A Moment in my Day

Just occasionally, caught off-guard in a rare moment of calm during a hectic day, I am able to experience life with such clarity that it is almost painful.

I was sitting today with the Very Small Boy. We were in the garden, perched side by side on the back step, laughing together at the slurping sound he was deliberately making as he drank his juice; his big brown eyes filled with delight. I put my arm around him and we looked up at the crisp white sheets on the line, flapping optimistically in the breezy autumn sunshine. The Small Girl and her friend, The Girl Next Door, were laughing and chasing each other through the neighbour’s garden. I smiled at their squeals of delight and closed my eyes, savouring the warm sun on my face as I breathed in the buttery sweetness of baking flapjacks drifting out through the open door behind us.

When I reach the end of my life, it is moments like these, I realised, that I wish to remember. For we all experience the momentous things: life, birth, death, marriage… But what really shapes our lives are the little things that happen in between – beautiful, fleeting moments that catch us off-guard; threatening to slip by, unremembered.

Life in the Fast Lane

“Why do you always accelerate towards speed bumps?” asked DH the other day as I was driving us back from Sunday lunch at the pub.
“What do you mean?” I replied, puzzled
"You accelerate towards them, then slow down suddenly, then accelerate off again really fast” he said, before adding thoughtfully “you always do it”

I can’t say that I’ve ever noticed this peculiarity of my driving, but I was thinking about DH’s comments during a recent run, when I realised that I run in the same way I apparently drive: with short bursts of speed, going all-out wherever possible before slowing down, exhausted, completely unable to pace myself.

The summer holidays have come and gone, passing in a slow blur of languid activity and frantic listlessness. For the whole eight weeks, I was entirely committed to focussing on the looming prospect of Big School. And so I was slightly thrown when the Small Girl, in pristine uniform and pigtails, her school bag almost as big as she is, quietly accepted her new status as schoolgirl, and settled happily into her new routine of lessons, packed lunches and playground drama. Perhaps, after all, it was destined to be a bigger adjustment for me than it was for her.

“So what happened in your first assembly this morning, Sausage?” I asked her on the walk home from school, a few days into term.
“The Archdeacon came to talk to us!” she replied.
“Oh lovely – and what did he say? Did he tell you a story?”
“Yes, about Baby Cheesus” she replied quietly, frowning.
“Baby Jesus… and what did he do in the story?” I prompted

The Small Girl thought for a second, before replying “he came to Newbridge and fixed a hole in the road!”. The she skipped off ahead to peer at a snail making its way slowly along the pavement.

There is no inherent reason why I should feel such a huge sense of urgency about everything I do. The only conclusion I can draw is that I am constantly spurred on by a persistent anxiety that sits in the pit of my stomach and is as disquieting as it is groundless. Because I really have no reason to feel anxious - if you had asked me ten years ago where I hoped my life would lead, I would have described almost exactly the life I have today… all I have to do now is teach myself to slow down enough to actually enjoy it.

The Girl With Tears In Her Eyes

I packed the car early on Friday morning, and after breakfast the children and I (DH was planning to join us later) set off for Kingscourt and Nanny and Grandpa’s house. DH and I had been invited to a work colleague’s wedding in the North, so we had planned to go via his parents’ house, leaving the children with them overnight.

The car journey was, as anticipated, somewhat challenging. Ten minutes into the two-hour drive, the Small Girl began to fuss relentlessly:

“Mum, are we nearly there?”
“No darling, it will be a little while longer yet”
“Oh… can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s house?” she countered
“It’s probably not a good idea to start looking just yet” I replied, already feeling exasperated.
“Can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s car then, Mum?” she asked, her voice starting to sound mildly hysterical.
“NANNY!” shouted the Very Small Boy in agreement.

I turned up the radio and began to sing along, in the hope of distracting them.

“Muuuummm! Stop singin’!” whined the Small Girl, with a very good approximation of teenage exasperation.
“Oh – don’t you like my singing?” I replied, sounding hurt.
“Well it’s OK… except for the words” She paused, before adding decisively “and the tune.”

When we arrived at the wedding the following day, I was feeling understandably nervous at the prospect of not drinking. I have to admit that, having only decided a couple of weeks ago to turn my back on alcohol, the idea of enforced sobriety whilst all around me were rolling drunk didn’t particularly appeal. And for the first few hours of socialising, I did miss that reassuring glass of wine in my hand. For one thing, it would have distracted me from missing the children. But in the end, I decided, remaining sober was simply a matter of having slightly less fun the night before and significantly more fun the morning after.

Shortly before making my excuses and retiring to bed, I sat idly near the band, watching the wedding guests on the dance floor. And suddenly I felt incredibly touched by the small details: an old couple dancing intently but frowning with serious concentration; a group of carefully groomed young women (their dresses complex, their hairstyles more so), tripping over their heels and laughing self-consciously; the Groom’s awkward movements as he danced with his bride, trying carefully to avoid stepping on the dirty hem of her beautiful dress.

I suppose to the casual observer, I must have looked like someone who’d had a few too many, but my tears really had nothing at all to do with alcohol. I was just a girl who was overwhelmed, suddenly, by the frailty of humanity, in all its beautiful vulnerability.

Extremism

“I don’t know why you do it to yourself, Darling” remarked DH as I set off in the drizzle at 8.30am on Sunday morning for a run. As I pounded along the country lanes, a straggling assortment of farm dogs snapping at my heels, I wondered what he had meant. To me, it made perfect sense because I’ve made up my mind about this: I will become a runner, and I will therefore go running three times a week, regardless of the weather, the ridiculously early hour or the fact that I happen to have a nasty throat infection.

“Fair play to ye!” called out a pyjama-clad woman tending her front garden, as I sped past feeling slightly surreal (probably on account of my temperature).
“It’s got to be done!” I gasped grimly in reply, and I meant it: since having the Small Girl four years ago, I have wanted and needed to tone up and lose some weight. Once the Very Small Boy settled at Playschool and I had a little time, I decided to throw myself into the business of Getting Fit.

As I made my way, red-faced and breathless, back through our estate towards our house, it occurred to me that I am a person of extremes; whatever I happen to be doing, whether it’s cooking Sunday lunch, crocheting a throw, getting fit or simply going for a few drinks, I do it to the extreme – and with a single-mindedness that occasionally borders on the obsessive.

“Well, I’m running a lot, and I’ve lost a stone”, I told Granddad on the telephone this week.
“Mummy, which stone did you lose?” piped up a Small Voice in the background, reminding me that, fanaticism aside, it is really best to try not to take oneself too seriously.

Still, I’ve decided – and this is quite momentous, even in view of my current puritanical inclinations – to give up alcohol. Because as with everything else, when I’m doing it (which is admittedly rarely), I’m usually overdoing it. And since I’ve decided that I’m Being Healthy, I might as well take things to the extreme and give up that unpleasantly seductive poison altogether.

But I wouldn't have made the decision unless I absolutely meant to see it through: when I make up my mind to do something, there's no going back. That's the unexpectedly useful thing about being an extremist.

Cupcake Massacre

“What does a horse say, Pootle?” I asked the Very Small Boy one afternoon last week as we browsed through his animal picture book.
“Beep beep!” he replied enthusiastically.

I was attempting to distract him while the Small Girl decorated a cake. A plain sponge, a spatula, a tin of chocolate frosting and assorted pots of sprinkles, and half an hour later, we had a monstrous, toppling mound of chocolatey goo for her to take to Playschool the following morning to share with her friends.

“Mum, am I four yet?” She asked me, loading a spatula-full of chocolate frosting into her mouth and then wiping her sleeve across her face.
“No darling, you’ll be four tomorrow –when you wake in the morning, then you’ll be four and after Playschool, all your friends will be coming over for your party!”
“Yaay!” she cried, leaping up and down, and I beamed at her infectious enthusiasm, despite my growing dread at the prospect of having my lovely house taken over by hordes of screaming preschoolers.

The party the following day was incredibly hard work; besides baking several types of cupcake, I had undertaken to create a “Finding Nemo” cake, as well as providing sandwiches and snacks and party bags. And then there were balloons to blow up, presents to wrap and party games to plan. And that was before the children arrived: screeching and running and throwing and shouting and trampling bits of sticky cake into the floor. But of course in the end, all that mattered was that the Small Girl had a fabulous time with all her friends, dashing happily about in the sunshine and stuffing themselves silly with sweet treats.

Some time later, after all her guests had left and the Small Girl sat happily in the kitchen playing with her presents, DH was sweeping bits of wrapping paper and used paper plates into the recycle bin as I chiselled cupcake remnants from the kitchen floor.

“That was hard work!” he remarked.
“Yes well… at least we only have to do it once a year!” I replied.

Then we both turned with slow and dawning horror in the direction of the Very Small Boy who, oblivious, was standing by the patio door and staring out to the garden where he’d seen a neighbourhood cat.

“Neigh!” he cried, pointing to the cat. And, nodding in quiet agreement with himself, he continued to watch until it leapt delicately over the fence and disappeared out of sight.

A Small Girl is Born

Until I fell pregnant, I had often wondered, as I suppose we all do, whether children would happen for me. Whether I would meet the right person, and when I did, whether we would marry. Whether I would be able to conceive, and if I did, whether my child would be healthy. I remember vividly watching mothers with their children, and longing for that natural and careless love that they seemed to take so much for granted; the casual intimacy that only a mother and child can share.

It’s the Small Girl’s birthday tomorrow, and as ever at this time of year, my thoughts have turned back to that strange time in India, in the run-up to her birth, when I was poised on the brink of motherhood, realising life would never be the same again, but not really knowing how. Restless days, time dragging slowly past: swimming in an empty pool beneath the languid sun, reading in our little apartment, in the rocking chair DH bought me, bare feet on cool marble, basking in the cold rush of air from the a/c unit, waiting…

She was born in Bombay, of course, and twelve days early. My wonderful obstetrician, plumply exuding wealth in her glamorous sari and bright lipstick, insisted I have an early planned cesarean – not only was my baby breech, but there was a length of umbilical cord wrapped worryingly about the neck. Far from the birth I had imagined, it was the first time I experienced the distinct feeling that the life inside me was a little force of its own, and the first time I truly realised that in many ways, having children is all about losing control - and where possible, doing it graciously.

The birth itself remains one of the most strange and surreal experiences of my life. The irony of checking into one of Bombay’s top hospitals was not lost on me: in a country where very many women in my situation would have lost their baby (and possibly their life), here I was being prepped for my operation in a private room with a marble floor, a flat screen television and my own en suite bathroom. Once I was wheeled into theatre and given a spinal block (DH in his green scrubs gripping my hand), the anaesthetist retired to the side of the room, feet up, to read the Times of India while my glamorous obstetrician drifted in to deliver my baby and chat to patients on her mobile phone, held to her ear by a gowned nurse.

I was thrilled that our baby was a little girl; she was tightly swaddled and brought over to me. The first time I set eyes on her, I couldn’t believe that this was my baby; this tiny little bundle with a shock of black hair, who looked nothing at all like me, a little life ready to bloom into a real person and already shattering all my preconceptions about her.

We’ve been having beautiful, hot sunny afternoons recently here in Ireland. Always, feeling the sun’s warmth on my skin reminds me of India. We went for a picnic the other day, the four of us swathed in sun cream, enjoying the luscious green grass and the cloudless blue sky. I was sitting cross-legged, staring into the distance, dreaming of India, when the Small Girl came ambling over and sat herself down on my knee. Casually, I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her sunshine hair, and the realisation came to me: this is what I longed for, all the childless years that came before.

The Princess With The Dirty Face

The Very Small Boy woke early at the weekend, his sleepy wails permeating my peaceful Sunday morning dreams. My heart sank; it was 6.15am.

“I’ll get him, you go back to sleep” said DH, getting out of bed and sighing resignedly.
“Oh! Thanks darling” I muttered, and rolled gratefully into the warm space he left behind, pulling the duvet up over my ears and drifting back serenely towards sleep.

Five minutes later, I heard the small pit-pat of bare feet on the bedroom carpet, and the Small Girl crept into bed beside me and lay down, all curly blonde hair and intense green eyes.

“Mummy?” she asked
“Yes, Sausage?” I replied sleepily.
“Did I have a good sleep?”
I looked at the clock: 6.27am. “Not really darling, it’s still very early. Let’s go back to sleep for a while.” I put my arm around her and tried summon peaceful thoughts.

“Mummy?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Can I have pancakes for breakfast?”
“Of course. When we’ve had a little rest”
“Mummy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Pancakes!” She demanded impatiently, a small finger prying my eyelid open.

I gave in; we got up and went downstairs, where we joined DH and the Very Small Boy, who was sitting in his high chair eating his cereal (“Bye bye!” he sang cheerfully to each spoonful before it disappeared into his mouth).

As I set to work whisking pancake batter, the Small Girl ran off to find her Cinderella dress so that she could eat her breakfast in character. She currently has something of a Princess obsession, which means that we have to endlessly act out various Princess stories, she playing the Princess and I the Evil Queen, Ugly Stepsisters and Prince, all in rapid and exhausting succession.

“Mummy, you be the Wicked Stepmother and you tell me I can’t go to the ball and I have to stay home and do the housework!” she demanded breathlessly after she had finished breakfast.
I sighed. “Why don’t I just put the movie on instead?” I suggested wearily.

“Yaay!” she cried, dashing over to the sofa and making herself comfortable. Then, wiping her syrupy face on the sleeve of her Princess dress, she flicked her other hand in my direction and demanded “Mummy, you go get my crown!”.

And as I trudged back upstairs to get my sticky little Princess her crown, I wondered how I could ever have thought that my children would belong to me. Because right from the minute they first drew breath and uttered their heart-rending newborn cries, those two little people have owned me entirely.

Our Drugs of Choice

For a while, the days and weeks merged together and, caught up in the routine of daily life, I lost myself. And three months after coming off Prozac, I found myself falling, in balletic slow motion, to pieces. Unable to get past the inexplicable tears, sleepless anxiety and squinting headaches, I admitted defeat and went to see the doctor. For it is defeat, really - to confess that I am, at least for now, unable to function adequately without my latest drug of choice: Venlafaxine.

During my last brush with antidepressants, I had the distinct feeling that the drugs were allowing me to be the relaxed, contented person I was always supposed to be. Still, I’m accepting this chemical help reluctantly; if I had a choice, I’d stick to the euphoria of running. My true physical and emotional escape lies in pushing myself to the limit, concentrating on nothing other than a distant point on a winding country road, momentous songs recycling endlessly on my ipod (and the irony of those songs isn’t lost on me: in a past life, I danced to many of them in cavernous clubs, ecstatic on whatever it was we took for kicks back in those days).

For the Small Girl and her Very Small Brother, life is far more simple and life’s pleasures far more bountiful. It was Easter recently, and while the children were distracted playing hide and seek with Uncle Dave (who had come from London to visit), I hid their chocolate eggs in the garden. After giving them both a basket in which to collect their sweet spoils, we turned them loose, screeching with delight (for chocolate is most definitely their drug of choice) into the garden for an egg-hunt.

The Very Small Boy, dispensing with his basket, opted to put all his eggs straight into his mouth, cramming them in with alarming vigour and still managing to cry “more!” in between mouthfulls.

The Small Girl, upon discovering a life-size Easter Bunny, came screeching over to me, and cried:
“Mummy, you tell me you bet I can’t eat all this Easter Bunny!”
“OK darling” I acquiesced, “that’s an enormous Easter Bunny… I bet you can’t eat all of it!”

She gave me a mischievous look, bit off the Easter Bunny’s ear, and through a chocolately mouthful, declared “Mummy, watch and learn!”

Back inside again, the Very Small Boy climbed up onto the sofa with his haul of chocolate, where he sat happily amongst his Easter eggs.

“He’s lost his appeal!” announced Uncle Dave. I looked from Uncle Dave to the Very Small Boy and for a moment was lost for words.
“That chap in Dubai”, he elaborated, nodding towards the radio, “he’s lost his court appeal”.

“Oh!” I cried, relieved. “I thought you meant Baby Pie!”, and I looked at my baby, wide brown eyes filled with delight as he licked his chubby, chocolatey fingers. He still looked very appealing to me. But then again, perhaps I am biased.

Run!

Back in the days before children, when DH and I were working and living in London and had the kind of extra time and money I can now only daydream about, I joined a gym and hired a personal trainer to whip me into shape. I was a size 8 then, and thought nothing of it. These days, my lifestyle has changed beyond recognition. And unfortunately, after two children, so has my figure.

“So what size are you now?” asked DH at the weekend as we were getting ready for bed.
“Twelve” I replied, standing sideways in my underwear before the bedroom mirror and holding my tummy in.
“So you’ve got fifty percent bigger?” he asked in mock amazement. I gave him a withering look and stalked off to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

When I was pregnant with the Small Girl in India, I felt I ought to exercise and so I swam every day. Alone in a still, sapphire pool overlooking the twinklingly distant sea, I swam and swam under the endless Bombay sky and I loved the sun and the water and the feeling of new life inside me.

But I don’t have the time or the resources these days for complicated gym arrangements or swimming pools. So I decided to try running as a means to get back in shape. It’s free, it’s easy and with summer around the corner and the Very Small Boy at playschool, I can fit it into the gaps in my life. I had always thought I hated running, but to my great surprise, I’ve found I love it.

It was DH’s turn for a lie-in on Saturday morning. I got up with the Very Small Boy, who had slept badly and was particularly fussy, clinging to my pyjama-leg and whining as I fixed his breakfast and tried to make myself some tea. After he had eaten and a sleepy Small Girl had joined us, he began to ask for his Daddy.

“Dada? Dada?” he said forlornly, casting about for his father.
“Daddy’s asleep, darling” I explained.
“Ssshhh” he nodded wisely, forefinger to his lips, before tiptoeing to the stairgate, grabbing hold of it and rattling it as loudly as he could, whilst screeching “DADA!” at the top of his voice.
“Mum, can I have pancakes for breakfast?” asked the Small Girl.
“Yes Sausage, just give me a minute and I’ll make some” I replied, trying to pry the Very Small Boy’s fingers off the gate.
“Morning” said DH sleepily, descending the stairs.
“Oh sorry Darling” I muttered” Did we wake you?”
“Mummy… paancaaakes!” beseeched the Small Girl above her bother’s wails.
“Yes, OK, just give me a minute!” I said, exasperated, as I struggled with a thrashing, wailing Very Small Boy and eyed my running shoes longingly.

Half an hour later, I was free; the pounding streets beneath my feet giving way to winding country lanes; uplifting music thumping in my ears; my heart hammering and my legs aching; my lungs bursting and my mind focused. And I realised then that I love being a wife. I love being a mother. But sometimes I need to escape to be myself... sometimes I just need to run.

Friends and Daughters

The older I get, the harder it seems to be to make new friends; I certainly have an abundance of acquaintances, but somehow we all seem to find it hard to really let anyone in. So often, as grown-ups, fear of tarnishing the illusions we work so hard to create prevents us from letting our guard down. Our children, our marriages, our homes, our finances: we never truly want to admit to anything being less than perfect.

I decided on a whim this week to take the Small Girl to London with me for a couple of nights. The Very Small Boy is big enough now to cope with my absence for short periods, and I thought it would be nice to have some much-needed time to concentrate on the Small Girl, whose needs so often get sidelined with a fussy toddler around. I was also keen to re-introduce her to some of my oldest friends (whom she has met before but couldn’t really remember), some of whom now have children of their own (whom I had never met but felt I knew, having heard so much about them).

We landed at Gatwick, where Granddad picked us up after a surprisingly easy journey (without the need for unwieldy baby accessories or complicated entertainment, or even check-in luggage). The Small Girl was thrilled to see her Granddad again, particularly as he had invited Uncle Queue and his girlfriend to dinner that evening: “A dinner party, just like on Come Dine With Me!” as she put it excitedly before passing out exhausted on the sofa.

The following day, we made our way out for a playdate with two of my friends and their daughters. I was overcome with emotion to see the friends of my childhood with daughters of their own; their own little versions of themselves. And back in the streets where we grew up, our daughters spent a day getting to know each other, and we slipped with the ease of familiarity into talking about the things that really concern us: the way that responsibility has taken away the freedom of our youth; how we are all struggling to retain a sense of individuality as mothers; why it’s so frustrating trying to meet new friends when everyone maintains the pretence of infallibility.

I am extraordinarily lucky that my dearest friends remain those who have known me practically all my life. As a group, we shared all the triumphs and losses of growing up; all the firsts, the fears, the frustrations, the dreams. As adults, we have experienced all of life together: all of love and loss, bereavement and motherhood, careers and aspirations and disappointment. They are brave, strong, intelligent, articulate, women and the only people (apart from my family) who I can truly be myself with; for only they truly know me.

That night, after going home and putting our daughters to bed, we went out to meet the rest of The Girls (those who still live in London; there were a couple of notable absences) for dinner and drinks. And for that night, I ceased to be a mother, a wife, a grown-up. I was just a carefree girl again, high on life: out on the town with my friends.

Jam and Leprechauns

It was St Patrick's Day last week: our third in Ireland. We’ve been here long enough now to know what’s required for the occasion (affectionately referred to as “Paddy’s Day” by our friends and neighbours), and so we headed into town on Wednesday to watch The Parade. On display were the usual bizarre array of “L”-plated tanks, deafening vintage cars and apparently sane adults dressed as Leprechauns.

Touched by the way people seemed so enthusiastic to embrace the opportunity to celebrate what some might consider to be something of a characature of themselves, I realised that despite having lived here for a respectable amount of time, I still haven’t quite managed to figure the Irish out. Post “Celtic Tiger”, almost everyone lives in new-builds on identical estates and houses are uniformly furnished with laminate flooring and leather upholstery; everything shiny and new and gleaming. And it seems slightly incongruous to me that people who insist on living this way are so willing to don silly beards and wigs and paint their faces green to celebrate their heritage.

The following day, we set off for a short break on the south coast, DH having taken some time off work. Heading to a self-catering apartment, we stopped to buy some groceries on the way.

“Let’s pick up some jam” said DH, throwing a loaf of delicious Irish soda bread into the trolley.
“Good idea” I agreed, and having located my favourite raspberry jam, I placed it in the trolley next to the bread.
“What flavour did you get?” asked DH.
“Strawberry” I lied, and pushed the pot out of sight underneath the broccoli. DH only likes strawberry jam, a preference I really should have respected, but for some reason my small act of rebellion gave me a childish sense of glee. And besides, I thought, for once it would be nice to put myself first.

We had a lovely few days, the Small Girl loving the hotel pool and I loving the vulnerability of the Very Small Boy, all wide brown eyes and chubbiness, as he had his very first swimming experience.

“What would you like for breakfast today, Sausage?” I asked the Small Girl on our last morning. “You can have cereal, porridge or bread and jam”.

She insisted on cereal, so she and I (the Very Small boy having eaten his porridge at the crack of dawn and DH having managed to avoid breakfast for three days) sat down to eat.

“Mummy, can I have some of that?” asked the Small Girl seconds later, pointing to my delicious buttery bread smeared with lovely sweet raspberry jam.
“Of course”, I said reluctantly, as I sliced it in two and gave her half.

As she tucked enthusiastically into my breakfast, the Very Small Boy, who was sitting on my knee, reached out a chubby little fist, grabbed the remaining half of bread and jam and crammed the entire thing into his mouth. And all that was left for me to do was take a soothing sip of coffee as I looked down at the forlorn crumbs on my empty plate and marvelled at how a pot of jam had come to signify so much.

I Need a Screwdriver, Not a Husband

You can probably tell a lot about someone from the junk you find strewn about their kitchen. After dropping DH off at the bus stop last week (he was on his way to Israel for a business trip), I decided to get the Small Girl and the Very Small Boy to help me conduct a morale-boosting spring-clean (we were all understandably upset at the prospect of a week without Daddy). I surveyed the objects on my kitchen windowsill and silently contemplated what they might say about me: half a pomegranate, a soggy carrot-top sprouting in a saucer of water, a colourful handful of beads from one of the Small Girl’s broken necklaces and a pot of gold enamel paint I’d been using for some project several months before.

“We’ll be fine, darling” I had said reassuringly to DH earlier. We’d all been standing at the breezy bus stop, waiting for the airport coach: the silent Small Girl miserably anticipating Daddy’s departure, her Very Small Brother (who currently has a fixation with buses) shouting “BUH!” at the top of his voice and waving indiscriminately but with great enthusiasm at passing vehicles.

“I hate leaving you… but you will remember to put the bins out tomorrow won’t you?” DH had said, illustrating perfectly that delicate balance in marriage between romance and chores.

“We’re fine!” I had reiterated. “Now, have a good trip… and call us when you get there!”.

The Very Small Boy had thought that this farewell was just about the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to him: the combination of close proximity to a bus, an opportunity to wave, and then Daddy on a bus, waving back sent him into frantic paroxysms of excitement, whilst his sister, tears sliding down her face, sat silent and miserable in the car all the way home.

Whatever else you say about me, the fact is I’m pretty resourceful. And it’s probably just as well, because as soon as DH boarded his plane to Tel Aviv, everything seemed to fall apart. The telephone suffered what the phone engineer described as a “catastrophic failure”; the stairgate (which is very much required with a Very Small Active Boy about), fell off; all the clocks in the house suffered a systematic malfunction (making me continuously late); our ancient boiler system ran out of oil, leaving us without heating.

“Oh you should have told me!”, said a friend, looking at the prone stairgate the following day; “I would have sent my husband round to fix it for you!”.

“Well, actually what I need is a screwdriver”, I muttered. “Not a husband. I could fix the gate myself if only I knew where the screwdriver was…”

But in the end, we had a perfectly pleasant week, filled as it was with playdates and fun activities so that the time passed quickly. And it didn’t really matter that everything fell to pieces because by the time DH returned, the bins were empty, the clocks were ticking, the heating was on and the telephone was working. We’d even managed to eat the pomegranate, re-string the Small Girl’s necklace and plant the carrot-top in a smart new plant pot of its very own.

Another Year

It was my birthday last week: seemingly, another year has passed, and yet I barely feel older than I did when I met DH in my early twenties. Although growing older has never really bothered me (not having particularly enjoyed being too young to know any better), the gentle havoc it wreaks on my appearance is admittedly starting to irritate slightly.

“Mummy, you look like a weirdo!” shrieked the Small Girl one night, sitting in the bath with her Very Small Brother and clapping her hands with glee at the sight of my panda-eyes as I took off my makeup.
“Thanks Sausage!” I laughed, “I suppose I do look a bit strange…” I wiped off the last of the day’s mascara and gazed at my bare face in the bathroom mirror: pale, lined and sagging slightly around the edges.

When I was a teenager, I used to make myself up to look as old as possible - eyeliner and lipstick lent me a convenient mask behind which I could slip unnoticed into certain undiscerning pubs well before the legal drinking age. But ironically, these days makeup is more about disguising the effects of age and giving myself the appearance of youth; hiding the lines and covering the dark circles in an attempt to look young and fresh-faced. (Which of course never works out the way it’s supposed to, because trying to apply makeup whilst holding a whingeing 25lb baby and pretending to be a toucan is like trying to juggle with cats – a noble idea but not terribly practical).

“I look old” I said to no-one in particular, peering into the mirror the night before my birthday.
“But darling, you look much younger than you are!” said DH cheerily, putting his arm around my shoulders.
“Really? How much younger?” I demanded.
“Well… at least five years!” he replied. And with a sinking feeling, I realised that even if I were five years younger, I’d still be in my thirties.

“Hello, lovely birthday girl!” said the Small Girl the following morning when she got up, before bursting into a hearty rendition of “Happy Birthday To You”. This cheered me up no end; to her, birthdays are simply about Being the Centre of Attention, and Eating Lots of Cake. Perhaps, I decided, I ought to take a leaf out of her book.

“Want to have a birthday tea with me when you and Baby Pie get back from playschool, Sausage?” I asked her.
“Yaay! Yaay!” she cried, jumping up and down and waving her arms in the air.

So it was decided: while my two lovely children were otherwise occupied, I spent my birthday morning buying cake, crisps, sweet treats and pink juice to share with my two Favourite People. And for once, I didn’t even bother to put on my makeup before leaving the house.

Reality Bites (And Sometimes It Throws Up Too)

I remember clearly the moment that the reality of being a mother hit me. In limbo, adrift between India and Ireland, we were staying with family when the Very Small Girl had her first real illness: a nasty bout of flu. It was the middle of the night and not a single person was awake other than she and I. And sitting there, painfully alone in the silent darkness as I tried to soothe her to sleep, it struck me - this is what it means to be this child’s mother. Being her mother means being the only person who will do at 2am when she has a fever. The enormity of this privilege was not lost on me, even at that time of the morning.

Now that the Very Small Boy has started playschool, we suspected it wouldn’t be long before he started to come down with all the usual bugs (the first thing he did on his first day of “settling in” was dash over to a small snotty-nosed child and take a large swig from his beaker of juice). And I should have realised yesterday that something was afoot when, half-way through our daily walk, the Very Small Boy, usually so full of energy, gave up and whinged to be carried home.

“Mummy, slow down!” whined the Small Girl, trotting along behind me as I strode off with the Very Small Boy slung over my shoulder. I was trying to remain cheerful, but it wasn’t easy: the Very Small Boy had inadvertently trodden in dog poo, which I had then inadvertently got all over my trousers, coat and jumper as I carried him.

I changed into fresh clothes when we got home, throwing the soiled ones, along with the offending shoes, into the utility room to be dealt with at some later date. The Very Small Boy (looking distinctly red about the eyes) whimpered into his dinner, managing to eat just enough of it to do some serious damage a few hours later when it came back up again – all over his cot, sheets, mattress and pyjamas.

“My poor brave little soldier”, I whispered to him in the dark as I cleaned him up, thinking that the reality of being a parent is really just this: sponging sick out of your child’s hair at two in the morning.
“I’ll get up with him when he wakes” offered DH, bundling up the soiled sheets and clothes. But, a few hours of fitful sleep later, it was me that the Very Small Boy wanted; it always is when he is ill.

I really didn’t mind getting up with him at quarter past five this morning though – it really is astonishing to be so utterly required by someone. “Come on, Little Man” I said to my Very Small son as I carried him gingerly downstairs. “Let’s change your nappy and get you a drink. Then we can make a start on that enormous pile of laundry…”

Playschool

“Ni Hao, Mummy!” chirped the Small Girl gleefully when I picked her up from Playschool a couple of weeks ago.
“Oh!”, I replied, puzzled. “What does that mean, Sausage?”
“It’s saying “hello” in China!” she said, jumping up and down as I opened the car door for her.

The Small Girl, it turned out, had been learning about the Chinese New Year - on our journey home, she was full of excited chatter about dragons and parades and Chinese soup, to which I listened in amazement. Now that she attends a Montessori class five mornings a week, she has been finding out about all kinds of interesting things, each week based around a different (and apparently quite random) theme: hibernation; the food pyramid; Thanksgiving. I love the fact that she comes home so enthused about learning, that she’s getting such a great head start for Big School (which is looming scarily in September). It’s a fantastic playschool, and we were very lucky to have stumbled across it.

I remember so clearly when the Small Girl started there: she was just over one year old and we decided to send her two mornings a week to socialise with other toddlers and to give me a bit of a break. Settling in was a tough process; I used to walk away each morning in tears, wondering whether I was letting my child down by leaving her wailing in the arms of a stranger. But she very quickly grew to love her time there, playing with her friends and engaging in exciting activities I simply wasn’t brave enough to try at home (playing indoors with sand and water, messing about with shaving foam, and sticky finger-painting with a gloopy mess of painty Reddy Brek). In the end, I felt it was one of the best things we had ever done for her.

And so it was inevitable that we considered doing the same for the Very Small Boy. I always declared that I would only send him if he seemed to have the sort of personality suited to it and luckily, he is very like his sister was at the same age – outgoing, sociable and full of fun. He completed his second two-morning week last week, and each time it got a little easier for him and for me. I still walk away each morning in tears, wondering whether I am letting my child down, but I know in my heart that it’s healthy to push him away a little; to help take his first Very Small steps towards independence.

After picking them both up from Playschool last week, driving home in the car the Small Girl and I had our usual chat about her morning, while the Very Small Boy listened with interest:

“What did you do in Playschool today darling?” I asked
“We learnt about penguins!” she replied.
“Penguins!” I said “and what can you tell me about penguins?”

She thought for a moment, then: “If you drop a penguin on its head, it dies!” she said theatrically. Then she leaned back in her seat and spent the rest of the journey looking thoughtfully out of the car window.

Small Allies

I was pottering in the spare room last night, waiting for the children’s bath to run, when the Small Girl and her Very Small brother came wandering in. It’s a relaxed time of day for us – I usually put the stair gate up at the top of the stairs, and they dash about happily (and often bare) playing and, in the case of the Very Small Boy, flinging objects over the top of the gate and down the stairs, where they land with a satisfying crash.

“Mummy, what’s that?” asked the Small Girl, pointing to a dismantled baby play-mat balancing on the top of an ever-expanding pile of “things to go up in the loft”.
“It’s a play-mat, sausage. It belonged to you when you were a baby, and Baby Pie used it as well - but he’s too big for it now”.
“I remember that!” she cried, and turned to her Very Small Brother, who was tugging forcefully on the wires at the back of my computer.

“Pootle, you used to have that when you were a baby!” she said to him and, as she turned to leave the room, added over her shoulder “you were a nightmare when you were a baby!”. And shaking her head thoughtfully, she wandered off to check on her bath.

After the children were bathed and changed and sleeping peacefully in their beds, I thought about their relationship with each other and about how they are growing to enjoy each other’s company, play together and appreciate each other. And I drifted contentedly off to sleep last night, thinking about how lovely it is that each gets so much from the other.

My contentment was short-lived, however: somehow, during their pre-bath playtime, the two little fiends had managed to set the alarm on our clock radio to go off loudly at midnight. And five hours later, the Very Small Boy was wailing to get up; unfortunately it was my turn to rise with him.

Two hours after that, the Small Girl joined us downstairs, and the Very Small Boy’s delight at seeing his sister was obvious: he dashed across the room shouting “eh, eh!” and flung his arms around her waist. Half asleep, the Small Girl returned his cuddle and, while I fixed her a milky drink, the two of them wandered off with their arms about each other to find some toys to play with.

Tell Me a Story

When I was pregnant with the Very Small Boy, I decided it was important to start talking to the Small Girl about her own arrival in the world. I wanted her to understand that all this planning, preparation and excitement had happened for her, too (that her arrival had, in fact, been even more precious, as she was our first baby). It backfired on me somewhat, instilling in her as it did a love of improvised storytelling; her demands of “you tell me the story of when I was born!” eventually began to drive me to distraction.

We have since built up a complex set of the tales that make up our family history: the time we moved to India; the time the Very Small Boy was born; the time Mummy broke her arm ice-skating; the time Daddy was a naughty little schoolboy stealing ripe fruit from the neighbour’s plum tree. And I’ve grown to love these story-times with the Small Girl, DH and I tying together the threads of our lives, from our own childhoods to theirs.

I’m pleased to say that, where the Small Girl is concerned, the line between reality and fantasy is as fluid as ever, and these days, her story-telling demands are becoming increasingly imaginative and bizarre. While I was helping her with her colouring-in recently, she turned thoughtfully to me and insisted “Mummy, you tell me the story of when the dinosaurs died!”. After which followed a long and complicated tale (involving meteors, dust clouds and archaeologists) of the kind I couldn’t possibly have imagined ever having with a three year old.

“Mummy!” came the familiar demand yesterday at bathtime (the Very Small Boy was busily dashing in and out of his bedroom with a collection of toys, books and clothes to be flung vigorously into the bathwater).
“Yes, darling?” I replied, fishing a sodden hardback out and setting it out of reach to dry on a towel.
“You tell me the story of when your head fell off!”

“Aha!” I laughed, and began the story: ”it was bathtime on a Monday evening in Newbridge and Mummy had spent a long and tiring day chasing after Small People and telling endless imaginary stories…”

Settling In

This week was an important (one might even say momentous) week for the Very Small Boy: he began the process of "settling in" at Playschool.

We've been working up to this for some time now. It was always our intention to send him in a couple of mornings a week, if and when we felt he was ready to take the step. And the time has definitely come; he has become incredibly sociable, stopping in shops to turn and smile as people pass him by; running up to strangers in the doctor's waiting room to make friends; chasing down the street after other Small People when we go for a walk. He is also becoming increasingly difficult to entertain, demanding all of my attention all of the time, and constantly adding new and treacherous skills to his repertoire (his latest, horrifyingly, being the ability to climb).

Little boys, I am discovering, are very different from little girls. The Small Girl, at the age of 14 months, was quiet, sweet and sedate; would tire easily and had no interest whatsoever in getting to higher ground. Her Very Small brother, on the other hand, is possessed of boundless vigour - he won't sit if he can stand, won't walk if he can run. And most of his ceaseless activity is accompanied by enthusiastic shouting and, preferably, the sound of objects being bashed mindlessly against other objects.

His first few tentative days at Playschool have affected the whole family in unexpected ways. I find it enormously reassuring that the Small Girl has been encouraged by Playschool to go on "visits" to spend time playing with her brother. And I've noticed that, even over a few days, their relationship with each other has become a lot more affectionate; he comforted by her presence and she feeling a great deal more compassion towards him. The two of them are beginning to enjoy their relationship and to understand the enormity of what it means to have someone who is more like you than anyone else in the world.

For me, although I have longed for a few hours to myself each week, it is also a period of adjustment. Just as, when the Small Girl started at Playschool, I would pace the house feeling lost and alone, so again do I have to readjust to being apart from the baby who has been at my side constantly for over a year. Wanting to keep busy, I went to the supermarket last week after dropping off the Very Small Boy. Walking down the street without a pushchair, wheeling a supermarket trolley devoid of Small Person, I felt lonely and somehow exposed ("as if your right arm is missing", as one friend put it).

I seem to have forgottoen how to deinfe myself, other than as a mother. (A few weeks back, I was in the slightly surreal position of being chatted up by a hopeful twenty-something in a bar. "Look, I'm married", I had said crossly, flashing my wedding ring. "And I have two children!". My forlorn suitor had looked surprised "I don't believe you", he had answered, and I had felt shocked that it might not be obvious that I was a mother - that my children were not somehow detectable in the air that surrounds me).

In the end, it's become a settling-in period for all of us; for the Very Small Boy as he takes a step towards independence, for the Small Girl as she becomes accustomed to the unselfish notion of empathy. And for me, as I struggle once more with my sense of identity and with the realisation that my children are growing slowly upwards, and, inexorably, away from me.

Daddy

The Small Girl came running up to us this morning as DH gave me a hug before he left for work.

“I want to join in the cuddle!” she cried with glee, so DH picked her up and the three of us briefly embraced before the Very Small Boy, sensing he was missing out, came dashing unsteadily over, shouted “hot!” and fell over backwards.

Five minutes later, the children and I gathered as usual at the sitting room window to wave goodbye as DH set off for work. It’s always a poignant moment; the Small Girl and her brother are as reluctant to let him leave as I am (and I often feel like joining them when they cling to his legs in desperation, shouting “please stay!” as he edges towards the front door).

Well, the Small Girl cries “please stay”; her Very Small brother is unable, as yet, to string two words together. And even if he could, the ability wouldn’t come in very useful: he only has two words in his vocabulary, and there aren’t really any meaningful phrases one can make out of “hot” and “Daddy”.

The Very Small Boy’s second word began as a kind of rolling “da-da-da-da-da”, and has evolved into a very well-enunciated “da-dee, da-dee ”, shouted with great gusto every time DH walks into the room, and accompanied by the pit-pat pit-pat of Very Small feet as he dashes quickly over with his arms stretched out to be picked up.

I find it desperately moving that the children love their Daddy so much. Sharing the undisguised glee they feel when DH returns from work each evening is the most joyful part of my day, and seeing the delight on the Very Small Boy’s face moves me especially: it’s as if he were thinking to himself "thank God – there’s another man here at last!”.

He has even perfected a Very Small wave to use each morning as we assemble at the window for our ritual goodbye: arm raised, little fish clenching and unclenching. Words fail me when it comes to explaining to the Very Small Boy where DH has actually gone though – there is no language I can use to help a 14 month old baby understand concepts like “work” or “later”.

And so it is that I often find myself, during the day, standing before the window comforting the Very Small Boy as he tries to make sense of his Daddy’s absence, his little chubby hand raised forlornly as he waves at the indifferent, leafless trees outside.

The World Comes Rushing In

I’ve been feeling very emotional recently. I drove, sobbing, to playschool this morning, listening to a poignant song on the radio, then shed embarrassing tears of pride as the Very Small Boy inelegantly rearranged the Playschool office while I discussed with the owner when he could start attending. I’ve come to the conclusion that this excess of emotion is all down to the fact that two weeks ago, I decided to stop taking the anti-depressants I put myself on when the Very Small Boy was six months old.

And if I haven’t mentioned this before, or made any reference to the daily dose of pills that have kept me sane for the last eight months, it’s not through some misguided sense of shame, but merely that it seemed of little relevance.

I knew as soon as the headaches began that I would need medication. The same thing had happened after the birth of the Small Girl in India; apart from the other, more obvious symptoms of unhappiness, I began to suffer with migraines. These were of such awful intensity that the face of the person to whom I was talking would appear to be melting; the mouth turning down at one corner and a single eye drooping alarmingly. There, I didn’t even bother with a doctor, but went to our local chemist stall (dustily doing business at the corner of a raucous intersection), where I handed the shopkeeper a slip of paper upon which I had written the name and dose of an antidepressant researched on the internet. I bought a six month supply: thankfully, the regulation of prescription drugs in India is somewhat lax.

Two and a half years later, the Very Small Boy was born. Less than two weeks after I first met my chubby, beautiful little boy, DH had to return to work and suddenly I found myself utterly exhausted, recovering from a cesarean and alone with an extremely headstrong and disgruntled toddler and a constantly screaming baby (the Very Small Boy had both colic and reflux). I had thought the enormous mental adjustment I made after the birth of the Small Girl would enable me to cope, but apparently being a parent requires an almost continuous modification of one’s sense of self.

So often, friends have said to me of motherhood “why does no one ever tell you how hard it will be” and “I didn’t realise it would be so difficult”. But the truth is that nothing can prepare you for the sheer selflessness that is necessary to give your life over utterly to other people, no matter how much you love them. Being a person of extremes, I feel the lows of parenthood as acutely as I feel the euphoria of the highs. And, for eight months, my pills have taken the edge off both.

I was handing out milky drinks to the children one evening last week, when the Small Girl heard DH, home from work, closing the front door.

“Pootle” she cried, leaping up and holding her hand out to the Very Small Boy, “It’s Daddy!!”. Holding hands, they dashed off together to greet him, both shouting “Daddy! Daddy!” as they ran, and I busied myself over the stove so he wouldn’t see my tears of pride when he walked over to kiss me. Because now I’ve stopped taking my pills, I find the world comes rushing in at me in vibrant technicolor, and sometimes the beauty of life overwhelms me.

Happy New Mummy

No longer having the patience for jostling late nights and expensive drinks, DH and I saw in the New Year in our usual way: quietly, with a take-away and a bottle of wine. Over which, we talked about the past year and, in fact, all the past years: because New Year’s Eve is our anniversary and this naturally makes one feel rather indulgently reflective.

We’ve done some stuff in our eleven years together: lived in different countries, been on diverse holidays, done up a couple of houses, had countless different jobs, got married and of course, had two children. But looking back over the past year, I couldn’t help feeling slightly let down.

“I just feel like a whole year’s passed and I haven’t actually got anything to show for it” I said to DH after several glasses of wine. “I mean, what have I actually achieved this year?”.
“What do you mean?” he asked “you’re bringing up two happy, healthy children… and you’re doing a great job of it!” he replied.

Despite his reassurances, I still had the nagging feeling that I was merely treading water; barely managing to keep a lid on the chaos that was threatening to engulf me and on a personal level, not really getting to grips with all the things I had wanted to do and somehow never found the time to get around to.

Still, I felt decidedly smug the next day when, having woken to a beautifully snowy morning and glorious blue skies, all four of us made our way outside at 8.ooam for a pristine walk - well rested, full of anticipation and definitely not hung-over. And I decided then that this was going to be my year, a time to do more for myself and less for other people. A time to do all of those things I have been meaning to do for a long time (taking a writing course, finding the time to go running, learning to knit and generally making more stuff out of paper maché). To do lots of things that could be summed up with the resolution to Be More Selfish.

“Let’s play letters!” the Small Girl cried when we got home, running for the fridge where we had stuck her new magnetic letters (a Christmas stocking-filler).
“Good idea!” I said, and spelled out “Happy New Year”.
“What does it say Mummy?” asked the Small Girl.
“It says Happy New Year!” I explained.
“Oh! Now let’s write “Mummy”” she said, and I showed her how to spell the word.

The Small Girl took the “Y” away from “year” and asked:
“Now what does it say?”
“It says “Happy New ear!”” I replied, and we both giggled.

She moved the word “ear” away and pushed “Mummy” up into its place.
“Now what does it say?” she asked again, looking pleased with herself.
“Happy New Mummy!” I said, laughing. And, feeling tentative whisperings of hope, I scooped her up for a buoyant cuddle.

A Family Christmas

"What is it? What is it?” shouted the Small Girl on the morning of Christmas Eve, as she opened the second-to-last door on her chocolate advent calendar.
“Um, it’s a Christmas… tractor!” I replied, happily noting that it mattered not one bit to the Small Girl that the chocolates in her calendar (which I had purchased, in an uncharacteristic fit of fiscal restraint, at our local discount supermarket) were not Christmassy in the slightest.

But this is usual for children at Christmas; the thrill of it all is in the expectation and the finer details aren’t important. The cheap stocking-fillers are the favourites of the day; the wrapping paper is of more interest than the carefully-chosen present.

After scattering the presents from both her own and the Very Small Boy’s stockings all over our bed, The Small Girl came joyfully dashing downstairs the following morning. She headed straight for the Christmas tree, under which a sprawling mass of presents had appeared overnight. And quivering with barely contained glee, she seized the plate we had set out the previous night with a mince pie, a bottle of beer and a carrot.

“The mince pie is gone! And the beer is drunk! And… someone took a bite out of the carrot!!!” she squealed.
“It must have been Santie and Rudolph!” said DH, passing her a milky drink and carting off the empty beer bottle to put in the recycle bin.
"Was it Santie, Mummy?" The Small Girl asked me
“Of course, darling!” I replied in a tone of exaggerated shock, and winked at her.

I spent a happy morning pottering in the kitchen, cooking and setting the table while DH and the Small Girl built a fire and played with her new toys, and the Very Small Boy carefully examined the wrapping paper from his presents, turning it over in his chubby hands, his earnest little eyebrows furrowed in frowny concentration.

Christmas dinner, I later realised, is also more about the expectation than the detail. I went to far too much trouble for the four of us; making stuffing and steaming puddings and cooking bread sauce and doing interesting things with cranberries. But the Small Girl had a ball pulling all the crackers and the Very Small Boy had his first taste of turkey and in the end it didn’t matter at all that nobody liked the bread sauce or that we were all too full to eat any Christmas pudding.

Later that night, when the children were finally in bed, DH and I sat down, exhausted.

“So do you think they enjoyed their day?” I asked him.
“Of course. They loved it!” he replied.
“Well, that’s all that matters. Bloody exhausting though…” I said.
“Yeah”, he sighed wearily. “Shall we have a top-up?”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day darling” I said, and handed him my empty wineglass.