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.
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