For years and years, the only thing I wished for at Christmas was a baby.

Though I couldn’t put it on any list or casually throw it into conversation while at the office water cooler, falling pregnant was the one gift I yearned for – and the one thing I feared would never happen.

Having children for some women, some couples, just happens.

For others, it never does.

And for others, it takes time. Lots of time. And doctor’s appointments. And hospital visits. And tests. And needles. And months – years – of heartache.

I was one of the latter. And even though this Christmas will be my little boy’s third, I still have moments when I can’t quite believe it.

When my tot smiles with delight as we put on our matching festive pyjamas, then says “Sonny one, mummy one” while patting our candy-cane clad legs, I could almost cry.When he oh-so-gently turns the glass snow globe I bought his daddy more than a decade ago, as we celebrated our first Christmas in our first home, I want to squeeze him and never stop.

When he watches me write Christmas cards and then, with a look of serious determination, gets his felt tip pens, some paper, sits next to me, drawing and telling me “Sonny help. I do too.” I want to bottle up the moment and live there forever.

Sonny Jim will probably never know, or fully understand, quite how longed for he was. But I hope he’ll grow up confident in the knowledge of how utterly loved he is.

Me attempting to make our Christmases picture perfect has nothing to do with how we’re seen by the rest of the world (though I do often pop pictures up on Instagram) and everything to do with creating memories with my boy, which I hope will become a tangible tapestry of love.

Because that’s surely what the magic of Christmas really is, right?