Guilty as charged.

I was thinking earlier this morning about what an enormous thing life is, and how much of a struggle it is for so many people. I feel embarrassed sometimes for getting so wrapped up in my own problems and forgetting just how fortunate I am; we all have problems and my life is so much easier than it could be. To be honest, I think most people struggle just with the everyday stuff that gets chucked at us and we're all just concentrating on surviving the hours from waking up until going back to bed; another day dealt with and ticked off.

At the moment I'm feeling frustrated and restless because I want to be doing something but I'm not sure what. I suppose it's like being starving hungry and just not being able to decide what to eat; I'm wandering around the supermarket, everywhere I look there are options, so many things I could chose but for some reason I don't know what to pick up. I think that's the problem, there are too many options in life sometimes. As I've said before, I always wanted to have a career, being a mum is enough for some women, and I can understand why, but it isn't enough for me. I'm not claiming to be super intelligent (god I wish I was) but my mind works and thinks pretty much constantly and I need something to occupy me, some kind of stimulation. I know the only person who can decide what my future holds is ultimately me, nobody else can tell me what I want to do with the rest of my life, but it's so tough. I have ideas but even writing them down here feels stupid; I wish I had more confidence in myself but I don't believe there's any reason for me to feel confident about myself.

Carole came over last Wednesday for yet another torturous meeting, actually this time she was slightly more friendly, either that or I've just got used to her. The appointment was at 2.30 (time convenient to her obviously, regardless of what we're doing) so I sent a note in with Darcie for her teacher Miss Sumpner, explaining that she would have to leave school at 2 in order to get back home for her meeting. I turned up at school, found Darcie waiting in the office and we walked home together - after the initial hateful glares and "I can't believe you're forcing me to come out of school an hour and ten minutes early, I'm missing design technology, I won't be able to make my purse now, you've destroyed my life." rants which I ignored, she calmed down and the rest of the trek home wasn't unpleasant. Carole arrived, Simon shut himself in our bedroom preparing to go and collect Harvey from school. The Midget started with the usual stuff about how wonderful Darcie looked, how amazing she is and how well she's done with her reading now she isn't forced to do it with Evil Mummy. My daughter smiled angelically and behaved perfectly, while I cursed myself inwardly for feeling angry that she was being so pleasant.

More hideous games followed, the main one being the Hot Dog game. Darcie was asked to fetch a huge blanket from her bedroom, and Carole spread it out on the floor - I suddenly couldn't remember when I'd last washed the blanket and worked myself up into a silent frenzy about it being grubby or smelling odd. Fortunately if Carole noticed anything untoward she decided not to comment, and asked Darcie lie down on the blanket, informing her she was a hot dog. Our task was then to pretend to put various toppings on the giant hot dog; we spread ketchup and mustard on with our hands, sprinkled onions on her, etc. it was clearly a game about getting close and touching, while having fun. At the end, Darcie was rolled up in the blanket and we pretended to eat her. All along I realised I'd be forced to be the hot dog next, and dreaded it, more humiliation. I resisted the urge to throw the Midget on the floor, wrap her up tightly in the blanket and carry her down to the bins, thinking that might get me into a little bit of trouble. Sure enough, it was my turn; I lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and praying that the torture would end quickly, whilst holding my stomach in of course. It was a most bizarre experience; lying on a My Little Pony blanket while a Midget woman I hardly knew pretended to squeeze mustard over my breasts (in fairness I don't think she was aiming for them, it was just unfortunate) with a manic grin fixed on her face.

After the whole Hot dog experience, Carole announced we were going to Talk. This is something I'm good at, but I was still apprehensive and on my guard. The three of us sat on the carpet in a circle while I desperately tried to ensure my hands were covering the worst of the yoghurt stains and subtly picked up a couple of random bits of cheese (damn you and your cheese and pickle obsession Harvey) Carole asked me to tell Darcie what games and toys she liked when she was little, what her first shoes were like, where I used to take her when she was a baby, etc. basically a trip down memory lane. The whole time I felt like she was making mental notes and any second I just knew I was going to fall into a trap. The conversation led onto Darcie's name; Carole said she thinks it's pretty and I pointed out that it's one of those names people either clearly love or hate. She asked me why we chose it, and I explained that I was utterly convinced Darcie would be a boy, and therefore didn't really consider many girls names. I remember toying with Emily and Trinity (thank God we didn't call her that, what was I thinking?) but we mostly just discussed boys names, despite Simon thinking we'd have a girl. It was in fact my mother who suggested Darcey; she'd seen the ballerina Darcey Bussell on telly and thought it was a lovely name. Simon & I both agreed it was nice, but pushed it to the back of our minds - I'd told my mum I didn't want my child having a really popular name (I don't dislike my name but it's so annoying that there are millions of us around, everyone knows a Claire) but neither did I want something embarrassingly wacky like Twinkle (I actually know someone who wanted to call their daughter that) Darcey fitted nicely into that category, and when we realised we in fact had a daughter, Simon and I didn't have another name lined up. He wanted it spelt Darcie as he thought it looked more feminine which I guess it does. So I shared the tale of how my daughter got her name with Carole; her eyes lit up and suddenly all she could focus on was the fact that I'd thought I was having a boy. "So, you were really hoping for a boy?" she said. "No, not at all. We didn't mind either way, I just honestly thought we were getting a blue one, I don't know why." I answered, realising I'd fallen into a trap. I could tell that Carole the Midget was now completely convinced she had uncovered the awful truth; I was desperate for a boy, I got a girl instead and rejected her. All our problems stem from that.

Of course, that's wrong. I honestly don't think there's anything wrong with admitting you thought you were expecting one sex and got the other; my mum apparently thought I would be a boy but I'm definitely not. It's just an opinion, a gut feeling, and I bet most women have a hunch, it's not a crime surely. I actually recall feeling pretty happy that I had a daughter, I'm not one of those women who just wants girls to dress up and do all the pink stuff with, but I was pleased and imagined us having fun together in years to come. It was a shock, admittedly, as I'd been convinced for months that I was carrying a boy, and it took me time to adjust, but I wasn't at all disappointed. Now Carole seems to be twisting it all around; poor innocent Darcie was the wrong sex, cruel mummy made her feel unwanted, finally the longed for son arrived and mummy pushed Darcie aside completely. That isn't true at all, why wouldn't I want a girl? It isn't like I wanted a boy to carry on my family name, as the kids have Simons surname. I was left yet again feeling angry and upset, it's like I'm constantly being made to feel guilty and everyone is determined to lay all the blame for Darcie's issues firmly at my door.

Mainly because Darcie's behaviour got lots worse when she was around 5, most people blame it all on Harvey. It started escalating not straight after he arrived, but a few months later, and the general opinion is that she's jealous of him and it's all connected to him. No matter how much we insist that she was always a bit peculiar, and we had mild concerns right from her being tiny, that's virtually ignored and people insist that it got so much worse because we had him. I'm so scared that Harvey will pick up on these stupid comments and end up blaming himself, thinking along the lines of "my sister screamed all the time, she was desperately unhappy and so were my parents, if I'd never been born everything would have been better." that is so untrue, and I pray that he never believes any of this is his fault.

I always wanted two children at least, when I was around Darcie's age I remember joking that I wanted seven or eight kids. Then I discovered just how hideous labour is and just how challenging parenthood is - despite the small fortune we'd rake in from child benefit, absolutely no way I'd ever have eight kids now! My dad has two sons from his first marriage, they were twelve and sixteen (technically fifteen, he turned sixteen five days after I was born) when I arrived, and never lived with us so I was essentially raised as an only child. My childhood was happy, and I can most definitely see the advantages to having just one child. I never acutely longed for a sibling; my mum did lots with me and had my friends over as much as she could tolerate, but there were times when I would have loved a brother or sister. Most of my friends had at least one sibling, and I could see that despite all the squabbles they always had someone to play with and grow up with. When my parents took me places, I either had to find someone to muck around with or just be on my own, other kids usually had a brother or sister to hang out with. I was always good at entertaining myself and even now I never mind being alone, some people have to be constantly surrounded by others but I'm not like that. I wasn't especially lonely and had privileges that I might not have had if my parents had produced another two or three kids. However, occasionally it would have been nice to have a brother or sister, and I always felt I wanted to have two or possibly even more kids.

Unusually, my parents are both only children, although thanks to her natural mum dying and her dad remarrying, my mum has a stepsister. My mum's mum, my grandmother, was apparently an only child, as was her own mother. My mum found out as an adult that before she was born, her mum had a stillborn daughter, very sad and something that her parents never told her about. Mum was born six weeks early, a big deal in the 1940's, and her parents never had any more kids. One stillborn daughter, one premature daughter, I wonder if my grandmother had some kind of problem during pregnancy that might have been detected these days. For whatever reason, they stopped after my mum, and consequently she was an only child.

My mum was ill with high blood pressure and blood poisoning when she was pregnant with me, which resulted in a planned caesarean. I was fine, but she was informed she could easily have died, and was strongly advised not to have any further children. My dad was in his forties, had three kids and was perfectly happy not to produce any more, but my mum would have liked another child. I can understand why she decided to follow the advice she'd been given and just be content with me, but it must have been hard in some ways. My mum has never openly made me feel guilty, and of course it wasn't my fault at all that she was so poorly during her pregnancy, but a little part of me has always felt guilty. If I hadn't made her ill, she could have gone on to have the second child she clearly wanted. It's stupid what people feel guilty about, but I've carried that around with me my whole life.

So on my mums side, there was a long line of women just having one child, a girl. My mum can't remember that far back, as far as we know someone might have produced ten sons, but she, her own mum, and her grandmother, all just had one daughter. When I had Darcie I wondered for a long time if I'd ever have another baby, and if for some reason I wasn't meant to. I had my girl, and deep down I thought that would be it. But, I broke that pattern, I had two children, and for that reason Harvey will always be extra special to me. I was lucky enough to get the second child I wanted, and give my daughter a sibling to grow up with.

But now everyone seems to be telling me that having another baby was the biggest mistake I ever made. Everywhere I turn, people, even professionals, blame all our problems on the fact we had two children. I know it isn't true, as I said, but it just seems so bitterly unfair that I'm now being blamed for producing another child.

I'm so sick of all the guilt, of all this being my fault. I hate guilt, but I feel it constantly for so many reasons and I wish I didn't.

On our own.

For once it isn't really late at night and I'm not half asleep! Also not having the usual school uniform panic, because my darling children are currently at school dressed in completely clean uniforms which their loving mother washed and laid out for them this morning. OK, so I may have been frantically chucking things into the tumble drier at 7.45am, but I'm sitting here all smugly thinking what a classic example of perfect mother I am. If only being a perfect mum meant just ensuring your kids have clean clothes!

I meant to post last night but after watching "One Born Every Minute" (by myself as Simon can't face it, bizarrely he was fine-ish during both my labours although I vaguely remember him threatening to pass out just before Harvey made an appearance, the poor guy had been through a lot) I collapsed in a smug heap, I can't be the only person who cackles with delight when they show a poor unsuspecting woman arriving at hospital "ha ha" I mutter to myself "you're about to endure the most excruciatingly painful, embarrassing, frustrating, traumatising thing of your life and I've done it already, ha ha!" I'm truly evil, great programme though.

So last time I described how Carole the Midget decided that as Darcie doesn't want to read her school book to me, the poor little love doesn't have to. After literally years of fighting, she's got her own way and now I'm excluded from that part of her life. The good news is that recently Darcie has made real progress with her reading, which is ultimately what I want, she and Simon have got through at least four books in the last couple of weeks. I was even permitted to sit on the computer chair and listen to her reading the other day, of course Simon had to sit next to her on the sofa, never taking his eyes off her just in case I suddenly lunged forward and attacked her as I have a habit of doing. Carole suggested that Darcie & I do ten minutes of drawing together each evening, at a time convenient to Darcie of course, and provided she wanted to. Of course she doesn't want to.....each time I suggested it the screaming, accusations, jumping up and down and generally being peculiar started. As always, when I'm excluded from something and she has her own way, Darcie's fine, but the second I ask her to do something the attitude kicks in.

I managed to draw with her a few times, enduring at least fifteen minutes of screaming first, and letting Darcie set out the paper and inform me which pen I was allowed to use. Carole had arranged to come over again last Monday which was coincidentally a teacher training day for both schools, fairly unusual to have them both off on the same day but obviously beyond our control. My mum was also due to come over to take the kids out for lunch and then buy them new school shoes (despite complaining about my mother I was truly grateful for her generous offer, as I have recently forked out for new trainers for them both and was dreading having to find another £60 for school shoes) When I mentioned that my mum was coming over that day, Carole rolled her eyes and said that she couldn't switch the appointment really, which I wasn't asking her to do. She pencilled us in for 11.30am and I arranged for my mum to arrive after 12.30; after spending all weekend and some of Sunday night tidying up we were prepared for the arrival of the Midget and the Mother.

Carole duly arrived, and seemed genuinely surprised and angry to find Harvey at home. We'd explained previously that he had a teacher training day as well, but she pointed out that the purpose of her visit was to introduce Darcie and I to the wonders of Theraplay and the males weren't included. Before she arrived, Simon had explained to Harvey that they'd be watching a DVD together in our bedroom while Darcie and I did mysterious things in the front room for a little while. As Carole arrived, I desperately attempted to get Harvey to chose something to watch; "come on, what DVD do you want on?" I asked him - Carole shot an icy glare at me and snapped "we're not going to watch a DVD!" um.....no, I didn't think you'd come over to watch "Grandpa in my pocket" love, I was talking to my son!

So Harvey was dispatched to the bedroom with his beloved DVD, daddy to torment plus a drink and tictacs which his loving mummy had set out for him. I made Carole a mug of poisoned coffee (not really poisoned, that was just my fantasy) and she insisted I close the front room door to give us even more privacy. I was starting to feel apprehensive which only worsened when she produced a large pot of bubble mixture from her paper bag and informed us that the Theraplay was about to commence and that we'd love it. The first stage involved Carole blowing bubbles and telling Darcie and I which part of our bodies to burst them with - she called out "Elbows!", "Noses" and "Big Toes!" while we frantically attempted to follow her commands. In a weird way it was fun, Darcie laughed which was a positive sign, but I think her laughter was more directed at me than with me. Next Darcie was dispatched to find a shiny scarf and Carole produced a tiny pom-pom - the two of us had to crouch on the floor, stretching the scarf out and blowing the impossibly tiny pom pom across the scarf to each other. Other hideous games followed, including blowing feathers off pillows when we said certain words, one of us guessing which animal the other was pretending to be, and each putting one end of the same strawberry lace into our mouths and nibbling until our mouths met and we were forced to kiss. Carole sipped her coffee and watched wisely, saying "wonderful girls! you two are playing really nicely together! one more turn and then that's it...." generally making me feel like a six-year-old playing with my older sister while our mum watched. Of course Darcie did everything wonderfully and had to help silly mummy, I still insist my impression of a monkey was fantastic and they were only pretending not to know what animal I was.

It was embarrassing, it was ridiculous but I survived somehow and finally we reached the final stage. This involved Darcie fetching a blanket and book, while Carole supplied her with a drink and packet of fun sized biscuits for doing so well. Naturally I didn't earn a reward although I was sorely tempted to produce a bottle of wine and swig from it. We had to curl up together under the blanket on the sofa while I read Darcie the book all about Vikings she'd chosen. I was so utterly relieved that the torture appeared to be ending that I read the book enthusiastically while Darcie and Carole listened. When asked if she liked me reading to her, Darcie nodded happily and Carole said "now, did you ever read Darcie a story when she was little?" Now, I remember reading books when my daughter was a tiny baby, I spent literally an hour each evening crouched uncomfortably next to her toddler bed reading the same mind numbingly dull books again and again and again. I read to her most nights right up until she was 5 or 6 and she refused point blank to let me, I still have nightmares involving Topsy and Tim, yes Carole, I did read to my child. I tried explaining this, but she looked at me with disbelief in her eyes and explained how important reading together is, and how much Darcie enjoyed it. I wanted to shake her and scream "BUT SHE WON'T LET ME READ TO HER OR WITH HER! IT'S NOT THAT I WON'T, IT'S THAT SHE REFUSES TO LET ME YOU STUPID WOMAN!" but that wouldn't have done any good, clearly Carole had decided that poor little Darcie had never been read to as a little child. She went on about how well Darcie had done, and how obvious it was that she adored playing with her mum. "all she needs is a bit of time with you, without Harvey. Try giving her a little bit of attention sometimes, not just Harvey. She's a wonderful child." I don't often get the urge to slap grown women, but I did at that point. Darcie ran around, tidying up the front room, carrying the cups back into the kitchen and offering Carole a food bag to put her leaking pot of bubble mixture into. "You're so switched on Darcie, so clever and so considerate, it's wonderful how well you tidy up for mum." Granted, my daughter was helping without being asked, so I thanked her as well, but she never, ever does this normally. The mere idea of carrying a cup back into the kitchen sends her into a frenzy, and she wouldn't ordinarily help me out. While Darcie was putting her book away in her room, Carole whispered to me "we haven't got any real problems here, she's fine." I forced a smile and replied that Darcie would refuse to do any of the Theraplay things on our own. Carole looked genuinely shocked and said "no, you have to think positively Claire, I'm sure she will. But if she doesn't want to, that's fine, it's all up to her." As she got ready to leave, she picked up the half-eaten packet of biscuits and said sternly "now, these are for DARCIE, not for HARVEY, do you understand?" as if she sensed I was about to rush into the bedroom and give them to him the second she left. I saw Carole out, resisting the strong urge to push her downstairs, and slammed the front door as loudly as I dared.

I get what this Theraplay stuff is all about, it's about me re-connecting with my daughter and spending some time with her. Part of me enjoyed doing the things with her, actually sharing something without all the aggression and tears. We had a laugh, but at one point, while I was looking into Darcie's eyes, I realised with a jolt that all I could see was contempt. She actually has lovely eyes, kind of grey/blue and I wish I'd seen something else there. Vague amusement and pure contempt, it sound nasty but that's what I saw.

The thing which is frustrating the hell out of Simon & I is that it was all an act. Darcie is extremely good at convincing people of things, and I was impressed at the act she put on for Carole. It might not have been intentional, she probably didn't plan it, but she came across as a kind, considerate little girl who genuinely loved playing the little games with me. She was lovely to me, not even a hint of the unpleasantness she normally fires at me constantly. Of course kids will always be on their best behaviour for other people, I remember other mums saying how sweet and quiet I was, while my mum laughed bitterly and said "if only." I'm proud that Darcie can behave well for other people, I'm never worried about her showing me up when she goes to her friends houses which is fantastic. However, I just wish that Carole had seen the real Darcie, just for a few minutes, just a little bit.

We're now left feeling totally alone. Carole clearly thinks that we're over-reacting, terrible parents who are attempting to get Darcie diagnosed with something just to cover our mistakes. It's so frustrating I could scream, as I said, Carole thinks I don't want to things with my daughter, when in reality she doesn't want to do them with me. Darcie has somehow convinced her that she loves spending time with her mum, but I only like playing with Harvey. So many people seem to think that we devote all our time to him, leaving Darcie alone and sad, which has resulted in her screaming just to get a bit of attention. Carole reckons this Theraplay is a miraculous cure which will turn the whole situation around; Darcie isn't at fault, she's just an innocent child who has been rejected by her mum. Once Evil Mummy accepts that Darcie just wants some of her time and attention, everything will calm down and we'll all live happily ever after. Carole sees a happy, calm child who sits smiling next to her mum, listening to the story and enjoying just having a bit of attention for once. What she doesn't see is the child who refuses to wash herself down in the bath, and when her mum walks into the room splashes water at her, screaming "someone, please, help me! she's going to hold me under the water again, daddy please save me! she's going to drown me!" while the neighbours listen and consequently shoot evil looks at the mother and ignore her because they think she's beating her kid up.

I seriously feel like I'm reaching breaking point with this whole situation. Nobody is ever going to listen to us, or understand or help us. We're truly on our own, and I don't know what the hell to do.

More later.....