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!

Half a decade ago.....

Once again it's late and I really should be tucked up in bed, but being the crap mother that I am, I realised about an hour ago that Harvey has neither a white polo shirt nor trousers clean for tomorrow. I know that if I let myself fall asleep with the intention of waking up at some crazy hour and putting them into wash then I'll wake up approximately every half hour throughout the night panicking but yet doing nothing about it, and having weird dreams about my son being forced to go to school in his pyjamas due to his mothers laziness. So I forced myself to put the shirt and trousers (plus some socks as Simon subtly suggested that I wash some of those too, meaning he probably knows Harvey hasn't any clean but doesn't want to blatantly point it out in case I flip) into the machine and am forcing myself to stay conscious until the cycle finishes in roughly an hour. I then intend to shove the clothes on a radiator overnight so they'll at least be slightly dry, and then bung them into the tumble drier first thing. Of course my plan will fail miserably - I'll almost certainly fall asleep on the computer chair, wake up at 2am cold, confused, in agony with neck pains due to having my head at a weird angle, then stumble into bed forgetting about the washing which will be still in the machine and becoming more crumpled up by the minute.

I've been washing (and occasionally ironing, although I assure my mother frequently that I spend most evenings ironing her grandchildrens uniforms) school uniform for over 4 years now, and for one child this is a fairly simple task. Nobody warned me that two school uniforms are an utter and complete nightmare though, seriously it's horrendous. Both kids have white polo shirts; every time I turn around there's another one, I swear the things are multiplying. I think they have about six each (although Darcie has some more in a bag somewhere, I have neither the energy nor the inclination to find it) but it seems like there are hundreds. For every one white polo top I wash, another four seem to end up in the washing mountain, previous years if I was lucky Darcie might wear the same one for two days (sounds a bit skanky but I have it on good authority that other kids do this as well) but no way this year. White is not the best colour for my children, they're proper muck magnets and never seem as clean as other kids somehow. Darcie and Harvey often get through an entire uniform each per day, and it's horrific attempting to ensure they have clean things for the next day - hence the frantic midnight washing and drying, surely other people do this too?!

Anyway, this entry was going to be mainly about my little boy. I'm now the proud (ish) mummy of a 5-year-old, my Harv has been around for half a decade. The days when we just had Darcie (or that glorious time pre-children) seems like a lifetime ago, yet it isn't five minutes since I was sitting in the bathroom looking at the positive pregnancy test and thinking Oh my God! Harvey was more planned than Darcie (in fact he couldn't have been less planned than her) but it still came as a bit of a shock. She was three and about four months when he was conceived; Simon and I had often talked about having Number Two but were always reluctant to actually commit ourselves to trying for another baby. Serious money problems when Darcie was tiny meant we weren't really in a position to have another child, and although like many couples we took the odd chance our hearts weren't really in it and we knew it would be a while, if ever, before we put another person on the planet. I can't remember exactly when, but Simon & I eventually did the old just-wait-and-see-what-happens thing and then suddenly out of the blue something did happen. I'm my mums only child, she was an only child (as is my dad funnily enough) and her mum was apparently an only one too.....I remember seriously thinking several times that maybe the pattern would continue and Darcie would end up as our only child. I firmly believe that there's no right thing to do when it comes to how many kids you have, or what age gaps between them.....there are so many pros and cons. I certainly never hated being raised as an only child; I had privileges and attention which I simply wouldn't have had as one of two or more siblings. I had a happy childhood but wished sometimes I'd had a brother or sister to grow up with, and I wanted that for Darcie.

There's an old saying - "new house, new baby" and I remember Simon & I joking about this as we moved into our current flat on 2nd November 2004 - however we never dreamed that just one year and one week later we'd have that new baby! We chucked away/donated to charity shops tons of baby and toddler things that had once belonged to Darcie in the run up to our move, as thoughts of a possible second child were shoved to the back of our minds. Typically we cursed ourselves later on for this, as barely three months after we moved we hit the jackpot and another Rudd/Balding was created. I'll always remember staggering out of the bathroom to break the news to an anxious Simon, and suddenly our three-year-old daughter innocently strolled into the front room clutching her battered copy of "Topsy and Tim and the New Baby"....she knew nothing about what was going on so it was a very strange coincidence. We still have that book and funnily enough it's one of Harvey's favourites, I often smile when we read it.

The afternoon Harvey was born was glorious, the hospital room we were in was stifling and naturally he wasn't coming out in a hurry. My due date had been 27th October, and after having a completely horrendous labour with Darcie I'd worried for months and was desperate to avoid induction. Due date came and went, Simon & I did our best to persuade Blob (Darcie's nickname for him) to shift but I'd obviously provided him with a very comfortable home which he was reluctant to leave. After lots of stress and tears I finally agreed to be induced on 8th November which was a Tuesday, my mum travelled down from Croydon where they lived at the time, to collect Darcie on the Monday afternoon. It was only the second time she'd ever been to stay with my parents without us, it was over 70 miles away, she was only just 4 and I was panic stricken. We had no other viable options though and in actual fact she had a blast with her grandparents while her poor mother went through hell in the delivery room.

Thankfully this time we weren't ignored, and the staff were generally nicer and more understanding than first time around. I was admitted at 6pm on the Tuesday and gave birth 22 hours later, not bad going for me. It was still a bit of a haul though and not an experience I'd like to repeat. The drip was inserted wrongly which resulted in the stuff designed to speed up my labour simply building up in my hand for about 4 hours before anyone realised - my poor hand suddenly swelled up gigantically and the midwife virtually accused me of doing it deliberately! her name was Leah, she was all "I'm only 26, I'm a fully fledged midwife, aren't I fantastic and I don't need any help or advice from the doctors because I know it all already" at first I thought she was okay but she gradually became more and more annoying as Wednesday progressed. To make matters worse she was newly pregnant with her first baby, all very exciting and she felt the need to share her news with every single nurse/doctor/consultant/cleaner who came near our room. Leah complained about feeling sick, hungry and hot the entire time and I was sorely tempted to suggest I got off the bed so she could have a lay down - I seriously believe she'd have agreed!

Finally, thanks to a scary but thankfully very effective epidural, and a lovely anaesthetist, things looked up and the end was in sight. Final bit of drama when Harvey went into distress and I was on the verge of a caesarean (found out later that they were actually preparing theatre which was all very dramatic) but I proved myself to be fantastic and pushed him out as I was terrified at the thought of being sliced open! All along I'd thought we'd have another girl as my pregnancy was almost identical to first time around, but despite not having my glasses on and being drugged up to the eyeballs, I saw the dangly bits and realised we had a boy. Simon had nearly passed out next to me (poor love, it was all too much for him, I think I was holding him up at one stage) but managed to confirm we did indeed have a son (I needed this confirmation - I'd been convinced all along that Darcie was a boy and embarrassingly thought the cord was a willy when she finally arrived, the evil midwife took great delight in pointing out my mistake) I was thrilled to have correctly identified the sex of my baby second time around, still quite proud of myself for getting it right now!

So at 3.56pm on Wednesday 9th November 2005 our Harvey was born. I still can't quite believe that I have two children sometimes, especially the boy/girl combo lots of people seem to crave - it's cool to have one of each although we honestly wouldn't have minded two of the same. I didn't feel any differently towards Harvey when he was first born than with Darcie - all this "I gazed at my beautiful baby bathed in the golden sunlight and felt complete love run through me like a river" stuff is a bit of a fantasy in my opinion, I felt happy but mainly terrifically relieved that I'd survived labour, a bit shell shocked and totally exhausted!

With Harvey, things have been different though. Somehow I clicked with him much more easily than I ever have with Darcie, in theory it shouldn't be like this as I have more in common with her in many ways. Harvey has always, always wanted me, he's never pushed me away like Darcie does and I reckon that's the main difference between them. It's rare than he doesn't want to go out with me, or do something with me, or have a cuddle and I suppose he was a bit of a Mummy's boy when he was tiny and perhaps still is. Harvey's open and loving towards me, Darcie's resentful and angry, sometimes she doesn't even seem to grasp why I'm living with her. It's like she doesn't see me as her mother, I'm not sure why though.

It's hard to remember Harvey's baby days now, which makes me sad - Darcie seemed to be a baby for a long time, and I can still vividly remember little things about when she was tiny. I think maybe it's a first baby thing; with Harvey I had less time to enjoy him sadly as I obviously had a four-year-old who needed me too. We definitely have a bond though and a fairly normal relationship which I can't achieve with Darcie. I know she adores him, but she was absolutely desperate for a sister, something she reminds me of frequently. I feel guilty pretty much constantly anyway, but I do feel especially guilty sometimes that she didn't get her little sister - would things be any different if Harvey had been a girl? Deep down I don't think so, but she might be happier, she might like me more if I'd had a girl, or even if we hadn't had another child. I wanted Darcie to have a sibling, someone to grow up with, to have something I never had, but was this the wrong decision? Are some kids just meant to be only children? I know all this stuff with her isn't simply about Harvey, it's so much more complicated than that, but did we make a mistake? Personally I know having my little boy isn't something I will ever regret, he's my baby and I'm so glad that I've got two children. But was it the right thing for her, we'll never know I suppose. Occasionally I wonder if we should have a third baby, hopefully it would be the sister she longs for (although my gut instinct is that we'd get another boy) and this would make her like me. It's sad though, and definitely not a reason to bring another child into the world.

I keep looking at Harvey and wondering where my baby and then my little boy have gone. He's still so little but suddenly seems so big at the same time if that makes any sense. All along I've dreaded him copying Darcie and hating me too, recently he's started telling me to go away occasionally which hurts so much. I know he wants me to leave the room because then Darcie won't start screaming, but it's awful, even though he follows this with "I still love you" which makes it slightly better. My poor little boy is clearly torn between his sister and his mum, it's like we're in two different camps and he has to keep running between them, not sure where his loyalties should lie. I try my best to assure Harvey that it's okay if he wants to be with her and not me, and that he can love both of us, but sometimes I get angry and hate myself for it. It's bad enough that Darcie hates me, but it feels like she's trying to destroy my relationship with Harvey too and turn him against me, although she probably isn't doing this consciously. She lashes out at me regularly (her current thing is to thump and slap my arm, she's a strong girl and my right arm is covered in bruises and really hurts at the moment) and now Harvey has started pushing me and kicking me, not often but sometimes. Of course he's probably copying people at school and at the moment he's utterly exhausted and overwhelmed with it all which makes him ratty, but......I have these moments of sadness when I wonder if he'll turn out just like her. Logically I know he won't, Harvey reacts very differently to me most of the time and little boys often have violent tendencies but sometimes I hate Darcie for doing things which he copies.

I keep meaning to write about Harvey & school plus the art therapy and counselling which is now happening but get sidetracked every time! It's now pushing 1am and the noises from the washing machine seem to have subsided.....better go and rescue the uniform as I can feel my eyes slowly closing.........zzzzzzzzzzz

Halloween Happenings

Just taking a break from my online searches for adoption agencies......I typed "desperate for someone to adopt my children" into Google and it threw up some interesting sites!

What I really need tonight is alcohol and lots of it, but stupidly I resisted buying a bottle of wine while I was in Tesco this afternoon. These days I'm not a big drinker (truthfully) but I could easily sink a bottle of dry white right now. This might actually be a good idea - my precious son insists on sleeping next to me in bed, and by around 5am is wide awake and ready to start the day. Simon usually staggers into the front room and collapses on the sofa at some point during the night, worryingly he often doesn't have any recollection of his journey from our bed to sofa, and therefore wakes up in a confused and disorientated state. Harvey starts the process of waking me up by peeling my eyelids back and asking random questions until I finally surrender and stop my feeble attempts to hold him in a horizontal position on the bed. If I drink myself into a stupor and therefore cannot be roused by Harvey at the crack of dawn, then my theory is that he'll simply be forced to stay in bed - he isn't brave enough to walk the dozen or so footsteps from his comatose mother to his snoring father on the sofa alone in the semi-darkness. Simon will be happy not to be disturbed by his son and heir demanding to play Lego Batman on the wii before 5am - I have made a mental note to stock up on alcohol for tomorrow night. I remember knocking back 7 pints of cider and still functioning in my student days, now I'm under the table after two glasses of wine so at least my plan will be a cheap one.

So yesterday was Halloween and a milestone for my oldest child. Darcie went to her friend Evelyn's house and stayed overnight - with the exception of the (reasonably successful) school sleep over recently, and frequent trips to my parents house, she has never slept away from home before. Last school year, Darcie got locked into a strange friendship with a boy called Kamil (have no idea how to spell his name, but I'm guessing that's fairly accurate) who admitted he didn't like her because she isn't a Muslim, didn't want to touch her and considered her to be generally stupid and ridiculous. Despite this, Darcie and Kamil were "best friends" throughout the entire school year to the virtual exclusion of anyone else. Darcie initially ignored warnings from us and my parents that this friendship was doomed, but for some reason eventually decided over the summer holidays that she should find some friends who actually like her. Thankfully Kamil seems to have disappeared into the sunset and Darcie now has a little group of three or four female friends - this is more normal but sadly involves endless drama. They bicker and fall out constantly and at least once a week Darcie dissolves into tears at home because one of them isn't her friend any more. Stressful as this all is, it seems a much more normal set-up than being isolated with a peculiar Muslim boy (just going to state here that I have absolutely no objection to my children being friends with Muslims, etc. I had several friends from other cultures as I was growing up) who quotes random religious things and refuses to touch her in case he's contaminated with Christian germs.

Several weeks ago, Darcie introduced us to one of the members of her over-dramatic group of friends, Evelyn, whilst we were in the park one Saturday. Evelyn seemed normal; very toothy and gangly but showed no outward signs of insanity and was polite when we generously gave her a mini bottle of Pepsi Max. We also met her slightly rough around the edges Nan, who was angrily pushing Evelyn's baby sister in a buggy. A week or so ago, Darcie mentioned that Evelyn had invited her over for Halloween and that her Nan was going to approach me in the playground. I was stupidly nervous about this looming encounter, and spent days worrying - I ensured I appeared friendly and approachable in the playground in preparation. Sure enough one afternoon the slightly fierce Nan asked if Darcie could go over on Halloween and stay overnight. Her daughter, Evelyn's mum (also called Claire, I often find myself getting angry and defensive when I come across someone else with my name, it's wrong somehow - unfortunately my supremely unimaginative parents ensured that I will spend my entire life surrounded by people who share my first name) apparently works "all the time" a fact which obviously cannot be completely true as nobody can work all the time, but I wisely didn't quibble with that statement. Nan is left doing all the school runs plus caring for the baby, which seems slightly unfair and explains her scruffy appearance and defeated, slightly angry attitude. Anyway phone numbers were exchanged and I managed to swallow my nerves and respond in a suitably grateful and enthusiastic manner which for once put me in my daughters good books.

After several text messages to and from the elusive Evelyn's Mum, I'd managed to work out what road she lives on, and she'd offered to collect Darcie at 2pm on Sunday 31st, feed her, take her trick-or-treating, put her up overnight and deposit her at school the following morning. I pointed out that Darcie would have her Halloween costume, clothes from Sunday and night things with her which I would need to retrieve. As I was due to take Harvey into infant school, right next door to the girls junior school, it seemed logical that I would meet Darcie in the playground before school to collect her things. All sorted out and we were left with one very excited child who was desperate to escape from the hell which is her own home and into the safe haven which is Evelyn's house.

Fast forward to Sunday, and as predicted it was a day full of tension. I was feeling apprehensive about the whole sleep-over deal, and acutely aware that something usually goes horribly wrong in these situations. I had to pack countless things for Darcie to take, and was expecting an explosion at some point during the day. She just about held it together all morning, but the explosion came when I asked her to help me pack her things. Now, to me this isn't at all unreasonable - she's 9 year old, and it wasn't like I was asking her to organise her stuff alone. Simon & I have recently agreed that Darcie needs to start taking more responsibility for herself, and I politely asked her to come with me into her room and help sort out what she needed/wanted to take to Evelyn's. I realised the process was going to involve several bags, and also wanted Darcie to know where I was putting everything.

This honestly didn't strike me as unreasonable, but my request triggered the screaming session which had been brewing all day. Darcie swung between flat refusal to stand up and walk into the bedroom and wild accusations that I was plotting to kill her. I got seriously, seriously annoyed and said some horrible things as at the moment I'm feeling like her servant. I've run around after her for 9 years and I'm getting sick of it, she isn't a baby and she needs to learn to think for herself sometimes. Darcie won't even walk into the kitchen and get herself a drink; I have to go into the front room, ask what she wants, go into the kitchen, make it and carry it to her. Okay this is fine sometimes, but all the time? I feel like an unpaid waitress.

So, of course I had to get angry and lose the plot, which just made everything worse. Harvey got upset, Simon got upset and angry, and the whole thing just escalated. It was so silly, all because Darcie just won't ever do as I ask. I finally gave in and chucked her uniform for Monday into her school bag, night things into another bag and her Halloween costume (witch outfit courtesy of my mum) into a carrier bag. I couldn't bring myself to not pack something vital, although I was sorely tempted to. The nasty side of me considered deliberately not packing the costume, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

We virtually threw a roll at Darcie for her lunch, and I darted off to get changed before Evelyn's mum arrived. The row had subsided but I was still angry; typically while I was in the bathroom they turned up early and whisked Darcie off with them. I didn't even really say goodbye; this was 2pm on Sunday and I was suddenly aware of just how long it was until 8.30-ish on Monday morning when I'd next see my daughter. All afternoon I felt sad; the half eaten roll she left behind, the half drunk drink all reminding me of what a crap mother I am. My little girl had been so excited, and I felt I'd spoiled things, I shouldn't have asked her to help me pack. All I'd wanted was for us to get her stuff ready together, to chat about all the things she'd be doing with Evelyn and have a bit of fun. I'd wanted to give her a hug and a kiss and wave her off, telling her to have a fantastic time, maybe she might even have a few wobbly moments and confess to being nervous. I'd have been nervous at her age, going off to a house I'd never been to before, not really knowing my friends family, and realising I'd be there all night. I'd have wanted my mum to reassure me, but as always Darcie didn't want me. All she wanted was to get away from me.

As well as feeling sad all afternoon, I also felt guilty. Guilty about the argument, sure, but also guilty because things at home are easier without Darcie. Harvey misses her like crazy and can be a pain as he wants someone to muck around with, but in many ways he's happier when she's not here. There's no real tension, we can relax and not worry about another row erupting. Of course it isn't all Darcie's fault, but she causes so many problems, she makes Simon & I feel physically ill. She upsets Harvey, and I honestly feel he's torn between loving her and hating her sometimes. At one point on Sunday afternoon, Darcie was almost purple with rage, screaming "please, please...." over and over again. I grabbed hold of her and shouted "what the hell is it that you want?" I looked into her eyes which are so much like my own (the only way she vaguely resembles me physically, she's a complete Rudd clone) and tried to get through to her, but there was nothing there, I may as well have been shouting at a brick wall.

Despite all this, I missed her. I hoped that I'd packed everything, thought about her while we were baking Bat cookies with Harvey before tea, and hoped she was okay. I didn't have the confidence to get on the phone to Evelyn's mum and check everything was okay, I chickened out and sent a text instead, around tea time. No response. I cursed myself for not giving in and providing Darcie with the fantastic super doper mobile she's always begging for, true we'd be bankrupt as she'd phone and text random people constantly, but at least she could have let us know she was okay. We chucked Harv in the bath and got him to bed, still no response from Evelyn's mum, A.K.A. The Other Claire. I ate my tea imagining newspaper headlines "Tragic 9-year-old chopped into pieces and microwaved by schoolfriends Mum", "Appalling mother heard shouting abuse at daughter; just five hours later innocent Darcie was raped and murdered" just as I was deciding what to wear for the TV appeal and getting vaguely excited about appearing on Crimewatch, a text came through. It was from Evelyn's mum; all was fine, Darcie was being good and the girls were just heading to bed. Relief washed over me, the poor woman hadn't replied earlier as she'd been distracted with the cooking. Of course I realised a text meant nothing; in theory Darcie could be buried under their patio Fred West style (yes I'm a huge crime fan, I read too many crime books and fantasise about studying Criminology) but all I could do was assume my little girl was having a fantastic time.

I drew the curtains in Darcie's room, and tried to ignore her empty bed, tried not to think about all the nights she lies there sobbing for no apparent reason. Too late I realised that her beloved Leopard soft toy that she's had since she was at nursery was still on her pillow, useless mummy had forgotten to pack it. I didn't sleep that well, and woke up to find a note from our neighbour asking us to take her mental son into school for her (he's in Darcie's year and is a less than pleasant little boy at times, putting it politely) the poor woman had just got too drunk and was too hungover to take her child to school, understandable really.

Harvey had been awake since around 4.30am and was weary before we ever left home, with Lloyd from opposite in tow. He entertained me with tales of how his mum lets him watch 18-rated films and justifies this by covering his eyes up when the really scary/rude bits come on! Just as we approached school, a car horn honked and I looked up to see Evelyn's Nan grimacing behind the wheel of a large silver car while Darcie waved like mad from the back seat. Once again relief washed over me, and for a few seconds all I could think was "she's OK." of course, logically, I knew she'd be absolutely fine, and I hadn't expected to feel so relieved. We caught up with Nan, Darcie and Evelyn just as they were clambering out of the car, leaving Evelyn's baby sister Lily wailing pitifully from her car seat. Darcie was in her uniform, hair looking vaguely like it had been brushed, but with green Halloween make-up still all over her face. I didn't have time to fuss though, I thanked Nan profusely who assured me that Darcie had been really good, and then we dashed across the road to school. Surprisingly all my darling daughter wanted to do was get away from me, I cursed myself for not bringing some baby wipes for her face and resisted spitting on my fingers and wiping the makeup off as that seemed a bit cruel in front of her mate. She handed me her bags, I gave her her lunch box and then she was gone.

Lloyd had vanished (hopefully) in the general direction of his classroom so all I had to do was deposit Harvey at his school and then walk home, suddenly feeling very alone. As I trudged back lugging my daughters things, I marvelled at how the little baby I'd once pushed in a buggy, and who had been so dependant on me for everything, could survive perfectly well without me. Recently I've reassured myself several times that my kids will always need their mum, but the truth is that one day Darcie won't need me at all. The scary bit is that I don't reckon that day is very far away.

I often think that this is all a dream, any minute I'll wake up and realise that I haven't really got two children, that all the responsibility and hard work has slipped away, it was never real. I ask myself how I'd feel if I woke up and realised that Darcie never existed, that she was just part of a dream. I'm sad to say that I'd feel relieved, glad that I don't have to battle with her any more, glad that my life isn't really like this. But also, I'd feel devastated. I look at my daughter sometimes and feel so proud of her; I grew this child, she wouldn't be here without me, we keep her alive and her good qualities are probably because of us. I look at her during the good times and think how beautiful she is, how kind and what a fantastic sister she is, Harvey is truly lucky to have her as his sibling. I wouldn't want not to be her mum, for this to be a dream, but I want it to be better.

Simon & I were saying just today that things can't go on as they are, we need to change the way we deal with Darcie and how we function as a family. There's a scene in one of my all time favourite films, "Riding in cars with boys" (or riding in cars with centipedes Simon calls it, he loathes the film) where the main character Drew Barrymore talks about her son. She says something along the lines of "I don't know if I REALLY love him, or if I've got to love him." I often think that applies to my relationship with Darcie, horrible as it sounds. Sometimes though, like when I saw her face in the back of Evelyn's nan's car and I knew she was okay, I realised that I REALLY love her.

Christ now it's getting late, Harvey fell asleep before 7pm tonight after wailing, sobbing and screaming through sheer exhaustion and refusing point blank to eat a bite of food so I'd better get some sleep before he starts peeling my eyelids back at 4am and asking if burglars have teeth and other random questions!

I'll be back.........