She was an extraordinary sight: crumpled, wrinkled, puffy cheeked and candy-floss pink. Yet, nestling and wriggling in the crook of my arm, she was the most breathtaking, heart-stoppingly beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I have spent the last 48 hours just gazing at her, listening out for her every gurgle and burp and almost cheering when she filled her first nappy. For the first time in a very, very long time, things make sense again in my world.

It's been a long journey for Kerri and me and we have waited almost seven years for Lilah. Along the way we lost Milly-Molly-Mandy, Conan, April and Eve to miscarriage. Now, I know that some people think that it's mawkish to give names to the unborn; but for us, each of those pregnancies was about real people and real hopes. And when we lost the pregnancies we knew that we weren't just losing a collection of cells: we were losing a son or daughter.

Conan was the hardest loss of all. He was 17 weeks and his heart just stopped beating. Labour had to be induced and the following day we were allowed to see him. He had been placed in a container not much bigger than a shoe box, with a little blanket across him. He was barely the size of my hand and he was gorgeous. We cremated his little body and scattered the ashes on a front lawn at Stormont, the place where Kerri and I had met and where his sister, Megan, had roamed the corridors since she was about three.

There hasn't been a single day when I haven't thought about the family we never had. There isn't a single day when I don't stand at my office window in the Assembly and look at the place where Conan's ashes were scattered. I went up yesterday morning and sat on the bench near the spot and remembered how Megan had roly-polyed her way down the hill, chasing the ashes and shouting "run, Conan, run!" And even now, and knowing that Lilah Liberty is alive and well in a ward nearby, I still found myself reduced to tears when I thought of the boy I could have been taking to see his new sister.

As you can imagine, the last nine months have been really hard for us. We knew back in February that Kerri was pregnant again, and even though we never spoke about it in so many words, we both knew that another loss was possible. But all you can do is carry on and hope for the best.

Every single day was a challenge. Every scan was accompanied by the fear of what we would see and what news we would be given. We took nothing for granted. I lived in dread of the unexpected phone call from Kerri about blood, or cramp, or any of the other tell-tale signs of miscarriage. I went through meeting after meeting in which people talked to me about work-related matters; yet my mind was almost entirely focused on a baby in a womb. And if it was hard for me, I can only imagine what it must have been like for Kerri, who had to deal with the physical as well as the psychological aspects of it all.

We had spoken to consultants in Belfast and London and hadn't been given much more than the opinion that there didn't seem to be any real reason why we couldn't have a child. This time round though, and in response to a test result from London, Kerri was on a course of injections for most of the time. No one could guarantee that the injections would make a difference - but hey, we had nothing to lose by trying!

I wouldn't say that we are experts on the subject, but Kerri and I have had to learn more about miscarriage than most people would really want to know. It happens far more often than people realise (anywhere between one in four and one in six pregnancies) and in the vast majority of cases a specific reason cannot be found to account for the loss. And yes, miscarriage, particularly recurrent miscarriage, is tough on a couple.

Luckily, Kerri and I have always been very close and we have actually managed to become closer through all of this. Neither of us likes to be told what is and isn't normal and both of us are fond of beating the odds. So if anyone reading this has gone through what we have gone through, our advice would be to carry on. It won't be easy at times and there will be all sorts of spoken and unspoken fears to face up to - but the end product is always worth it. In our case we have strengthened an already strong relationship and proved, if proof was ever really necessary, that loving and being loved is all that really matters in life.

I'm heading off now to see Lilah: to set her back in the crook of my arm and spend hours just gazing at her while holding Kerri's hand. If there's a better way of spending a day then I can't think of it.
She will be coming home in the next few days, to share her life with us, an 11-year old sister, two cats, two dogs and an extended family of in-laws and outlaws. She is already blessed in having a mum who went through hell to deliver her and a big sister who is just relieved that she finally has a living, breathing little sister to play with. Megan has been a trooper through all of this and we are very lucky that she has been so strong through difficult times.

So, if we can manage over the years to give Lilah Liberty even a fraction of the happiness that she has already given us, then we will be a very happy family! Finally, to Kerri and Meg: I love you both very much and thank you for everything.