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.