Bon anniversaire!

The title for this entry was inspired by Darcie's apparent love of French lessons at school, and random announcements that she is going to move to France as soon as she possibly can. I, of course, understand nothing about the country or language; my insistence that I got an A in French GCSE many moons ago is repeatedly ignored, as Darcie is the fountain of all knowledge as always. One of her new goals is to count backwards from 20 in French, this will apparently secure her a wonderful job and idyllic lifestyle. I honestly wish my daughter all the luck in the world with her future career as "artist, doctor, inventor or something else" in France, and am planning on presenting her with a one-way ticket there on her 18th birthday.

So half-term is here, I swear the kids spend more time at home than they do at nursery/school! As always I had plans for this holiday but things have gone pear-shaped......Darcie was supposed to be met after school on Friday by her adoring Granny, who would then whisk her off for a few days of fun in Selsey. I honestly don't know exactly what my mum does while Darcie is staying with them, but I'm led to believe that their house is more fun than Disney World, Hamleys and a chocolate factory rolled together......I'm certain my parents weren't that much fun when I was a kid! Simon & I would have been left with just Harvey to entertain, which I was dreading in a way as he misses playing with/tormenting his big sister when she's here. At least Darcie would have been happy though, but my mum inconsiderately fell and fractured a bone in her arm last Monday. I arrived home with the kids after spending over an hour boiling in the park to find that my dad had phoned, luckily Simon was in to take the call. When I finally dragged my two sweaty, thirsty, moaning kids home, he greeted me with the news that my mum had fallen over and gone to hospital. Men are generally more sparing with information than women; they state the basic key facts whereas most women spin those facts into a long and unnecessary monologue rather than just getting to the point! So, my dad had phoned, mum was hurt and had taken herself to casualty. When I asked Simon which part/s of her body she had injured, he replied that her brain had fallen out. I rightly assumed this was incorrect, a joke intended to lighten the atmosphere I think.

My dad had also been curiously stingy with info, and even after I phoned him he was reluctant to fill in the blanks. Given that my mother is one of the most stubborn creatures on the planet (a characteristic I'm relieved not to have inherited) I was surprised that she had gone to hospital as I can only ever remember her admitting defeat and heading to casualty twice in my whole life. Luckily the next morning she phoned, sounding surprisingly chirpy, to say that she has fractured a bone in her arm and has a huge sling, the damaged arm being both immovable and rather painful. I was relieved that my mum hadn't done more damage, and at once said that there was no way we expected her to have Darcie over half term. I do fully sympathise with my mum; she's the one who has always done every bit of housework, cooking, etc. and my dad is pretty useless in that respect. I offered to go and help her out, but she seems to be managing okay and my dad is apparently being very helpful. He has pegged out washing, hoovered, helped change the beds, followed simple instructions in the kitchen.....I would love to be a fly on the wall as this is the man who thinks he has done well if hes carried his empty beer cans to the recycling bin! I'm glad he's leaning though, perhaps this will make him appreciate my mum a bit more.

So, our respite has been cancelled, and we're facing another 7 days of Darcie. That sounds horrible; we shouldn't dread having our daughter at home, and it makes me sad that we do. As I've said before, there are two separate Darcie's....the one who's calm, great to talk to, absolutely brilliant with Harvey (who is admittedly a pain at times) and very mature. Darcie sometimes shocks me with how grown-up she can be, and how considerate she is. Last week it was sports day for her year, held at another local school - parents from her school couldn't go and watch as there apparently wasn't space, think there's another event soon which we will be invited to. Darcie has always been absolutely useless at sports, as I was and apparently my mum was too! Some people excel at it, which is great for them, but lots dread sports days. Apparently one race involved dressing up in peculiar items of clothing at various stages, sounds completely horrendous and of course Darcie was chosen for this race. She claimed she was doing okay until she noticed her friend Michelle was struggling with some buttons and was almost in tears - rather than ignoring her and carrying on, Darcie stopped and helped. I doubt she'd have won anyway, but she admitted that when she paused and helped Michelle, she realised she had ruined her chance of victory. I thought that was a mature thing to do, and not something lots of kids would even consider, and I was really proud of her. I tried to explain that I was more proud of Darcie for putting her friend first than I would have been if she'd have won, but as always it came out wrong and I don't think she got what I meant at all!

The Other Darcie has been out in full force this weekend; she's furious at missing her holiday with my parents, of course I understand her disappointment but resent being blamed and punished for something beyond my control. She flips so easily, and it's frightening how erratic and uncontrollable her mood swings are. We can see in her eyes that she's lost the plot, there's no reasoning with her and she accuses us of all sorts, from breaking her bones to never wanting her to be born. Darcie constantly accuses me of preferring Harvey, and I know it's horrible but sometimes I do because he doesn't treat me the way she does. Everything that goes wrong in her life is automatically my fault, and she is never to blame for anything. There's always a rude answer, or an excuse, or an argument, and it completely wears us out. I look at Darcie sometimes and wonder how I created something so beautiful, so clever and so considerate, but those moments are rare. I seem to spend most of my life battling with her, she doesn't do anything I say (even little things like going to the bathroom and getting washed) and reacts against me so much of the time. The most hurtful times are when she says things like "I wish I was dead" and the latest, "I'd rather spend 24 hours a day at school working hard than be at home with you." Minutes later, she's drawing me lovely pictures and claiming she loves me. So which is it, does she love me or hate me? Or both?

Wednesday is my birthday, I can't believe I'll be 31, madness! As they say, age is just a number though, and you're only as old as you feel.....sometimes I feel like I'm still 16 and can't possibly be the mother of these children and have all this responsibility. I don't know how I feel about my birthday really, last year I promised myself that my thirties would be the decade that I would change, and do something with my life. I feel like I've let myself down this past year as nothing has changed so far, and the thought of turning 40 and still being in this situation terrifies me. Still, I've got another 9 years of my thirties so all is not lost!

I was thinking about my 21st birthday, ten years ago. I managed to come down with a stinking cold on my actual birthday, but the following weekend Simon & I travelled up to Croydon where my parents were still living at that point. I remember the tram system had just started operating and the London Eye was also new, my parents took us on it for my birthday. They've got a photo of Simon & I on the Eye up in their front room, and when I look at it I often think about how much has changed since that day. We were just a young couple at university back then, and neither of us realised how much things would change following my 21st. Almost exactly 7 months later we'd conceive our first baby, and when my 22nd birthday rolled around I was five months pregnant. My twenty-first birthday was officially my last without Darcie and I can't believe shes been in our lives for nearly a decade. Despite everything, if someone offered me the chance to turn the clock back ten years and not get pregnant with her, then I can say with absolute certainty that I'd refuse.

I wonder how different our lives will be in another ten years? I like to think that on my 41st birthday my daughter will phone me up from some pub where she's busy getting seriously drunk with her university mates. She'll say something like "Happy birthday Mum, God I can't believe how incredibly old you are! Didn't you get the card? I posted it days ago, honestly......no, I swear I didn't forget to send you one! Anyway, we were just talking about when we were all kids and I was telling everyone about how weird I was, how I used to scream endlessly, God I was a nightmare kid - I can't believe how horrible I was to you and Dad....."

and I'll smile to myself and say "No, you weren't."

A matter of life and death

I'm sitting here feeling rather unwell, entirely self-inflicted as I finally caved and bought some strawberries this afternoon. I've fancied them for a couple of weeks, not a massive strawberry fan but the little ones are yummy....and healthy enough on their own but I tried to resist as I just knew I'd end up covering them in sugar and cream! I nipped into Lidl after picking Darcie up from school today to get some toilet paper (I'm sure we use more than any other family in the world) and there they were, big punnets of tasty looking strawberries. It was so hot, a lovely summery afternoon, and strawberries are traditionally summer fruit......before I knew it I was queuing up with my toilet paper, strawberries and a can of squirty cream which I tried to convince myself was really for the kids. The strawberries were delicious, but as always I overdid it, I'm actually having trouble breathing......and the kids didn't get any squirty cream!

Recently I've been thinking about death quite often, hope that isn't an omen and I'm not going to kick the bucket just yet. A couple of weeks ago I was walking up to the library with Harvey and having one of those pre-menstrual why-is-my-life-so-crap afternoons. Everything just seemed so pointless and I could sense a full blown bad mood approaching which is never a good thing for those around me. Just beyond the library is St Mary's church, the scene of a particularly hideous Christmas carol service involving Darcie's school a couple of years ago. It's a big, imposing church with a large graveyard and frightening looking funeral directors strategically positioned opposite. Anyway, I was stomping along muttering to myself, when a hearse drove slowly by, containing the obligatory coffin and a ton of flowers. I always feel a weird sense of guilt when I see a hearse, although I know I'm (hopefully) not responsible for the person's death. I think it's more guilt at the fact that I'm alive and they're not, when in all probability he/she was a better person than me!

The heart-wrenching "Dad" flower arrangement propped up against the coffin was bad enough, but then we realised that there was a little truck trundling after the hearse, covered in yet more flowers and other tributes. It seemed like hundreds of people were pouring into the church ahead of us, and I realised just how loved that man must have been. Hopefully he was an older guy, who had lived a full and happy life, and clearly had many people who cared enough about him to spend a warm Friday afternoon sitting in a cold and spooky church. But still, that mans life was over, and I soon snapped out of my mood when I realised just how lucky I am to be alive.

My dad turned 73 nine days ago, and it's fairly likely that the bloke in the coffin was a similar age or even younger. Of course people can die at any age, but it's generally assumed that the older you are the more likely you are to die, morbid as it sounds! My dad was 42 the month before I was born, so not a very young man even then, but I can clearly remember him going off to work every day, playing table tennis, days out and holidays with him, and sometimes playing tennis in the summer with me and my fury because he rarely let me win! I've never been particularly close to my dad, it was always my mum who did stuff with me on a daily basis when I was a kid, and if it came down to it I'd chose her over him even now. (unless I was being forced to pick one of them to partner me in a chocolate eating competition, then I'd go for my dad every time - my mum has an unnatural aversion to the stuff!) The thing is though, it's suddenly hit me that my dad's officially old, and I've already lost him in a way. I'll probably never go on holiday with him again, or for a proper day out; the dad that did things like that has gone, and there's this old man in his place. Of course he's still the same person, and everyone gets older, but it's an odd feeling. I think for me it's especially hard to watch my parents growing older, because I never really had any grandparents so never saw it happen with them. Of course I realise that I've lost my babies, and my kids have grown, but you expect children to change, somehow parents should be the same forever!

Something else that struck me when I watched that hearse was that very soon it could be my dad, not someone else's. Hopefully he'll live to a hundred, and the horrible thing is that he could in theory outlive my kids, it happens. (sometimes I've seriously thought he will live longer than Darcie, I've come that close to murdering her!) I think many people assume that their parents will be around forever, and the prospect of facing life without them is a scary one. I've lived away from my mum & dad for over 12 years, I don't honestly need them on a daily basis, but I think it's true that we always need our parents. My mum says that I have two homes, mine and theirs, and it's unimaginable that one day they won't be around. I know I'm lucky to have my parents, despite them driving me mad at times - my mum lost her natural mother at the age of 19, and for many years I worried that history would repeat itself. Fortunately it hasn't, and I've had a mother for 12 years longer than my mum had one.

My mum is nearly 10 years younger than my dad, and ten times as active. She was very nearly 30 when they got married, and he was pushing 40, she says the age gap didn't really concern her at the time and I doubt she thought about how things would be thirty-three years down the line. My mum hasn't aged as dramatically as my dad has, and I know he frustrates her because he won't do half the things she wants him to. I know my mum enjoys life, but don't think my dad does really, which is a shame because there are so many things they could enjoy together. There's a line from a song, can't remember which one right now, but it goes something like "I don't want to die, but I'm not keen on living either...." could be Robbie Williams, I'll have to look it up. I often think those words sum up how my dad is. He's a real worry, but what can I do, I guess I just have to hope that he'll still be worrying me in ten years time.

Death is something which I find intensely terrifying, yet strangely fascinating. Simon & I have had various conversations over the years about dying (including how many years we'd have to spend in prison if we murdered the kids, and whether it's worth going for it, currently swaying towards yes) Death is something which constantly surrounds us, it's a part of life and the most frightening thing is that it's inevitable. The truth is that I brought two children into this world, who will eventually have to deal with death, and that worries me. Sometimes I watch Darcie with my parents and realise that one day she'll lose them. As I said, of course they could live longer than her, but it's more likely that someone will have to tell her that the granny she adores is dead, and in all probability that someone will be me. This is all very negative of course, with any luck my mum will be watching her great-grandchildren run around the park in twenty years time. The big thing though, one of my greatest fears, is that I'll outlive my kids - I don't think any parent should attend the funeral of their child, but it happens so often. Yesterday, a girl Simon has known for years was killed in a car-crash. I think she was 26, and presumably had both parents, who have now lost their daughter. Death is all around us constantly, but until it touches our lives we often don't think of it. I didn't know this girl, but still find it unbelievable that a young, healthy, attractive, nice, harmless woman can get into her car one normal morning, have a collision with a lorry and die. She had her whole future ahead of her, and thats been snatched away, the boyfriend who might have become her husband and the father of her children now has to carry on living without her. I always struggle to find the reason for things like this, it's just so senseless. Again though, I think events like this touch our lives to make us realise just how very lucky we are.

I've been aware for a long time that at any moment my life could be snatched away from me, and that I should make the most of every minute. Recent events have made me realise just how fragile and short life is, and I know I shouldn't focus on what I don't have, but instead on what I do have. There are so many opportunities open to me, and I feel I'm wasting precious time in many ways. I believe that life is a game, and sometimes I feel as if I'm standing in a room with closed doors surrounding me, and a clock ticking. I could push open any one of those doors, but have no idea what lies behind them, how my life will change if I walk through a doorway. It's a mixture of excitement and fear, and the whole time that clock is counting down, at any minute the buzzer could go off and then that's it, game over. Do I stay where I am or do I change something, pick a door and open it? All I need is motivation and courage, but I'm not sure I have either, I'm acutely aware that any decision I make could be wrong, and I don't dislike where I am. But things could be much better through a certain door......which one though?

All Darcie wants is to be an adult, she simply can't wait to grow up as in her eyes, being a adult represents everything she could possibly dream of. I wish I could make her understand that she should treasure her childhood,as being an adult is the hardest thing she will ever do.

You're the best

Well, another week has gone by and we survived the dreaded Bank Holiday Weekend! I'm 100% sure that kids these days get longer school holidays, more teacher training days and there are more bank holidays than when I was younger.....also there's the continuing unsolvable mystery of why do 6 hours at the weekend last for an eternity while the same amount of time shoots by when the kids are at school?!

Harvey has been invited to a couple of birthday parties since he started pre-school in September, but for various reasons which have now escaped me, we decided it wouldn't be worth him going. I can never understand why some parents decide to throw parties for their kids lasting less than two hours (I'm sure parties always went on all afternoon when I was a child) at weird times in obscure places! Lots of people don't have parties these days due to the hideous expense, but finally Harvey got invited to his friend James' 4th birthday party, at an indoor play centre just down the road, after nursery. Hooray, all convenient for us and it was all systems go! He looked forward to it all week but I had mixed feelings - despite being depressingly familiar with the venue, Krazy Kaves (no, I haven't made a spelling mistake, seriously that's how the dreaded place is spelled!) because Darcie had her 6th and 7th birthday parties there, I was still nervous. From my experience I was aware that most mummies stay at parties with their little angels at this age, and Harvey wanted me there. I have a couple of other nursery mums who I chat to, but the thought of having to make conversation for two solid hours in a chilly and slightly odd-smelling environment didn't excite me.

So the Party Day arrived and I sent my son to pre-school wearing his Party Shirt, bubbling with excitement at the thought of heading to the party as soon as he came out. I disgraced myself by being slightly late picking him up (again) and virtually dragged Harvey to Krazy Kaves, walking fast isn't something my kids do. We were there first, absolute fluke as I'm never, ever first to get anywhere! Harvey gave birthday boy James his pressie, virtually opened it for him, attempted to pop several balloons and then finally disappeared into the jungle of steps, slopes, slides and rope bridges which don't look completely secure but which I would have loved when I was a kid. As the other mums and kids arrived, I found myself wondering why they all looked so cool, calm and confident, surely I couldn't be the only one who had spent the past few days working myself into a frenzy about the party? I was sure that my child would be the one who refused to join in/hurt himself/hurt someone else either accidentally or on purpose/started being naughty and wouldn't stop/refused to eat, etc. etc. etc.......or perhaps even worse, I'd do something embarrassing and my fatal mistake would forever brand me and by association my child, as Strange. The other 7 mums behaved as though they didn't have a care in the world, while I settled myself down (worrying of course that I'd sat either too near or too far away from the others, thus appearing too keen and over-friendly or stand-offish!) feeling sick and praying it would all be over soon.

Of course it had to be bang on lunchtime and I had to be starving, presenting me with an instant dilemma - Krazy Kaves offer a selection of hot food, snacks and drinks in order to extract yet more money from long-suffering parents. By some miracle Harvey hadn't noticed the strategically positioned sweetie machine, but I was quite tempted by it myself. One of the mums produced a carrier bag and proceeded to eat constantly for the next hour, she attracted a few glances but as she's reasonably thin and the stuff she was munching was healthy-ish, she got away with stuffing her face. I tried to stop my stomach rumbling and attempted to prevent myself from gazing longingly at the snack bar, while internally scolding myself - for heavens sake, if you're hungry bloody buy yourself something and stuff what they all think! I told myself, but still wasn't brave enough to venture up there until someone else went first, and came back with a coffee and crisps. That women wasn't skinny and was eating junk, it seemed to go unnoticed so I scuttled up and got myself some coke (normally drink diet/zero/max but rebelled and went for fat coke, safe in the knowledge that nobody would know) and some crisps. No weird looks, no muttered comments, phew! I never imagined that something so simple could become so incredibly complicated.

Anyway I managed to eat the crisps quickly before Harvey saw and stole them, but without scoffing them too quickly and looking greedy. Jo, one of the nicer nursery mums, turned up late and flustered, which immediately made me feel better about myself - I generally feel quite sorry for her anyway as her son Davey looks like a scarecrow, and her daughter Ellie never stops running away. There's only a year between the kids, they go to different nurseries, she's always on the go and I secretly admire her - mainly for freely admitting that she relies heavily on alcohol to get through each day! Jo is always willing to talk to me, even if she is scarily popular with all the other mums, and we had a nice chat. In the end, by some miracle, Harvey wasn't the kid who hurt himself, or moaned for crisps and sweets, nor was he among the ones who refused to eat anything or went into a mood. His only crime was to spill some juice and eat most of a bottle of ketchup, he really enjoyed himself and we congratulated ourselves as we walked home together - quickly as we were both desperate for the toilet!

I told my mum all about the party, and after listening patiently and confirming that I am indeed mother of the year for enduring it for the sake of my son, she asked why I'd been so nervous. I don't actually know why I get so worried about these social occasions, it was a birthday party for four year olds for heavens sake, what's to worry about? It all comes down to confidence, which I feel is one of the most important things to possess. If you think you're wonderful and can do everything, then other people tend to believe and respect you. At the party, one of the mums was sharing stories of how generally perfect she is, how amazing her son Joshua is, how every decision she's ever made has been exactly the right one, etc. etc. I resisted the urge to push her into the ball pool but found myself wondering why exactly I feel inferior to her and to people who are similar to her? I doubt this woman has been to private school and university, I have, but yet I feel like she's better than me. I hate feeling like I'm not as good as people like her simply because I have less confidence, it's something Simon and I often talk about. We have quite a lot of qualifications between us, our kids are reasonably bright and not ugly, so why do we have no confidence? I think we all need to do something to increase our confidence, but what?

Things with Darcie remain the same, some good days and some bad. Having a daughter who is known as being slightly odd and who freely admits she hates me doesn't exactly make me feel great about myself! However, Darcie is definitely doing better at school this term, bribing her to do her reading is proving fairly successful and she's making progress, even if we do have a couple of screaming sessions about it a week. She got full marks in her last spelling test which is fab, spelling is something she finds very difficult and she was rightly proud of herself.

A week or so ago, it was one of Those Evenings when Darcie had a meltdown. She'd moaned and shrieked ever since she got home from school (although bizarrely she likes me collecting her and we have a lovely time walking along chatting usually) it was about 9pm and both kids were still up. Simon and I were tired, the flat was an utter tip and Darcie was refusing to get washed and ready for bed. I had a pile of washing to do and was yelling that I would never get it done, we'd never have any clean clothes unless she shut the hell up and went to bloody bed. Harvey was clinging to me as he often does when Darcie kicks off, and suddenly he said "Mummy, it's okay, you're good at washing.....you're the best. You're the best Mummy ever." Suddenly nothing else mattered, even Darcie didn't argue with what he'd just said. I thought, how on earth can anybody think I'm a good mum? I'm always rushing, there's always tons of washing-up to do, a mountain of washing which I nickname the leaning tower of Pisa, dust everywhere, I have so much housework to do it's incredible, I'm always cross, I never give the kids enough attention and yet he thinks I'm the best mummy ever! Poor little thing, he's clearly mad, but that made me feel so much better. It's funny how sometimes a few words can make everything suddenly seem okay again.