At last.

I've lost count of the number of times I've started composing blog entries in my head over the past few months, but somehow never managed to transfer those thoughts onto the computer! My excuse is the usual one; two kids who take up most of my time and drain my body of energy, but I'm back and determined to get back into the habit of posting regularly again. When I'm a demented 60-year-old - you know, the kind of woman everyone avoids; the one who wanders around Asda pushing an empty pram which was new twenty years ago, food stains all over her patterned blouse which clashes horrifically with the patterned charity shop skirt, hair matted and wild, muttering incomprehensibly under her breath, tired eyes flitting around in search of something or someone, generally weary of the world, strange odour surrounding her - I'll look back on this blog and think I wish it was then, I was more fabulous than I realised.

The key event recently has been Darcie's tenth birthday, two weeks ago. The build-up was incredible, and I admit to secretly being caught up in it all, feeling like I was celebrating something personal, in addition to helping my child celebrate her birthday. My mum always used to say she felt excited on my birthdays and I could never understand why - what's so great about someone else getting all the attention and presents I wondered? It's one of the many things that became clearer when I had the kids, I get excited about their birthdays as it means I've survived another year and they're that bit closer to leaving home. Also, there's something truly spectacular about seeing your child celebrate being on the planet for another twelve months, thinking I did it, I kept them alive and resisted the urge to murder them, I've survived another year of motherhood.

I've talked a lot about all the problems I have with Darcie in this blog; I've moaned and felt sorry for myself, beaten myself up, written it all down desperately hoping that somehow the answers will leap off the computer screen at me and suddenly all our problems will be solved. However, right now, I'm stepping out of the bubble of horribleness which I seem to live in most of the time, and saying something different. I'm saying that I love Darcie, there's no way I could not love her, and I'm so grateful to her for giving me this last decade. Of all the little presents she's given me so far, and of all the gifts she'll give me in the future, none of them will ever beat the gift of motherhood she gave me ten years ago. I'm still the person I was before I had her, I'm still me, and I still feel so young sometimes, but I'm something else now, and being her mum will always be amazing. My life as her mum is full of sadness and regret which is terrible, but as I've said before here, if someone said I could jump back ten years and not be Darcie's mum then I can say with total sincerity that I would not take that option. I do not want any other daughter, I'd dearly love her attitude and our relationship to be a million times better, and my skills as a mum to be a billion times better, but I want her. I wanted Darcie from the second I saw that fuzzy image on the screen at our first scan, when abortion was still a very real option, and I didn't even know myself that I truly wanted her. But a part of me, no matter how little, knew, and that's why I took the path that I honestly think has been the hardest. If we'd had an abortion, then Darcie would have ceased to exist, and I would never have forgiven myself, I'd have thought about her every day for the rest of my life, but that would have, in my opinion, been easier than the route I've taken. I'm not after any praise or admiration, but a little bit of me is proud that we had her and that we've done it the hard way.

I don't tell her often enough that I love her, and that I'm proud of her, because quite frankly I can't bring myself to. I know how disgusting that makes me seem, but it's true; sometimes when she's screaming insanely at me, saying she wants me to die and accusing me of trying to kill her, I think - I'd never kill you, I love you more than I can ever describe. If a crazed gun man burst in (you'd be surprised how often that happens) and was about to shoot you, I'd stand in front of you and let him shoot me instead. If you needed a kidney, I'd give you one of mine without a moments hesitation. I want to say this to Darcie, but my anger and hurt stops me, the loathing in her eyes stops me and more often than not I say something horrible instead, to hurt her like she's hurting me. Every morning I think - tonight when she's lying in bed I'll give her a big hug and tell her how much I love her and that she makes me happy. But instead she spends 3 hours solidly screeching at me, I'm tired and snap, screaming back at her, switching the light off and leaving her crying in the dark. Sometimes every bit of me longs to hold her in my arms like I did when she was a baby but I know she'll push me away and yell how much she hates me. But the truth is, no matter how much I try and convince myself that I don't like her, that she's not worth all the tears I shed, all the sadness I feel, she is worth it. Darcie doesn't smile often enough, but when she does she has the most lovely smile, and at random moments I'll find myself thinking, you're beautiful. You really are such a beautiful little girl, how the hell have I created you?

There's something Darcie doesn't know; again this year her classroom is on the top level of the school and at the end of the day she has to walk down a flight of stairs, which lead to the outside door. (she knows that, eventually I'll get to the bit she doesn't know!) Her teacher Mr Harrison comes out of that door each afternoon, then stands on the little square at the top of another few steps before you're in the playground. The kids all file past him, and he stands there presumably so any parents can nab him or he can nab any unsuspecting parents and say the dreaded "can I have a quick word?" which hardly ever means anything good. After I collect Harvey from his school we have a 10/15 minute wait for Darcie and I've secured a position for myself near the 4 or 5 outside steps which lead up to the door she comes out of. Harvey spends that time either running around with his friends terrorising people while I carefully ignore him, or moaning at/poking me because he's tired and wants sweets, fluid or the toilet, all three if it's a bad day. Once the bell goes, I carefully watch the flight of stairs beyond the door, naturally all the quick kids charge down them, through the door, ignoring the glares of Mr Harrison, jump down the stone outside steps into freedom. I've learned the hard way that my darling daughter is the slowest child in the year if not the school, and have spent many afternoons freezing half to death in the playground planning complicated punishments for keeping me waiting for so long. There was the time in the middle of last winter when I stood shaking in the playground with a sobbing Harvey, watching the snow start to fall and every single other parent heading home. I was less than impressed when Darcie informed me that she and a friend had been chucking wet paper towels at each other in the toilets, then she retired to the window to watch me standing in the playground below while her friend went home. I shouted at her all the way home, threatened to slice her open from top to bottom if she ever pulled that trick again, but as always my threats fell on deaf ears. Anyway the thing she doesn't realise is that I position myself so I can see her when she eventually materializes and makes her way slowly down the inside flight of stairs towards the door, I watch her most nights, that figure that is my child. I watch her concentration as she plods down the stairs, I look at her knowing she doesn't realise I'm watching, before she sees me and the arguments start. I soak up those precious two or three minutes, thinking how familiar she is, how I know every bit of her.

One of the best things is seeing how much people like her, how her friends can see the good in her when I often can't myself. It's fantastic to create something other people like, knowing I've made something which brings happiness into other peoples lives is amazing. Simons youngest sister had her first baby three weeks ago, and when I was talking to her on the phone recently she commented on how emotional and thrilled their families are with the baby she's produced. I still love seeing how my kids make other people happy, it's a lovely thing. It's great how much my mum loves being a granny and I'm thrilled that I made her one. We had a little bowling party for Darcie last weekend, and I was genuinely touched at how much her friends think of her, two of them wrote "to my best friend" in the cards, it's brilliant that she's liked. Basically because I don't overly like myself, I find it amazing that people like something I've created.

We still have meetings with Carole the Midget, it's about a year now since our uneasy relationship started. I swing between actively loathing the woman and thinking she might be okay really, and I think in an odd kind of way she's fond of us. I admire her for braving the hell hole which is our flat repeatedly and not lecturing me about painting the walls or dusting the skirting boards (my mother has an unhealthy obsession with skirting boards, she honestly believes that I have nothing better to do than clean them every day - stuff the washing, tidying, feeding my children; I should push all that aside and give the skirting boards my full attention) We have visits from Carole every few weeks and irritating as she is, I have to give the woman credit for helping us more than any other professional ever has. It's taken a lot of tedious meetings, us nearly screaming at her with frustration when she ignores everything we say, talks to Darcie instead and comes to the conclusion that we're utterly wrong when it comes to parenting and Darcie's a switched on, perfectly normal girl who just needs firmer boundaries. Admittedly my parenting skills aren't great to say the least, but it's been so upsetting being criticised by the professional meant to support and help us, while my child sits and smirks. Finally, finally, after months of swaying between thinking Darcie has serious problems and thinking we're at fault, Carole seemed to make her mind up that we needed help and set the wheels in motion. At the end of the summer holidays and after being on a waiting list for ages, we finally got an appointment for a cognitive assessment at Falcon House, where Carole mainly works and one of the bases for Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS) who she works for. Before the summer holidays, Carole had arranged for one of her colleagues to go and observe Darcie at school for part of a day, and feed back the results to her. The woman observing said that Darcie seemed detached and different to her peers, and over reacted (she thought some boys were trying to kill her in the playground and reported this to the teacher, plus another child was apparently trying to hurt her when in fact he was just pushing his chair under the table) it was confirmed that the cognitive assessments were a very good idea, which was a real breakthrough for us.

So I took Darcie to Falcon House at the end of the holidays for two separate assessments, one week apart. I had to sit in the waiting area most of the time (not a problem as it's a lovely building and being able to read my book and drink hot chocolate in peace was fantastic) while a woman called Anna did various mysterious tasks with my daughter. Anna is one of those young, depressingly attractive, skinny women who is also unbelievably nice - the kind you want to hate but can't as they're genuinely lovely. At the end of the second session I was called in to answer a few questions about Darcie's behaviour, tedious really as I've been through it all so many times now. Anna pleasantly said that she'd calculate the results and discuss it with her superior before calling us back in a few weeks for a feed back appointment. Simon & I were desperate to find out what the tests had shown, and hoped in some ways they'd throw up a problem which proved that we're not just bad parents.

After lots of waiting, we had the appointment with Anna last week, and felt like a couple of school children (despite both being several years older than her) waiting for crucial exam results. I'd been too wound up to have any breakfast (me not eating is a rare thing so worth mentioning) so was conscious of my rumbling stomach, Simon and I had spent most of the morning accusing each other of random things and generally squabbling in a way very similar to our kids, only making up in the taxi so tension still hung in the air. I tried to work out what I was expecting as Anna talked us through the assessments Darcie had completed and the Weschler Intelligence scale they'd used, but came to the conclusion that it was one of those situations where there wasn't a right outcome. Anna then admitted that they'd been unable to produce a full-scale IQ as the results were so diverse - high in some tests, low in others - but the estimate IQ is 81. Anna was reluctant to confirm that this is below average as Darcie's performance was so variable, but in a round about way said that it is. Upsetting as nobody likes to be told their child is essentially less intelligent than they should be, but the real bombshell was still to come. Anna showed us the results, stressing that in some Darcie had come out as average (her vocabulary is good as it always has been, and comprehension was fine) but in most things she was below average. The bombshell I guess was the Processing Speed Index test when she came out on the 1st percentile, meaning that 99% of children would have done better than her. Basically this is a high priority concern; she struggles to hold info in her memory and process it, she can't complete tasks as fast as other kids her age, she can't learn things as quickly as she should. I had this overwhelming urge to say "so basically she's a bit dim then?" which is what she'd have been called 50 years ago before all this assessments and labels were thought up.

So what it comes down to is that we officially have a child who isn't special needs but who officially has a problem. For the rest of her school life she'll be known as one of the kids who's a bit different, who allowances have to be made for - teachers will know that she needs instructions written down, she needs to ideally be given one instruction at a time, she needs more time to do things, she'll need extra time in tests and exams. I don't for a second regret having the cognitive assessments done, and of course it's fantastic that we're aware of her problems, but I also feel gutted. At the end of the day, I don't want a child with a lower than average IQ, I don't want a child with this problems. It goes without saying that I realise there are kids with much, much worse issues and I'm so grateful to have two kids who are essentially fit and healthy. I don't have a right to moan about this, but I can't help but feel confused and upset. Obviously this isn't the whole reason Darcie screams, etc. and soon she'll have yet more assessments to see if she's on the autistic spectrum in addition to all this, but I feel like we're making some kind of progress. At last. Ignorance is bliss in some ways though, and now we have to come to terms with the fact that Darcie officially has poor short-term memory and simply isn't going to cope in the same way her peers do. I worry about what this will mean for her; will it ultimately have an effect on the rest of her life? Will she not be able to do the job she wants to? and as always I blame myself, did I do something to make her this way? I keep reading through the info Anna gave us and want to cry; I know how bitchy this sounds but I went to private school, Simon and I have both been to uni and have lists of qualifications, logically our child shouldn't have a lower than average IQ. I realise the world doesn't work that way, and somewhere devastated parents are wondering why their child has cancer when nobody in either side of the family has had it. I'll say again that we're incredibly lucky to have our children, despite all this, and that as always we'll cope. We've got a meeting with the Midget tomorrow to discuss the results of this tests, no idea what I'll say to her. The really bad thing is that I haven't even been able to tell my parents about all this as for some reason I'm worried that they'll be angry with me or blame me.

The hardest job in the world.

I know it's been a while, been attempting to find the time and energy to post for ages, for some reason I feel inspired tonight! I'm actually feeling super duper organised for once - the kids uniforms are laid out for the morning, Darcie's water bottle is clean, full and in the fridge (the child refuses point blank to drink water at home but it's suddenly essential that she takes fresh water to school every single day, I know she tips most of it away but annoyingly have no proof of this) the bathroom is tidied after Harvey's energetic bath earlier.....as a reward for being so amazing I've just inhaled a creme egg, I must be getting old as I find them rather sickly these days.

I'm sure I've mentioned that I've been attempting to figure out what to do with the rest of my life for months now, and I've reached the point of wanting to slap myself around the face which is never good. I'm constantly treating Darcie to the "You could do much better if you just tried" lecture, with a few "you're never going to do anything with your life because it's all too much effort" accusations chucked in. We all know what our faults are, even if we don't often admit to them, and I hate seeing my faults reproduced in my children. Ultimately, I don't want Darcie to be where I am in 20 years, and I know it's very likely she will be. Nagging and pressurising are both good things to do, tormenting your kids is one of the fun bits of being a mum, but also children learn from examples. Darcie has reached the age where she knows what both Simon & I do to earn money; Simon explained to her a while ago that when she was a baby he got made redundant and eventually started working for himself, he's struggled for years and finally things have improved. I don't think Darcie understands why her dad doesn't go off somewhere to work, and we've had many screaming episodes because she wants him to be a boxer like her friend Ella-Mae's dad. I've attempted to subtly point out that not everyone wants to make a career out of punching people, but all she can see is that Ella-Mae's dad goes off to work, and that means he can drive around in a big car and buy his kids two mobile phones each. I can see how she's confused but I think she's finally understanding that Simon's job involves more than sitting at the computer, using Twitter and Facebook all day and once in a while making a cool picture! I want her to feel proud of her dad for doing something different, and I want her to be proud of me too. I remember being proud of my mum because she was a teacher (although having a teacher as a mum does suck when you're a kid, much harder to get away with stuff) she knew what she wanted to be right from being 4 or 5, went for it and achieved what she'd set out to do. Sometimes I think that Darcie would respect me more if I had a job or did something other than being a mum, I don't think for a second that she'd suddenly start liking me or anything crazy like that, but in some way it might make her a little bit proud.

Darcie knows that both Simon & I went to university, not that she really gets what that is, in her mind it's just a vague place that some adults go to. I would never tell her that in fact she was the main reason I didn't get my degree at the point I should have, because I don't ever intend to make her feel guilty about something that wasn't her fault at all. She honestly believes that these days all I do is run around tidying up, buying things for her and Harvey, entertaining them and ferrying them backwards and forwards to school. I've decided that now would be an excellent time for me to show both my children that my life does not in fact revolve completely around them, do something for myself, and make them proud of me. One day I said the infamous words "You're never going to do anything with your life because it's all too much effort" to my daughter, then with a gasp of horror realised that that I was speaking to myself as well.

Well-meaning people have said many times over the past few months "do a course, it'll motivate you, it'll give you confidence to try other things, it's better than sitting around thinking about what career you want; while you're deciding you can do something positive, it can't hurt...." and other motivational things. So, one day I ventured away from Facebook and found myself on the Open University website, carefully ignoring the sounds of my children spraying perfume at each other in their bedroom. I was immediately drawn to the Psychology courses, not something I even vaguely considered studying at uni but hell I was barely 18 back then and not the same person I am today. It sounds fascinating, might end up costing me £200 just for a short course, but I reckon it might just be worth it. I was pathetically proud of myself for making a half-decision, a baby step in what might possibly be the right direction, but now I'm swinging between being determined to go for it and maybe thinking it'll be a waste of time. The application deadline is in a couple of weeks I think, I have the relevant forms and they're lying accusingly on top of the microwave, the place forms often go and never return from. Logically I think well, what have I go to lose? (apart from 2oo quid obviously) I'm not doing anything else, why not do that? Then I start wondering where it'll lead, no point just doing a course and then......nothing. But it does sound good. Of course I'll end up racked with guilt for wasting cash which could be spent on the kids, for doing a course rather than spending time with the kids, for not just getting a crap job in Asda so I'd have more money for the kids........

I read a quote somewhere recently "a mum is always a working mum" which I think's very true, I say I don't have a job, but really I think I have the hardest one in the world. At the moment, I'm feeling like such a failure as a mother, at every twist and turn I get it wrong. I realised very early on that it's all a huge learning curve, and one of my mother's favourite sayings is "children don't come with instructions" true, but I reckon she's desperately attempting to excuse her own mistakes! The whole issue with Darcie isn't any better; Carole still comes over and in some small way I'm actually getting quite fond of the midget. Don't get me wrong, she's still infuriating and I still want to grab her, shake her, and throw her across the room (avoiding the TV because that would be hideously expensive to replace and without one I might have to entertain my kids) She's currently on leave so we haven't had the pleasure of her company for a while, but last time wasn't exactly a roaring success. Carole seems to have given up with the Theraplay stuff, although I have an awful feeling that the torturous games aren't gone for good. The most annoying thing is that whenever Carole's here, Darcie puts a huge "butter wouldn't melt in my mouth" act on, making eye contact with me constantly, chatting, and generally being fantastic. Carole accepts that one of the main issues we have is that Darcie struggles with change, she hates it when things are out of the ordinary (she normally has a bath/shower before bed, she's been known to lose the plot completely when we've made her have one mid-morning at weekends or holidays, that's just one of many examples) this is one of the major traits of Aspergers syndrome or Autism, and apparently visual timetables are the way forward. Darcie nodded along as Carole explained in great detail that she and I would work together to create some kind of board, with little pictures stuck on showing what she'd be doing each day. She agreed to plan it out with me every evening for the following day, e.g. a bed picture for getting up, followed by a breakfast picture, getting washed & dressed pictures, having a shower if necessary, watching TV, tidying up, etc. etc. Darcie said how much she'd like to use this visual timetable and how it would help her to understand that we wouldn't be going out as soon as she got dressed as this is a real issue at weekends. She was enthusiastic and promised Carole that before the next meeting she'd help me construct a timetable. Carole congratulated Darcie for being so mature and disappeared off, as predicted Darcie dropped the act and refused point blank to put any effort into the visual timetable. Simon made all the little pictures as I don't have an artistic bone in my body, but she still refused to plan it out with me or have any part in it. When we pointed this out to Carole, as always she said "so you don't want to do the visual timetable with Mum? OK then, whatever you like Darcie, Mum will do it all by herself then." I felt so annoyed as I'd really hoped it would work, in our opinion she needs structure and to know what time things are happening, etc. These things simply don't work unless she tries, and she just doesn't want to.

Darcie has always been extremely head strong, even as a baby, and we used to joke about it. However, what's amusing when you have a one-year-old isn't that amusing when that child is approaching ten. As I said, I firmly believe that motherhood is the hardest job in the world, and I realise part of my role is to run around after my kids, just as my mum ran around after me. What really niggles me though is that Darcie does nothing I say, she does nothing to help me out. She wants a drink, I have to make it and place it in front of her, she won't come and get it or even take it out of my hands most of the time as apparently I'm going to throw it all over her and pretend she did it. Over the Easter holidays I asked Darcie to help me tidy her bookshelf which is too small for all their books at the best of times, and had got so messy I couldn't ignore it any more. She spent two solid hours screaming rather than help me, I ended up doing it while she hurled abuse at me until I was almost in tears. I know no kid enjoys tidying up and will basically do anything to avoid it, but I remember gritting my teeth and getting on with it sometimes when my mum started turning red and making threats. There was simply nothing I could do to make Darcie tidy that bookshelf though, nothing on this earth would have made her. It's basically like having a giant spoiled baby most of the time, and I get so angry with myself because ultimately I can't make my kid do what I say.

I know people have it worse than me, in fact I know someone online who has two special needs sons who make her life living hell - one apparently recently smashed up the brand new trampoline she bought them, ripped all the wallpaper off his bedroom walls, and the two boys often start punching each other in public, damaging cars, etc. which must be incredibly tough. I'm fortunate in that just sometimes Darcie & I have nice times, but it's so rare. Over the Easter holidays I took the kids to Arundel Castle with my mum, and it was one of those days I'll always remember because it went well. Despite us missing our train (my mum's fault, well OK I could have been paying more attention I suppose) Darcie didn't freak out, and she really made me proud that day. I've only been to Arundel Castle once, when I was 6 or 7, and I was quite looking forward to it, despite worrying as always about Darcie being weird all day, plus panicking that Harvey wouldn't like it. After initially declaring it to be "the boring-est place on earth" my little boy had a great time, forcing me to clamber up millions of impossibly steep stairs and asking questions to which there are just no answers. In an act of unintentional bad mother-ness I'd allowed Darcie to wear her sandals (last years sandals, really must get her some more, putting it off as she has the most awkward shaped feet) which of course slipped and made her panic slightly about falling - I panicked too as I didn't fancy going home via A&E and then explaining to Simon why our daughter had come back with both arms in plaster. So Darcie and Granny wisely avoided the nastiest steps leaving me to tackle them with my son who had miraculously transformed into a robot soldier. Harvey adored the scenes set out in some rooms, showing how castle life used to be, and spent ages chatting to various models of soldiers and what looked suspiciously like a monk. My mum produced a crazy amount of food as always at lunchtime, which she'd carried around effortlessly all morning - the four of us found a bench in the vast grounds and scoffed. I couldn't get over how awesome the castle is, and how much history is contained within it. Harvey couldn't get over how the toilet doors were shaped like castle doors, I secretly thought it was pretty cool too. My mum thankfully supplied the kids with money for the dreaded gift shop, Harvey chose slime (he's addicted to it at the moment and can detect it up to five miles away) and a wooden sword - he promptly charged out of the shop, dived into the nearest flowerbed and began beheading the daffodils. I've perfected the art of carefully ignoring my kids in situations like this, and found myself patrolling around behind Darcie in the gift shop repeating "now, don't waste your money on tat, think carefully and chose a nice souvenir which you can treasure for years." I genuinely frighten myself at times like this, because I sound like a Proper Parent, of course it's just a game and I'm still sixteen inside.

We investigated the chapel, ignored the pointed looks of disapproval from the stuck-up bloke supervising - my kids have two volume settings which are "loud" and "louder", they simply don't do whispering. I did rapidly remove them though when they began sticking their fingers up the noses of the statues, leaving my mum to placate the infuriated bloke. It was one of those rare days when we just had fun, Darcie interacted with me and didn't even resemble the child who makes every day of my life impossible. We scuttled off for ice cream at a cafe (key lime pie ice cream, I'd go back just for that) and then walked back to the station, my mum even commented that Darcie and I were walking along chatting while she and Harvey trailed along behind, something which never normally happens. Usually either Darcie stalks off, leaving my mum chasing after her, or the two of them stick together while Harvey and I do our own thing. I know often my mum feels torn between her daughter and her granddaughter, and she said how pleasant it was that she didn't that day. The whole time though, I was expecting Darcie to turn on me, that was there at the back of my mind, combined with "why can't it always be like this?" I knew it would be a fleeting thing, and sure enough, the next day she screamed "I haven't said you can come in here!" the minute I approached her, but at least we had the day in Arundel. As I said, I know I'll always remember it, simply because Darcie and I enjoyed each others company and all the bad stuff was put on hold. I hope that one day in the distant future I'm the granny who takes her and her children there, and that she'll turn to me and say "I've got such happy memories of this place, I remember what a lovely day we had here."

Suddenly have so much more to say, but it's crazily late and I need to be up at 7 tomorrow morning. I'll be back soon.

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.....

Giving In

Just popping on here for yet another late night rant, nobody else to talk to as they've all gone and fallen asleep on me! I currently have the worst headache in the history of the world, seriously nobody has ever had a worse one - am waiting for the Nurofen to kick in and desperately doing my best not to think about the Galaxy chocolate which is calmly waiting in the cool stillness of my fridge.

Last time I mentioned Carole the Midget, our therapist/counsellor type person who has been bravely attempting to unravel the Mystery of Darcie. I think I said before that after lots of talking, watching her frantically scribble things down and waiting patiently, Simon and I felt for the first time that we were finally getting somewhere. Carole had contacted Darcie's school who admitted that she has slight oddities, despite being generally normal-ish, this was progress in itself as previously her schools have refused point blank to acknowledge that there's any problem, or back us up in any way, shape or form. Carole seemed to sympathise as much as any professional can, and didn't dismiss us as bad parents or pass us onto someone else. Finally, she said she wanted Darcie to have a full psychological assessment, starting with a Speech and Language assessment, just to check she understands things in the way they're meant. Simon & I duly signed forms for this to go ahead, and then Carole said she would pop over on 17th Jan 9.30am-ish, to have a chat with Darcie in her own environment. We agreed to this, as Carole has only really met her a couple of times and we realised she may want to get to know her a bit better in order to gain a bit of insight into the situation.

So, yesterday was The Day, and Darcie was, predictably, angry and worried about the meeting with Carole. I can see why she was a bit apprehensive, I think I would have been too, but as always Darcie's way of dealing with fear (and any other emotion) is to scream, screech, accuse and insult us, mainly me. I trudged off to school with Harvey in the absolutely torrential rain (actually secretly feeling rather smug at sporting brand new spotty wellies, thus avoiding the soaking-jeans-clinging-to-legs syndrome) deposited him in his classroom and raced back home to dry off a bit and dash around madly doing some last minute tidying before Carole turned up.

We settled Darcie and Carole in the front room with drinks (I planned on presenting her with a plate of freshly baked cakes, but as always I'm chronically disorganised and couldn't even spare the time to buy some dubious cakes from Lidl) and subtly slipped off to the kitchen. Simon and I sat at the table initially glancing at a Jamie Oliver recipe book, desperately trying to create the impression that we plan and cook exciting meals each and every night, just in case Carole wandered in. I even positioned myself strategically in front of the washing mountain, but she made no attempt to leave the front room. Finally Simon and I gave up with the cook book (I must be one of the only women in the world who doesn't find Jamie Oliver remotely attractive, and words like Pukka, Saucy and Cheeky littered through the book just wind me up, admittedly he's a good chef though and seems like a good bloke) and decided to scoff crisps and play noughts and crosses using rude symbols rather than the traditional ones. Darcie and Carole were clearly getting on well, and we heard constant chat plus occasional chuckles; when Simon bravely ventured back into the front room after an hour or so, Carole scowled at him and made it clear that he wasn't welcome, so he scuttled back into the kitchen to admire my immature scribblings.

Finally Darcie appeared, and summoned us back into the front room. Obediently Simon & I followed, and Carole informed us we could sit down on our own sofa, which was generous of her. Straight away she said she'd enjoyed talking to Darcie, which is fair enough - Darcie can be very engaging and good company when she wants to be. Then came the bombshell. Carole announced that they'd come up with a plan, and said something along the lines of "now, school are very concerned as Darcie is supposed to be reading for ten minutes every night, and she simply isn't doing it. She says she doesn't want to read to Claire, so we've decided that she doesn't have to. Claire, you must leave the room and let Darcie read to Simon every night." This doesn't sound like a big deal, but for months we've been locked in a battle about reading. Darcie doesn't want to read to me, for reasons unknown (she insists that I'm determined to murder her rather than simply listening to her reading) and frequently screams at me to go away as she can't see why I need to be involved at all. Of course, I understand that sometimes she might prefer to read to Simon, and sometimes that will work out better for us all, but I bet most children in her year read to their mums most of the time. I genuinely can't see why she can't just read her book to me, but she refuses to nine out of ten times, hence the battle. Recently I've been giving in and letting Darcie read to both Simon & I, sitting between us on the sofa, just so she makes some progress with reading, and I think thats a fair compromise. Along with many other things, Simon and I previously described the reading/homework problems to Carole, and she agreed that Darcie shouldn't get her own way, and she should do as I ask and read to me.

So, when I was told that I am no longer permitted to be in the same room as Darcie, and effectively I will have no part in her homework from now on, I was stunned. All I could think was that she is now getting exactly what she wants; me excluded, and not knowing what she's doing - how is it fair that I try and help her, try and compromise, yet at the end of the day she and Carole decide behind my back that I'm not allowed in the room while she's doing reading, etc.? Granted, Darcie will make good progress, but it just seems like we're giving her exactly what she wants. For no real reason, I'm sent away, and she realises its worked out exactly her way. Written down, it sounds even more petty, and at the end of the day it's just reading/homework and it doesn't matter who does it with her. But for me, it's the principle of the thing - for no real reason, I'm now cut out of the whole reading loop, and no longer have permission to even know what book my child is reading. I was shocked, and Carole said "what's wrong, you look upset?" clearly not getting that she'd told Darcie "so, you don't want to read to your mum? OK then, we'll force her out of the room, and do it exactly as you want Darcie." I could have cried, but I'm not one for sobbing in front of people I hardly know. I murmured something about it being great that Darcie would make progress, which it is, and fortunately didn't cause a scene. Carole then informed me that I'm allowed to spend 10 minutes drawing with Darcie each evening. OK, I get it - it's about gradually working on our relationship with her, and improving things, and having quality time is always a good idea. Darcie has time alone with Simon while I'm playing in the bedroom with Harvey, then while he's asleep I have quality time with her while Simon does something else. Good plan, but I don't like the way it was all arranged behind our backs, Carole offered Darcie the choice of baking or drawing with me each evening without consulting me first. Darcie wanted drawing, so drawing it is, despite me being dreadful at it. I actually do quite like mucking around with felt tips though, and as I said, I get what it's about - the drawing part doesn't matter, it's the quality time that counts. "It's OK Darcie," Carole soothed "it's okay, you don't have to draw with Mum for more than 10 minutes, try and get through it." clearly I'm some kind of serial killer who can't be trusted with my own child for more than ten little minutes, after that time my medication starts to wear off and I might just produce a knife and stab her to death.

Carole said how impressed she is with Darcie, how "Switched on" our child is and how she has no real problems. Yes, Darcie is bright in many ways, and she's smart and very astute. It's lovely to receive compliments about our daughter, but what annoyed us is how much Carole's attitude has changed now. She seems determined to give Darcie her own way as much as possible, like the whole reading thing, regardless of what we feel. She muttered about not doing the speech and language assessment now, her whole opinion seems to have altered after chatting to Darcie for an hour. It's hurtful that we felt we finally had someone on our side, and we can feel that slipping away.....Carole clearly thinks that we ignore Darcie and just bother with Harvey (she made several references to this) hence the spending quality time with her, which admittedly will only be a good thing. We now get the impression that she feels Darcie's behaviour is simply down to the fact that she doesn't get enough attention and if we spend a bit more time with her, and let her have everything her own way then she'll miraculously stop acting the way she does and we'll all live happily ever after. All the stuff about Aspergers traits, OCD, the comments made by school, all that's been forgotten now and the blame is being laid well and truly at our door.

Now, I don't want to come across as nasty about my child, or being desperate to get her diagnosed with something she doesn't have. However, Darcie isn't right, this is much more serious than just us not giving her quite enough attention and making more fuss about her brother. She constantly accuses me of things I haven't done or said, I'm certain she hears voices, she thinks people are mouthing things to her, she detests me and wants to drive me out of my own home, she has already made plans to kill me. A little while ago, Darcie said, quite calmly, "I'll murder you one day you know. I'll get up in the middle of the night, go for a wee, grab a knife and stab you while you're asleep. I've got it all planned." It was chilling. Okay, she's a 9 year old, she hesitates before she crosses a road by herself, she isn't going to attack me. Yet. But one day, my 9 year old will be a 15 year old, and the plan she's been formulating for years might just turn into reality. Fuelled by jealousy, hatred, anger, with a large helping of teenage hormones, will Darcie just grab that knife one night and go for it? Will the child I put on this planet stab me? I suppose I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed that doesn't happen, or even if it does than finally we'll be taken seriously. Someone might just say "You know, Darcie's just murdered her mother. Perhaps there is something wrong with her after all."

I wanted to scream at Carole yesterday, tell her again about all the crazy stuff Darcie does and says, and ask her why just giving into her and letting her control us is best. I feel like we were floating in the middle of the sea, and finally grabbed hold of a raft, only to have it snatched away from us again. Someone's chuckling and saying "ha ha, you didn't really think you were actually doing to get some help did you? No way!" It's so horribly unfair. Now we're back to the world of sticker charts and rewarding Darcie if she doesn't accuse me of suffocating her for a whole day. That's it, I reckon Carole is going to come over a few more times, persuade us to let Darcie call all the shots, we have to do everything she says, which is basically isolating me. I know there's only so much The Midget can do, she hasn't got a magic wand to make it all better, and in her own way she's trying, but the way her opinion has suddenly altered bugs me.

Almost every day, I blame myself. I hate living in a bubble of guilt, self hatred, wondering if all this is my fault. I didn't plan on getting pregnant with Darcie, not at that stage in my life, no way. I so nearly had an abortion, did she sense something even then? Can a foetus feel unwanted? Every time someone says something nice about me, I think no, I'm not nice, because if I was my daughter would like me. I can't be kind, I can't be a good person, because I have someone who hates me, so I must be a bad person. I've said horrible, terrible things to my child which I can't ever take back. Sometimes I honestly feel, deep down, that I was just given the wrong child, I wasn't supposed to be Darcie's mum. It's like how some people are born into the wrong body, they're born a man when they know they should have been a woman, some kind of mix-up.

And then there's my Harvey. He's a menace at times, he's always been high maintenance and I know all his faults. But, I've never doubted that I was meant to be his mum. Harvey is what keeps me going, he's living proof that I can be a good mother. Of course I get angry with him, but we bounce back from that; he doesn't resent me, or want to exclude me from my own home and family. This morning before school, Harvey kissed me again and again and said "I'm leaving you lots of kisses so you can taste me all day, because I know how much you're going to miss me." He doesn't doubt that I love him, Darcie accuses me constantly of hating her. Harvey wants to be with me, he needs me less now he's older, but I'm fairly sure he'll always want me in his life. One of the things I love most about my son is how he always makes me feel good about myself, he shows me how motherhood should be.

Must go and sort the bloody uniforms out, at least everything is clean tonight, hope so anyway!

My family and other animals

My first entry in 2011! I can't believe how long its been since I last wrote here, I've had lots to say but as always not enough time to plonk my (not small) bottom on the rather wonky computer chair and write it all down. I should be asleep right now but my brain is full of stuff which needs to be emptied, slightly like a bursting dustbin - you need to tip out all the rubbish before you can close the lid! Oh yes and there's the small issue of me not actually being able to go to bed until my daughters school skirt, crop top and polo shirt have finished drying in the tumble drier, once again I'm in the middle of a Uniform Crisis. Harvey has no socks clean (in my defence it's the first time ever this has happened) and it's too late now to wash any, he'll just have to wear a pair of his casual ones and I'll spend all day working myself up into a frenzy and imagining all kinds of crazy scenarios where someone spies the stripey socks and teases my son mercilessly every day for the rest of his school life.

I remember reading the Gerald Durrell book "My Family and other animals" during my first year of senior school, of course never imagining that approximately twenty years later I'd use it for the title of a blog entry. This was the innocent time before the internet even existed in my life; the idea even of owning a mobile phone was so incredible it almost ranked with flying to the moon. I never dreamed that one day, in another life, I'd sit in bed using a laptop computer, and that my children would play with a stack of my discarded mobile phones before rejecting them because they don't have cameras built in or play tunes. It was the era of "Eldorado" the highly criticised show which I secretly still watch clips of on YouTube occasionally and quite enjoy. Jason Donovan was still just about clinging onto his hunk status, and everyone was scrawling NKOTB (New Kids on the block) on their school bags. Of course nobody knows what the future holds, what lurks just around the corner, that's the exciting and terrifying thing about life, the main thing probably. I had no idea what lay in store for me, how the world around me and my life would change over the next two decades.

I often look at my kids, usually when they're asleep as there are less arguments that way, and think how incredible it is that their whole lives are ahead of them. Neither of them have done some of the simplest things, the things most people take for granted, like catching a bus by themselves, food shopping by themselves, ordering food in a restaurant by themselves. They have so much to experience, to enjoy, so many new things to learn and discover. But then comes the big thing, which is that in Darcie's case, her life's spoiled. Logically it can't be, but sometimes I see a flash of the adult she'll become and it terrifies me. So much of her childhood has been spoiled already, and I believe that in many ways your childhood is the most significant part of your life, the framework, the springboard and then everything else just follows. Darcie is clearly so deeply unhappy; she spends so much of her life in tears, screaming, battling with jealousy, resentment and anger, terrified by emotions which she can't understand or control much of the time. She thinks she's stupid, fat and ugly; and I know I make her feel worthless sometimes when I reach the end of my tether and say horrible things which I can't believe are coming out of my mouth. I don't want my daughter to feel worthless, and sometimes I imagine Darcie starting her adult life deeply depressed, and things spiralling out of control. She could turn to alcohol, drugs, get involved with the wrong people, end up in an abusive relationship because she feels that's all she's worthy of. Most parents have these concerns, but I'm so scared that she'll go from being an unhappy child into an unhappy adult, and her unstable behaviour will lead to disaster.

I'm sitting here tonight feeling very AAARRRGGGHHH and maybe like the best thing would be for me to go and drink a bottle of bleach or something - don't worry I'm not really going to do that, mainly because I don't think suicide/damaging myself is a good plan and also because we haven't got any bleach. Thinking about it, I'm certain I bought a bottle very recently and am now feeling slightly concerned about what's happened to it. Most likely I tipped the lot down the toilet in a late night half asleep random cleaning frenzy, but there's always that slight chance that one of the kids has poured it over some hidden area of carpet, or that I gave them a drink of Domestos rather than squash one tea time and they were too polite to say anything.

So I'm not going to kill myself, but this situation with Darcie has got to improve. My wish for 2011 was that we'd get her sorted out, and the main reason I want things to get better is so that she can be a happier little girl who grows into a happy adult. Sometimes I'll look at Darcie and think how beautiful she is, how grown up she is, and just sometimes she'll be okay with me and just for a little while we get a taster of how things could be, how they should be. Usually when she comes out of school she glares at me, immediately on the defensive and snarls "WHAT?" when I smile at her, like some hormonal teenager. A few days ago I saw Darcie coming across the playground just before she noticed me; she was smiling and chatting with her friend Amber, laughing about something and I tried to freeze those few seconds in my mind as proof that sometimes she can be normal. She just looked so happy, so relaxed and just like she should be.

The good thing is that after years of struggling to get someone to listen to us, our friendly counsellor psychologist type person, Carole Law, has come into our lives. She's based in Falcon house which is a fairly new and really funky little building on the grounds of St James Hospital, not far from the university campus where I lived for a year in another life when I was eighteen, young and (fairly) innocent. Falcon House is for children and young adults with mental health issues, and Darcie has had a few Art Therapy sessions there. We weren't sure about the art therapy from the beginning, although Cliff, the guy who worked with Darcie seemed nice in a quirky, eccentric kind of way. Simon and I have spent far too long debating whether Cliff is gay, the jury's still out and I guess it doesn't matter either way although I have a hunch.....maybe we should both attempt to seduce him, see which one of us he veers towards and then rest in peace? Cliff's sexual orientation has no relevance to the art therapy, but perhaps he's sensed how strange we really are and that we're a family to be avoided, as he's declared he doesn't think it's the way to go. After discussing several possibilities, Carole (the midget, I can't understand how someone so tiny can survive; I know I'm a horrible person for thinking these things about other people and deserve to perish in hell) is veering towards Aspergers, possibly OCD with reference to the "what on earth is up with Darcie?" dilemma. She does have Aspergers traits, but Carole has warned us that we're very unlikely to ever get a formal diagnosis, probably the nearest we'll get to one is being told she has traits of Aspergers or something else, or is on the spectrum. We've spent hours with her talking about our families, histories, everything under the sun basically, and for a while Attachment Disorder was on the table. This seems to be when a child forms the wrong kind of relationship with a main carer, and some of the symptoms fit Darcie very well. However, it normally occurs when the mother rejects the child completely and sends it to live with someone else, which obviously hasn't happened in our case (god knows I've been sorely tempted to send her to live with someone else though, and threaten her with it regularly) I felt like I was being accused of not caring for Darcie properly when she was a baby, or something similar, although Carole never said anything like that - I'm sure I had Post natal depression when she was tiny which is one of the main triggers of this Attachment disorder. However as I said, Carole now thinks that it's more likely that Darcie is on the Aspergers spectrum, after hearing us ranting on about her behaviour and all the issues we have.

It's apparently a conundrum and nobody knows what the hell to do basically. I don't know whether to be impressed or worried that proper professionals are stumped; Carole has contacted Darcie's school who confirm that she doesn't have outbursts there although they are apparently noticing oddities about her. Darcie has never believed that she's truly a child, and her teacher apparently told Carole that sometimes Darcie can't understand why the rules apply to her as well as the other children, and seems detached from the rest of the class. The word "sad" was used way too much, apparently thats the way she comes across at school and her teacher from last year said the same thing to us once. I hate it when people describe my daughter as sad, I hurts me deep inside because it confirms I am basically a terrible mother. I know what it's like to feel sad and I don't want Darcie feeling like that.

I feel that with Carole, someone is finally listening to us, although I'm certain she thinks Simon and I are stark raving mad. Darcie has to go through a full psychological assessment, starting with a language and speech assessment. As I understand it, they'll be looking at the way she uses and understands language - one of the key things is that she takes things literally, e.g. if I say we'll go out in a minute, she literally thinks that one minute later we'll go out. Most 9 year olds wouldn't think that way, so it could be a sign of something. I don't know what the language/speech assessment will through up; Darcie's speech has always been good and she has no obvious major problems so it's all a bit confusing really. I don't think that all these assessments will do much good, but it's worth doing......it's a relief knowing that we're getting somewhere but a bugger realising that we're never going to get an official diagnosis.

I promised myself that 2011 would be the year I cope with Darcie better. Carole is giving us some tips and helping us with some strategies to make things better, but it's all so hard. Tonight I ended up having a row with my dad on the phone; he's a miserable sod at times and Darcie was nattering away to my mum for too long according to him. In truth she'd been talking for over an hour which is a long time, and was supposed to shout me so my mum could speak to me - in true Darcie style she did her own thing, carried on chatting and it all ended in disaster. Darcie ended up screaming like a toddler, my dad was horrible to me and I didn't speak to my mum at all; I was upset and angry and lost my temper with Darcie as I'm so fed up of her at the moment. It's just such a struggle and nobody really understands, nobody can do anything and everyone gets sick of us moaning. On nights like this I find myself standing next to her bed, watching her while she sleeps and hoping she some little part of her doesn't hate me and realises that I love her.

Anyway, it's off to bed I go, tomorrow's another day........

Raindrops keep falling on my head

This week has been lousy weather-wise, which is always the way when I have stuff planned. If I have a week with nothing really on, you can guarantee it will be glorious, perfect weather for getting out and about. As I said previously, Tuesday was Harvey's 5th birthday, and my parents offered/threatened to come over for the day - cue lots of rushing around in a mad panic hiding things and trying to create the impression that we occasionally do housework. Now, I love my parents in that deep unconditional way that most people do, because they put me on the planet and have suffered at my hands for all these years. However, the older they get the more trying they become, not always but sometimes.....obviously they're ageing but I reckon I've got a few years before I have to start spooning soup into their helpless mouths and reminding them what my name is. My mum always insists that when she loses the plot completely I have to put a plastic bag over her head and end her misery as she wouldn't want to live like that, so I have one ready, not quite sure what to do with my dad - am currently trying to find an old peoples home which supplies endless strong beer in order that he can end his days in complete bliss.

So, last weekend was spent running around like a headless chicken in preparation for Tuesday, while also entertaining the kids and preventing them from creating more mess. We realised the the hall remained in the same half-painted state as the last time my mum visited, so Simon slapped some more paint on while I was taking the kids to school on Monday; our initial enthusiasm for decorating the flat has disappeared and we desperately need to get it back. I assured my mum on Monday night that we were ready for them, whilst creating a mental list of things which still needed to be done and feeling my blood pressure soar. Simon and fell asleep, woke at 2am the following morning in a mad panic as Harv's birthday presents still weren't wrapped - found the paper and wrapped them half asleep, do other parents do things like this?

We woke on Tuesday to find the rain which had started overnight was still continuing, it was chucking down, pitch black and tremendously windy. Harvey had slept late-ish for once, so we were left with an hour and a half from when we staggered out of bed to when we had to leave for school. Of course he wanted to open all of his presents right then, and we did battle with the Postman Pat train set which was determined not to be freed from it's crazy amount of packaging. Everything had to be opened and assembled, while time ticked by and Darcie worked herself into a frenzy because her brother was getting to go to school on his birthday while hers had fallen on a Sunday - apparently the most unfair, cruel thing ever to happen to her. The flat quickly turned back into a tip and I was painfully aware that there was a hell of a lot of tidying to be done before my parents arrived.

We slung some breakfast at the kids and attempted to assemble packed lunches; it was at this point that I realised we had no cartons of drink for Harvey. Of course my children don't like the same drinks and both refuse to have flasks of squash in their lunch boxes for some unknown reason. I spent a small fortune on various cartons, mini bottles, etc. of drink for their lunches - yes I know I should give them squash in flasks and if they refuse to drink it then it's tough, but I'm weak. We had a single carton of blackcurrant for Darcie but a thorough desperate search in the fridge proved fruitless and we were forced to accept that Harvey had no drinks. This hardly ever happens and seeing my desperation Simon generously offered to come with us on his crutches and escort the kids to school while I made a mad dash to Lidl which is just near the schools for some cartons of apple juice. Finally, ten minutes behind schedule we all staggered out into the rain.

It was much worse than we anticipated; the pavements were under water and massive puddles had collected in the gutters of the busy main road. Driving rain and fierce wind made walking very tough and breathing was a struggle; it was one of those mornings when all you want to do is turn around, go home, climb into bed and pull the covers over your head. Simon suggested this but Darcie screeched at the mere suggestion of being at home rather than playing with her friends, so we ploughed on. The fifteen minute walk was endless - desperate attempts to phone a taxi failed as the line was engaged, I assumed hundreds of other people had the same idea that morning. Too late we realised we should have made the kids put wellies on - I cursed myself for being such a useless mother as my poor innocent children trudged along in the torrential rain, their feet and legs getting wetter by the second. I walked through a puddle and felt water seep into my shoes, a suitable but miserable punishment for not thinking about the wellies. Simon struggled along on his crutches and then bravely dragged the kids onto school while I veered off in the direction of Lidl. My coat has no hood so I was battling to keep a flimsy umbrella up, Harv's hood kept slipping down so I made the ultimate sacrifice and donated my umbrella to him while I dashed off to get the drinks. Simon later said that the wind caught the umbrella and nearly carried our son off Mary Poppins style, a moment of amusement in an otherwise bleak morning.

By the time I'd run across Lidl's car park and entered the store I was drenched, hair plastered to my head, glasses steamed up, squelching in wet shoes. I knew I only had a few minutes to locate the cartons of apple juice, purchase them, get to school and put one in Harvey's lunch bag, so time was of the essence. I grabbed some milk and hot chocolate in my half-blind state (someone needs to invent windscreen wipers for glasses) and promised myself a nice hot drink if I ever got home. As I was paying for the stuff someone loomed up to me and started chatting, because I couldn't really see through my steamed up glasses, I genuinely wasn't sure who it was for a few seconds. Thankfully I identified the person as Harvey's friend Cameron's mum, who wanted to confirm that her son could come to our party - her timing could have been better but I managed to have a quick conversation with her whilst marvelling at how cool, calm and collected she was while I definitely resembled a drowned rat.

Another mad dash in the rain later, and I met up with Simon and Harvey - Darcie had already disappeared into school. We staggered into his classroom, put the drink into his lunchbox, checked that he wasn't too soaked - I made a feeble attempt to dry his hair with the sleeve of my coat, totally pointless but at least it made me look like a caring mother. Harvey's normal teacher, the formidable Mrs Morgan (she does Mondays, Tuesdays and half of Wednesdays before the lovely Miss Cumming takes over) wasn't there, and another teacher was in her place, who had no idea it was my precious sons birthday. I left her clutching the tin of chocolates we'd taken for Harvey to share with the class, and waved goodbye to my soggy little boy who looked on the verge of tears.

Typically the rain had eased slightly although it was still definitely chucking it down. Simon & I staggered back home and were faced with chaos, while we were drying off we put the radio on and listened to reports of flash floods in the Portsmouth area. It also mentioned roads being closed due to flooding near Chichester, which is very close to where my parents are based. Being an ever dutiful daughter, I got on the phone and informed them of this, warning them that if they did set off in our direction then they may get stuck. They have a half hour bus ride into Chichester then another half hour-ish train journey, and my mum said straight away that she suspected the roads near them would be closed, in which case the buses wouldn't be able to run. She phoned the bus company then called me back; due to the weather the buses were extremely delayed and she'd been strongly advised not to travel. After lots more deliberation, my parents decided not to come on Tuesday, apologising profusely for not seeing their grandson on his birthday. We agreed that they'd come on Saturday instead; it was a pity but I hung up feeling secretly fairly relieved - we'd been granted a reprieve and could laze around drinking hot chocolate rather than tidying up!

Of course Harvey sulked and Darcie started her screeching, accusations and death threats when their loving Granny wasn't there to greet them after school - they were instead faced with their poor mum who is apparently "boring, annoying and horrible." I'm not disagreeing with this, but still the truth hurts. Fortunately the rain had finally given up and the sun was battling to peek through the grey clouds as I dragged my whining children home - clearly my mum makes the journey fun, interesting and mind-blowingly fantastic. I resisted the strong urge to shove them both into the main road and leave them to take their chances among the traffic and instead dutifully led them safely home. As planned, my mother phoned at 4pm and in a soothing, gentle tone convinced her hysterical granddaughter that it wasn't necessary to commit suicide just yet as they were planning on visiting on Saturday instead.

Simon and I provided a special "party tea" for the kids; we'd dashed to Asda during the afternoon and spent a small fortune on food which we hoped and prayed Harvey would actually accept. His favourite sausage rolls, dips, pringles, bread sticks, ham, chicken, cheese, cocktail sausages, some pizza for Darcie (Harvey despises pizza, the child is not normal) plus tons of pickle and various other edible things which vaguely classify as party food. Harvey was over the moon and scoffed until we genuinely thought he'd burst, and Darcie managed to smile too which made our efforts worthwhile. My mother had ordered me to spend the afternoon making a birthday cake for my son; obviously now Harvey had to wait until Saturday for the one she'd lovingly prepared for him. I'd ignored her and bought a cake from Asda, I even managed to buy some ready-made icing and decorate it for him. Our cake might not have been home made but it went down extremely well - we sang Happy Birthday ten times which seems to be the minimum Harvey will accept. The mini indoor sparklers I'd impulsively bought were also a huge success, despite my poor little boy very narrowly avoiding setting fire to his mass of curly hair.

As the kids played for a little bit before Harvey's bed time, I watched the rain still cascading out of the dark sky and had yet another trip down memory lane. I remembered the newborn I'd held in hospital half a decade ago, and wondered when that helpless baby had transformed into the little boy I now have. Harvey is such a character - he's awkward, stubborn and I freely admit I've spoilt him, but he truly is such an fantastic little thing. He's full of energy, excitement and happiness and most of the time being with him makes me happy. He's affectionate and kind, bright and funny and infuriating as he is, I defy anyone not to like him. I miss my baby and my toddler, but I'm looking forward to the next 5 years; I hope we stay as close as we are, and I feel truly lucky to be Harvey's mum.

As always, there's that element of sadness. I can't think about how well I get on with Harvey without thinking about how much I struggle with Darcie. Watching the rain suddenly reminded me of something; back when she was still tiny I remember having her all wrapped up and ready to go out, in her pram in the dining room of the house we lived in then. She must have been about six months and it was pouring with rain, I was fed up and desperate to get out but couldn't justify dragging the baby out in torrential rain. I remember wandering around singing "Raindrops keep falling on my head" quietly, praying the sun would suddenly pop out. When I glanced at Darcie she was beaming at me, for a while after that each time I sung that song she smiled. Now my singing voice leaves a hell of a lot to be desired, so something about that song must have appealed to her! I'm glad that I didn't know that day what lay ahead for us, and how my happy baby would turn into a sad, resentful child. I'm pleased I have moments like that to look back on and think yes, Darcie did once like me, however briefly.

Lots more to say but as always I've run out of time and energy!