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.