was wonky and lopsided, we thought she was divine).
We brought her home to Wickham, where we would also later bring Gabe, to our home that used to be a maternity hospital, run by Nurse Bundoch. There was a ghost, a friendly ghost, mother or midwife, who would walk up the hall and check on the baby from the doorway. Chills me still, but not in a bad way. I don't think Lydi could see her (neither could I, only sense her) but Gabe definitely could. He would crane his neck to see around me from his change table to look to the door where she would appear. He wasn't afraid, just curious.
And now Lydi is 16, or will be when she wakes. And the darling little brother she so cared for and protected is 12. How lovely and smart and beautiful she is. How thoughtful and kind (and quite the opposite some times!) We've got her a bundle of purple goodies she'll open first thing, then head off to school, where no doubt there will be balloons and lollies and well wishes galore, then we'll go to get her learner's permit (good grief) and come home to enjoy one of her favourite dinners, lamb roast with rosemary potatoes, with the family.
I'm so proud of my big girl, who will always be my little girl. And so full of love for both my babies.