Happy birthday Maggie Moo...

This day last year I was dandering around the corridors of Altnagelvin Hospital in my night attire, intermittently hugging walls and calling my husband very, very bad names.
I had not finally cracked under the pressure of being a super multi-tasking working mother of three noisy, messy boys. We were about to welcome our baby daughter, Maolíosa, to the world.
We had discovered we were expecting her the week my father passed away from cancer. From the very beginning of her life’s journey she was a light in the dark.
I had a pretty non-eventful pregnancy apart from epic morning sickness that had me pray, on board the Derry to Dublin bus, that the Lord might take me away from the awful nausea. Perhaps maybe to a seat across the bus, away from my Mum and her vast array of pungent egg and onion sandwiches.
I survived for three months on a diet of still water and fruity chews. Apple flavoured sweets were my only means of consuming five-a-day, although I did guess that the only true apple content was the picture on the front of the packet.
We decided not to find out if this baby was to be another boy. We had wanted to keep it a surprise. I had long ago resigned myself to the fact that boys were the norm in the O’Neill bloodline and I would probably never have a daughter. I prepared a cupboard of truck-themed sleepsuits and Bob the Builder t-shirts.
One of the best days of my life was when, three weeks before our baby was due, the midwife inadvertently informed us that our baby was a girl. I remember asking the midwife to check again as the husband turned a ghostly white colour. I’m in those 30 seconds it took him to move from a standing position to a seating one that his life flashed before his eyes – him standing with his just emptied wallet, him brandishing a shot gun as he answers the door to her boyfriend, him walking her down the aisle, a vice-like grip on her arm.
As we walked out of the hospital that day I felt pure happiness, undiluted joy. It had been a long time. We had been wading through suffocating grief for months. Suddenly I could see the pretty blossoms on the trees on the walk back to our car, appreciate the warm sunshine on my face, see the joy and beauty in the world. Such was the power of our baby girl.
Three weeks later we were back at the same hospital, walking the corridors as the midwives suggested. We turned one corner and came across a vast number of my media colleagues. Someone, it may have been the Queen, was opening a new wing of the hospital and they were there in force with their TV crews and cameras.
It may have been the shock of almost appearing on the TV news in my nightie, make-up less and hair in a mess, but our baby girl was born very shortly afterwards ¬– all plans for a peaceful waterbirth, whale music and dimmed lighting were forgotten.
Just months after my father passed away, descending our family into darkest grief, our baby girl arrived in the world, bringing with her sunshine and joy to our house.
She brought with her a sense of peace – and in a house positively brimming with male testosterone that was most welcome. She got a nickname – as is tradition in the O’Neill house. She joined Dango, Caolan Baylan and Finnbo O’Neillio to become Maggie Moo. She has absolutely no bovine traits at all, the name just had a nice ring to it.
She turns one year old this week. She is a gentle, giggling bundle of pink loveliness and we adore her.
Happy birthday Maggie Moo.
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