Sliding doors of life....

Even before the film Sliding Doors appeared, I often lived parallel lives. As a child, at unhappy times, I would literally live another life in my head, while my real life carried on. (Often this other life involved lots of interaction with Michael J Fox, but that's a whole different blog!).

Then, for many years, my sliding door to a different world stayed shut, the reality of my life good enough to experience in and outside my head - only occassionally would I become an intrepid traveller again as I washed the dishes, or rescued orang utans from the wild as I read The Tiger Who Came to Tea for the 63,839,586th time.

But now, I find myself living parallell lives every day. Not some wild escapism, not some far flung adventure, but simply the imaginings of what would have been, to soften the blow of what is. Three months ago my life changed for ever, for the worse. Since then I have tried to come to terms with loosing the mum I knew and adored, while learning to deal with the reality of a mum who barely knows my name and who will never share my life again. From the second hubby came into my hospital room in the dead of night to tell me my mum had had a massive stroke, my life split into two - the life I was planning and the life I am being forced to live. The last three months as I struggled with a new baby, I have dealt with the reality of waiting to see if my mum would pull through and then deal with having her settled at home, incapable of rational speech, thought or action. In my head though, I have lived through daily phonecalls, regular visits where she would hold my baby in her arms adoring her with song and praise, while sending me off to bed. I lived the experiences I knew we would have had, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey and a Butlers chocolate, showing off Ruby to strangers in the queue, reading stories to the girls. As I stood alone in my kitchen, the phone in my hand but no number to dial, I closed my eyes and pictured her coming off the Belfast train - 100 memories merged into one real moment, the smell of 'Beautiful' greeting me with her warm hug, tales of her conversations with strangers on the seat beside her keeping us company all the way home. As she walked through my front door she would say, "I love coming into this house, " and we would sit down with a cup of tea, children scurrying around us and she would be proclaiming Ruby to be the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. I lived every memory of the past to get me through the present.

And so it was at Christmas. Mum and dad were due to come down to us this year, and like every year, I was going to take Mum to the National Concert Hall, and on Christmas Eve we would all sit down to the Christmas Ham dinner and then wrap ourselves around the fire, wine glasses glistening in light of the flames, stuffing Santa sacks. In the morning, as the girls giddy with Santa surprises would be shouting "Nanna Look!" when her bed-bedraggled head curled round our bedroom door, she would sit on our bed and share their excitement. We would have a walk in the snow and then, a little drunk perhaps, try to produce a christmas dinner in the right order before finding just enough room for a couple of chocolates by the fire at the end of the night. Instead, their car did not arrive this year, bringing bags and bottles of goodies. I didn't book any tickets at the National Concert Hall. I hung up the lights and carefully placed decorations knowing they would never be seen by the person who would appreciate them the most. And when it hurt too much, I slid open the door and lived the version where their car drove up and they bundled into the house laden with love. I heard my mum say the house looked beautiful.

And on Christmas day, as my mum lay in her bed and we pretended to be merry the sliding door jammed and I could no longer soften the blow. This is how it is now. I have to organise our baby's christening knowing my mum won't be there. Plan a family holiday without her. Walk past the phone and not pick it up. But at least for a while yet, I can climb onto the bed beside her, the smell of my Beautiful rubbing onto her skin, and hold her hand. The past and the present still in tune.

Who's the mummy?

Life used to be simple. Clear cut. Black and white.

Roles were defined and refined. We all knew were we stood. My mum was my mum. I was her daughter. Then I became a mum and I had daughters. So far, so simple.

Now... the roles are blurred, the lines in the sand rolled over by the waves of catastrophe and stress. Now, my mum no longer looks after me. I look after her. I brush her hair and put on her makeup. I clean her house. And my daughters? Well, I do look after them too - although they do their fair share of brushing my hair and applying makeup - some days I look like The Joker. Although I'm not laughing much. The angst of my mum's demise, and the sleep-deprived stress of a new baby have combined to make me 'grumpy mummy' as now defined by Daisy. "I'm not grumpy all the time", I insist, but she gives me that look that only children can give. The look that says, "yes, but it's the grumpy times that count."

And to rub it in, she brought me down to earth yesterday. As only children can. I was in my usual 'get-out-the-house-with-two-children-and-a-baby-dressed-fed-and-somewhat-intact-by-half-eight-in-the-morning' mode when the final hurdle of getting laced runners on Daisy's feet (why oh why did I not buy velcro???) was a hurdle too far. I lost the plot and threw a tantrum. It was quite impressive too. At one point the runners where hurled across the room.

As I strapped everyone into the car I took a deep breath and sheepishly apologised for my outburst. "It's just hard," I explained, "Getting everyone out in the mornings with no help from you." Daisy looked at me - not unlike my mother used to, it has to be said, when she was making an annoyingly accurate point - and said, rather aloofly.
"Yes mum, but we are little people, and you are the big person."
Ouch.
Ouch, but true. I am the big person, and no matter where the lines are, or what the roles are or even if I have no idea where I stand anymore, I should remember that at least. Parented by my child. Sounds just about right at the moment.

Lessons of life...

My mum has taught me many things. How to bake. How to sew. How to knit. How to make a mean gravy. How to stack a dishwasher.... the latter something I never quite grasped much to my mum's annoyance. And as I ply my knowledge on a daily basis with the girls, I now pass on many of those skills. As I pour the cake-mix into the tin, two little voices squeal for me to leave some in, their hands already delving into the bowl, their faces smeared with chocolate goo. A flashback. My face. Mum smiling as she passes me the bowl and puts another cake in the oven.

As I make some Christmas presents, sewing on buttons, Daisy asks me to teach her and so I hand her the needle and guide her to push it in, and pull it through. A flashback. Mum making my dress for my first formal dance, allowing me to sew a few stitches.

As I fight the urge to delve under my duvet for a stolen moment despite the hungry mewls beside me from Ruby, two little heads peer round the bedroom door, and seeing me awake, leap onto the bed and snuggle beside me chirping and chattering under the duvet. A flashback. An uncountable number of mornings lying beside my mum, putting the world to rights. And not just as a child.

I am still shocked by what has happened. She lies downstairs, bedbound and trapped, while I wander round her bedroom upstairs, her things as she left them. Her clothes hang in the wardrobe, many bought with me on one of our outings. She will never wear them again. Her jewellery glistens in the drawer, each piece with a story. She will never wear them again. Her photos, her books, her momentoes of life scattered around the room like moments in time. She will never touch them again. And I realise what her most important lesson has been. None of those things mattered. She was always insecure about not finishing school or having a big career, or having any accomplishments. Yet, everyone who knows her, loves her. She invested her time on people. What she didn't realise is that the things that make a person great is not a list of accomplishments or a long CV. At the end of the day, as the last few weeks have shown me, the only thing that matters, the only thing that determines greatness is the love you leave behind. And if the love we leave behind is the greatest accompishment of all..... then my mum is the most accomplished person I know. And I will do my best to pass on that lesson too....

Letter to Ruby

In the midst of all the darkness, there is light - a bright shining light of life. So while I grieve for my mum, I must remember to celebrate my new daughter.

Dear Ruby Rose,

You are 8 weeks old and glorious in gorgeousness. You've had a hectic beginning being looked after by so many people while I see your Nanna in hospital, but you cling to me and look so bright-eyed you convince me it's all ok.

I am meant to be your teacher, your protector, your guide, but it is you who is keeping me grounded, secure and in the moment. It is you who pulls be back over and over again from the edge of darkness when my mind and heart wander to my loss and grief. And while my heart aches for my mum, it soars for you.

Every baudacious burp, every satisfying suckle, every cheerful chortle and every gratifying grin; every little squeak like a mouse, every stretch like a little frog, every mew like a kitten, you push away the shadows. And my mum loves you, even in her absence. When I dry your chubby little legs after each bath, my mum's voice whispers over my shoulder,"dry her properly, get all those little creases in her arms and legs." When I sing you a lullaby at night, the song she taught me floats in the air. When I throw my arms up in despair when I can't work out why you are screaming while trying to get the girl's tea, her voice laughs beside me, "well, you did choose to have three!" You are loved not just by me, but also by those who have loved me.

I hold you close in the darkness of night, alone while the house snores quietly. I smell your head and know that while my world might be shaking, I will keep steady for you. You are beautiful. You are perfect. You are mine. And even though this is the saddest time of my life, I am the happiest woman alive.

Why did I wait so long?

I've lost my mum when I need her most. She's still alive, but her life is over. She lies in a bed, trapped in her body, confused by her thoughts. I still have her, but I've lost her guidance, her support, her love, her ability to walk into my house and see the pile of ironing, the person who would have helped me bring up my three young children. My beautiful new daughter is seven weeks old and I found out this week that she has inherited my chromosome disorder that was responsible for all my miscarriages. And what devastates me more than anything now that I've lost my best supporter, is that I might not be around when she needs me most. Even if she waits till she's 30 (which is early by modern standards) I will be 70. If she waits until she is 40 like me, I will be 80. Will I be around when she needs me most? When she needs me to help her through possible grief and upsets as her fertility issues arise? When she needs me to hold her hand through her first pregnancy and help her with the housework? When she needs me to tell her her baby is the most beautiful child in the world and she is the best mum? To babysit, to councel, to listen, to share her joy, and share the burden. Why did I wait so long?

I thought I had to live my life before I had children.... that they somehow represented the end of something. I never realised of course, that they are the beginning. Why did I waste so much time? Why didn't I give my mum many more years to enjoy her grandchildren?

My generation thought we were having it all by pushing motherhood later and later...... but I'm beginning to fear that we made a huge mistake. Now I think our generation will be left with nothing - no support systems, no guidance and no energy to help our children when they need us most.

Why did I wait so long? And another huge thank you to my blog-brethren - your support is so lovely at this time....... xx

a new phase

The doctor warned us this would be a rollercoaster. I've always rather liked exciting rides. Not this one. This is a ride I can't get off. But, after the desperate dips of the last few weeks, we now seem to be on the long straight stretch - and I have no idea if at the end we plummet down a horrible frightening fall, or slowly tantalisingly rise up to new heights. It's a rollercoater ride with blindfolds.

Mum is off the critical list, and has been transferred to Belfast, alert enough to know who we are and what is going on. Great for us to have a little of her back (albeit a silent, parlaysed her) but awful for her as she is trapped inside a redundent body unable to express herself other than through half a smile and two bright blue terrified eyes. On good days, when she recognises me and touches my face, I am strengthened - like my lipstick reward of old when the taste of her lipstick when she kissed me as a child made me feel invinsible. On bad days when she is lost to me, I can hardly muster the strength to keep going. I spoon feed my mother, and come home to feed my children. I rub moisturiser on her drying out skin, and come home and rub oil on my newborn's growing skin. Two ends of the lifecycle spectrum and I am in the middle.

But. I must learn from my parent to be a parent. She taught me to carry on and find the good in the bad. Yesterday my baby smiled at me for the first time, and so did my mum. A new phase begins. A long phase of development and rehabilitation. They both need me..... and those smiles will have to give me the strength. Thank you also for all your good wishes and thoughts - my friends keep me going too.....

Life on the edge

As I cling to my new baby's life, I watch my mum's old one slipping away. Old, but not done. Not by a long shot. She may have been in her 70's but she was as lively and vivacious as always. She did water aerobics twice a week, walked very day, did the crossword and had a more active social life than me. Always glamourous, she never left the house without lipstick.

I am a young mum, and am too young to loose my mum.
Who will call me every morning to see how my night has been?
Who will I call every afternoon to hear how her day has been, and be told how cold it is, even when it's 20 degrees?
Who will call me every evening during the kid's tea, saying "I know it's a bad time, but...."?
Who will fix my knitting?
Who will turn their face to the sun with me as we sit outside and watch the girls play?
Who will hold my hand, despite me being 40 years old?
Who will stroke my face?
Who will tell me I'm talented and amazing?
Who will tell me I'm spoilt and need to grow up?
Who will help me make all the forthcoming birthday cakes?
Who will I call when I can't make gravy?
Who will I want when I'm ill and no-one will do but her?
Who will I share all my joy and pain with?
Who will I share my everyday moments with over a cup of tea and a chocolate ("You can never have a cuppa without a bite of chocolate")?

The void she is leaving is too dark, too deep, too dangerous, too frightening to behold right now. All I can do is hold her hand. I suspect my three girls will hold me back from the edge.

I hold her hand every day, a hand that has touched and guided me my entire life.
I stroke her face, a face that has filled my vision more than any other face in my life.
My heart is breaking, and the person I need to fix it can't help me any more.

The eyes say it all

How can one week change my life so completely? The second photo is the picture I wanted to show the world, to go with the blog I wrote in my hospital room 5 days ago when life was as perfect as it could be. Below is that blog. Then below that, is what happened when my world ended at 3am on Saturday morning, and so the first picture is the one I NEED the world to see.

For so long you have lain on my lungs and my spine, my stomach shoved under my left armpit, my bladder squashed somewhere behind my right buttock. But three days ago, they lifted you out and laid you in my arms, your head laid on my heart. For something so small, babies have an incredible capacity to fill every atom of the world around them - you are not yet three days old, yet I hardly remember life before you. You have filled every breath. My lungs are back in place, but the air in them is bursting with the smell of you. We are cocooned in our little world, the occassional visitor entering our womb of wonder but leaving us again. Your gorgeous ginger dad is delighted - his first excited words: "she's a red-head!" I'm not at all convinced but I'm not going to burst his ginger bubble yet. Daisy and Poppy, your sisters are smitten, and you are already accepting of being pulled and prodded.

I am hostage to your lips, smacking and slapping as they clasp my burgeoning breasts, sucking and searching constantly, one deep blue eye occassionally peeking at me, winking, watchful, wonderful. I'm a bit dazed, my c-section wound curtailing my energy bubble, which is supressed by your feeding needs. So dazed and bewitched am I, the Dr thinks I've been at the drugs cabinet. As he came in to see me we gazed at your perfection. My delireous smile faltered, I gasped, aghast. There was a cut on your head! How had it happened? How could I have been so careless? I was mortified, embarrassed, guilt-ridden. We quickly examined you, concern turning to confusion on his face, confusion turning to comprehension on my face.

"Ah," I said, taking a lick. "That'll be a dollop of my mum's homemade blackberry jelly." My guilty mid-night feast had been discovered.

I am getting to know you, so strange, yet so right. You are mine, and always have been. We were always meant to be and it feels like the final piece of the jigsaw has fitted into place, and now the picture is complete. I made you, but you completed me. Welcome my love, our Ruby Rose - a little gem in our garden of flowergirls.

4 days later- I am in the darkest days of my life. My worst nightmare woke me from my sleep at 3am on Saturday night, 4 days after my daughter was born, when my husband came into my hospital room and told me my lovely mum had had a massive stroke. My beautiful, vibrant mum, the woman who has shared time with me every day of my life, in person or on the phone, held me, comforted me, is lying in a bed looking 150, unable to speak, locked in a silent hell. Her eyes occassionally open and they see me. Sometimes they scream for me to help her. Sometimes they love me so intensly I feel the earth shudder with the force. In one week, I have had a new daughter whose eyes are dark pools of wonder that I have yet to discover, and my mum lies stricken, her eyes deep pools of fear and love - and a lifetime together of knowledge. My devastation is beyond my ability to comprehend, I don't know if the ground will ever be steady again.

In a week my world has transformed forever and two of the people I love most in the world are only open to me with their eyes. Somehow, I have to find the strength to be there for them both - and my girls and family. I have to look into their eyes and bring my baby forward, and bring my mum back.

The extraordinary ordinary

Tomorrow, I'm having a baby. How strange to write that, to know that, but there it is. About lunchtime actually. Such an ordinary, everyday event. Yet such an extraordinary, primeval, earth-shattering, life-changing event too. Tomorrow I meet my daughter, a person I will love with ferocious intensity for the rest of my life.

As a child I always wanted to be different. I didn't want to fit in, instead I strived to stand out. I don't know why. I lived in my imagination, creating stories and imagined experiences, desperate for my perfectly fine, but ordinary, life to become extraordinary. That ambtion took me to Pakistan as a teenager to teach English, threw me into the scrum of women's rugby, led me to lead an orangutan through the jungles of Borneo and release it into the wild. With every book I devoured, with every word I ingested, my appetite for adventure increased.

I never wanted "the norm" and so I surprised myself along with everyone else when I married the man of my dreams, a wild-hearted adventurer and lover of life. And then it all became a bit serious - we had babies, we had losses, we had job-enforced separation, we had money issues, we had stresses. We had some laughs, we had lots of joy and even the odd little adventure. But I started to feel that old feeling of ordinaryness - a statistic even. Even my heartaches were numbers - one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. Older mums have a harder time keeping pregnancies. It frightened me.

But as I feel the last kicks of my baby before I hold her in my arms tomorrow, I know that my life is utterly extraordinary. The sheer amazingness of the girls, the joy of being loved by a great man, the thrill of being a mum. In doing the ordinary, I found the extraordinary.

Life is not made extraordinary by the things we do. Life is made extraordinary by the people we love. And tomorrow, I meet a new love of my life. Extraordinary, don't you think?

Great Expectations

Now I know it's not looking good, beginning a blog about great expectations with an apology, an excuse for laziness, a blagging of blogging failure. But I am. So there.

My name is Alana Kirk and I am a blogging basket-case, a creative couch-potato, a literary lout. My beautiful baby (the blog) has been neglected and abandoned in favour of my beautiful baby (in belly). There have been no words of wisdom, no funny fables and certainly no insightful...well, insights. As my stomach has swelled, so my brain has diminished until all I am capable of (until about 4pm anyway) is basic speech and a vague responsibility for my two children. All other tasks have turned into Mt Everest - impossible, dangerous and too bloody daunting.

Which leads nicely onto my theme for this rather tardy post.... great expectations. Do they help us strive forward and attain new heights, or do they crush us until we are quibbling wrecks of self-preceived failure and un-ticked lists? I've always thought the former, always lived on lists and always moved my little world continually forward. But now, to be honest, I am feeling a little deflated (despite my inflated body). I am finding the expectations on me from my family, my hubby and my children (expectations no doubt I have created through years of frenetic functioning and copious coping through everything) too much. Way, way, way too much. I am utterly exhausted. Six pregnancies in 5 years, three babies - well, two and one imminent), writing, living, and yes, I admit, far too much baking and decorating. I'm always the one who copes, so when I realise that at this precise moment in time - as my body defies gravity, my sleep-deprived exhaustion defies death and lengthy lists of to-do are lengthier lists of not-done - I am not coping, those that see me (I'm hard to miss) are not really seeing me. They are not seeing that I need not to have any expectations on me. That I am scared and incompetent and emotional and needy - all the things I am ususally not. But it works both ways too. I have great expectations of them, and how anyone live up to those? And so I conclude before my head explodes from thinking too much instead of mulching more brain cells.

Maybe we should all take the great away from expectations. Maybe we need to have real expectations. To completely ruin a beautiful saying ... give me the serenity to accept the things I can do, the courage to let go of the things I just can't right now, and the wisdom to know the difference. So with that I sign off with a flourish, and will NOT go and cook another 42 cottage pies for the freezer and instead sit down with a cup of tea. And a lovely (bought!) chocolate muffin. And it may be some time before I work up the energy to write again. Sorry.

Snooze Button Defect

Kids just don't get the concept of snoozing. It's 'awake' or 'asleep' - no warm, fuzzy, lazy lazing in bed, eyes closed, thoughts open, aware the day has begun but not quite ready to face it.

That bastion of parental fantasy, that adult pleasure that is free and legal, that loss so keenly felt when it is violently ripped asunder by curious little people.

Daisy is a fabulous sleeper. I am praying to all my non-religious icons that this baby who will shatter my dreams and well as my snoozes in 5 weeks will take after her biggest sister. Daisy falls asleep mid-sentence, sleeps like the dead for 12 hours, then wakes up as brilliantly as a light being switched on and jumps out of bed, happy never-ending sunshine and bouncing for the next 12 hours. There is nothing inbetween.

Poppy on the other hand has many wonderful qualities. Sleeping is not one of them. Sleeping late does not register at all on her scale of important things in life. So it is at 6.30 (A - OMG - M), I am woken by the gentle stroking of my arm and the soft words ,"mummy, I need to do a wee wee." After I blindly put her on the loo, I urge her back to bed to no avail. In she creeps with me, and I snuggle down, her encased in my arms, and hope, just this once, she'll fall back to sleep.

But two minutes elapse (during which time she has kicked me several times, and my baby kicks her back so I feel like a football pitch) and turns to me and whispers,

"But mummy, is it morning?" On these summer dawns, it is hard to lie.

"Yes, lovely, but we're going to snooze for a bit. It's a bit early."

More football.

"But mummy, it IS morning?"

"yes...."

"So can I have a story?"

Twenty minutes later we are joined by her sister, all sunshine and bouncing, and we face the day whether I like it or not.

I know teenagers have a reputation for never getting out of bed. Can someone please tell me I don't have to wait another 9 years??? When does the Snooze Button start functioning? In the meantime, I suppose cuddles and stories aren't a bad way to start the day.

Fitting it all in.....

Despite only seven (yes!!!!!! only seven!!!!) weeks to go until I can lift this enormous boulder that is my stomach off my spine, and cradle a light little lump of loveliness in my arms instead.. this title does not actually refer to the fact that my lungs and stomach are now so squashed I can only breath standing up, and only eat one marshmallow size of food before my aesophagous fires up in anger and burns a hole in my chest while belching loudly in riotous outrage.

No - 'fitting it all in' now refers to my near frantic frenzy of to-do-lists I have to tick off before I get too fat to waddle and then too tired to bother.

I have emerged from my sloth-like caterpillar stage, through some imaginary hormone happy chrysalis, into some energetic, creatively juicy, albeit rather heavy and un-graceful butterfly, fluttering and muttering to myself as I prepare our household for the onslaught of a new baby. How could something so small, require so much preparation? Thinking, list-making, knitting, shopping, cooking, decorating, did I mention shoppng?, preparing bedrooms, making childcare plans.... never mind preparing our two girls for their little steps into the big worlds of school and montessori.

Between the sickness and tiredness of early and mid pregnancy I had to abandon many of my regular activities and focus on the essential.... like feeding my children. But now - resplendent in bulbous blooming bountiful energy - I have finished my novel. It is done. It is printed and I even posted it to an editor for some feedback. It may of course spend the next thirty years in my desk drawer, but it is done. But that's not all! I've made the curtains for the baby room, bought the beds for the girls, moved the cot into place, bought the buggy, and I've even made the To do list for Daisy's birthday party in October and bought her presents (yes I know, but it's only 3 weeks after the birth so I need to have it done!). I still have a list that hangs down to my feet (though thankfully I can see neither the end of the list or my feet). I have finished articles for Christmas deadlines, and bought 20 pie dishes for my culinary challenge of filling the freezer with nutritious food so nobody starves in the first few weeks. Daisy's school uniform is bought (though not labelled - add to list!), I've been reading Poppy books on starting Montessori, I have even - yes, may I stand proud and non-apologetic - bought some Christmas presents. And I've even returned to my blogging world and caught up with some old friends..... if you are still with me - I've missed reading your stories and am loving catching up with your hurly burly lives once more.
It feels good to be alive again, and now as I tick, tick, tick my lists, I count the days until the sleep sloth of sweet surrender mists over me again as the sweet smell of my new baby's head renders all my lists meaningless.
But for now, I am leading the charge on those lists like a demented dragon. No wonder then Daisy looked confused the other day when hubby told her she couldn't have something because he was the boss and said so. She looked at him, genuinely baffled, before replying, " But daddy, that's not true. Mummy is the boss."
I'm back!

Who's the Dummy?

Dummy. Soother. Whatever they are called, babies love them and parents hate them. In our house, Poppy called hers her Mee Mee (an indication perhaps of just how personally and emotionally she was attached to it). We have been through the gambit - pink ones, purple ones, little ones, big ones, animal ones, flower ones - and when she got desperate, even the doll's ones! Each morning I would drop it with distain into a cup of boiling water, and each evening little hands would clamber up to the counter (and even little legs would clamber onto a tall stool if I didn't respond quickly enough) to retrieve it.

I've tried everything - bribery, withdrawal, and the cruelest of all - the 'only Babies have mee mee's, you're a big girl' card - only to be told my little independent explorer who insists on being grown up and doing everything herself, is in fact a baby. "But I luuuurve my mee mee mummy." Such plaintive little words would turn my stone heart to mush and I'd give in. Again.

Until now. On the drive back from Donegal I realised I'd forgotten the Mee Mee, left squandering alone in a cup of now cooled water. I took my chance. I kept my nerve. I drove past the chemist where gleaming rows of multi-coloured dummies sat on display. I was going to fight the Mee, and I was going to win.

I kept my jolly face on at all times, as I persuaded poor Poppy that now was the time. And since older sister has become obsessed with the Tooth Fairy of late, we decided that the Mee Mee Fairy was just as generous. We made a card for her - my enthusiastic drawing countered by Poppy's reluctant glueing, but in the end it was done. A sparkling silver card to the Mee Mee Fairy, asking her to take away the Mee Mee from Donegal and leave Poppy a token of her thanks under her pillow instead. As soon as hubby returned from work, I pelted to the shops to buy something beautiful and awe-inspiring and glittering and representative of everything sparkling and gorgeous that the Mee Mee Fairy would obviously be. But 6.30 on a Wedensday night at my local newsagent was not somewhere I think Mee Mee Fairies buy their gifts, so I ended up with a Lego set.

Still, I perservered. Now convincing Poppy to leave her card on the dressing table rather than under her pillow since I knew no lego set was going to realistically fit under there, we had a tearful hug at bedtime, but I pulled myself together and kept strong. Off to sleep my little girl went, Mee Mee-less and sad. I snuck in a few hours later, and left the present on the table, taking the card and putting it in her Treasure Box for reminiscing in years to come.

I felt so guilty. I had taken away my child's comfort. Because I don't like it. Oh, I've justified it to myself - they are dirty, she is three and old enough, it'll wreck her teeth. But still. I felt like Cruella de Ville.

But at 5am, a little hand stroked mine awake. I sat up in bed, groggy and sleepy. "Mummy, Mummy!" came a little whisper. "The Mee Mee Fairy came! She came! She left me a present!" And so I struggled out of bed to investigate, and lo and behold she had. I pulled Poppy off her sleeping sister, quite sure Daisy would not appreciate a 5am call to play and convinced her to return to bed. But at 7am, the lego was dragged in and has been the only thing played with in three days. The Mee Mee isn't quite forgotten, but we're beyond the stage of me running to the 24 hour chemist to get a good night's sleep. Another step on the road to being a 'big girl' has been achieved. So why do I still feel like the Wicked Witch of the West?

creepy crawlies and all things nice..

I know I've written about the wondrous wilds of Donegal before. How the light shines in such an extraordinary way, as if the sun and clouds are dancing with each other; how the beaches are more spectacular than any tropical paradise I have been too - and empty; how the air energises you to your very bones and then just at the right time tires you to those same bones so you sleep like the dead, the grateful dead.

I know all this, yet everytime I come back it takes my breath away, the knowledge returning to understanding and my amazement renews itself and I remember why this is the most beautiful place on earth. Even my girls somehow know with their young years that this is what life is really about. Endless, too short hours running on sand, wind ripping our hair, sun competing for affection on our skin, rockpools bursting with wonder and life and adventure and untold discoveries.

Motherhood is momentous - so many roles and feelings and skills and jobs rolled into one delicious word, "Mummy!" It gets said a lot in Donegal.

"Mummy come and see this!"

"Mummy, what's that?"

"Mummy, can I touch it?"

"Mummy, I want to stay here for ever!"

Today I took on the role of David Attenborough, the great knowledgeable master of the animal world. Today we saw 3 stages of tadpoles and caught a frog, we picked caterpillars off the leaves and saw chrysalis and butterflies - we even got to see one of nature's best shows - a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, we found starfish, and caught crabs, we poked jellyfish and we ran from the fast incomng tide. Today I was an encyclopedia, and my girls learnt about the wonders of life.

This is what Donegal is also about. Beautiful skies. Gorgeous beaches. Luscious air. And most of all - life and living.

The Truth Hurts

One of the loveliest - and funniest - things about children is their honesty..... although it can be a little brutalising! Recent raw rantings from my two include:

To my mum, who is rather sensitive about her thinning hair, Daisy declared:
"Nanna? I can see your head through your hair!"

She was then accosted by Daisy's best friend Mia: "You are a very old lady. But I like you!"

Being pregnant, it was only a matter of time before Poppy announced "You are fat!" This is a slight improvement on last summer when I was sunning myself in the garden when Daisy started pointing at me and counting, 1,2, 3, 4. I asked her what she was doing....
"Counting your rolls."

It's tough being a mum. I was recently sent off with my tail between my legs after being informed, "You are not pretty today." (Apparently I made the mistake of wearing blue jeans - these are unacceptable in the world of pink dress wearing daughters.)

And today, in a pique of annoyance at not being allowed another bun, Daisy stamped her foot and said, "You are HORRIBLE! I'm going out to dance in the rain!"

And she did. So I did what any self-respecting fat, ugly, horrible mummy does - I joined her and danced in the rain too. That got a lovely "I love you mummy" so all was well with the world again.

Reproduction Roullette

Is it just me, or did it all used to be a lot easier? I'm sure in the folklore of familial heritage when someone wanted to have a baby, they simply closed their eyes, thought of their respective country and hey presto, nine months later they were up to their armpits in interfering mother-in-laws, sore nipples and buckets of rancid nappies.

Nowadays it seems so much more complicated. While me and my peers rode on the shoulders of our forbearing feminist barrier-breakers, we travelled the world, climbed the corporate ladder and took our rightful place on a bar stool. As we come down from those dizzying heights though, we find ourselves struggling not only to cope with pregnancy and parenting at the tail end of our body's best breeding window, we find ourselves struggling to cope with becoming pregnant at all.

I'm one of the new feminist statistics - pregnant at 40, exhaustingly extolling the virtues of late parenthood as I bring up two toddlers with no surrounding extended family, while secretly wishing I was actually ten years younger (as opposed to just looking ten years younger!) And I play perfectly into the fearful facts of delayed reproduction - three miscarriages in six pregnancies, my grief and loss hidden behind the awful commonness of my experiences. For it is not just me. All around me my peers - from my closest buddies, to my wider network of friends and acquaintances, we feminists are still fighting for our place in society - but this time, our place as mothers.

Infertility. Miscarriage. Chromosomal issues. Unexplained problems. A few years ago it would all have been about cross-stitched gifts and congratualtions, now it seems more about crossed fingers and commiserations. And so as I navigate the current wave of friend's frustrations and disappointments (while keeping quiet about my own little window of wonder), it was a super shock when I heard recently about a friend's good news. I almost burst with delight that someone else would be finally sharing the joy I feel right now. Nature's rainbow amid the cloudy skies. It shocked me how rare it has become.

And although I often think about what would have been if I had started my family earlier, thoughts pushed aside as I account for every year of travelling, career building, party pleasing as ones I would not have given up, will I be telling my girls to try for families earlier? Yes, I think I will. And not just because if they have inherited my dodgy X chromosome they too will be susceptable to a much greater risk of miscarriage, but because simply I would wish on them the rainbow, and not the clouds. And as I read in today's paper that doctors have now devised a test that could tell young women the precise age at which they will no longer be able to have children, perhaps the next generation can ride on our shoulders as well as the shoulders of our predecessors, and from those dizzying heights finally make the choices they need to make to have fulfilled and happy lives.

Enter Stage

I'm approaching a funny stage - forget the 7 ages of (wo)man [although with my pregnancy hormones taking centre stage, I play all different stages in one day] - I'm in the midst of the three ages of childhood. Jury is still out as to whether this will be a thriller or a tragedy.

I am increasingly becoming an (albeit suntanned) beached whale as my baby cooks nicely in my tummy, and I cook beautifully in the sun-shine. I'm slowing down, being forced to watch a bit more from the side-lines rather than centre stage as the girls play and posture in summer silliness. They are funny little mites, and I settle down in my front row seat at the most amusing, amazing show on earth. And I need my rest, because it all kicks off in September. Usually I'm a mess at times like these (Daisy just finishing Monetessori for good) unable to let go. But this time I know September is going to be full of new beginnings.

Daisy starts school - a seismic shift in my parenting experience, mother to a schoolgirl.
Poppy starts Montessori - after three years of being home with me this is a huge step for us both.
And my new baby arrives - a unique show beginning all over again.

Three stages, each with its own challenges and triumphs, each mesmerising and unmissable. Three little people embarking on three huge steps of their lives - and I not only get to watch, I get to clap and cheer and hold their hands. Pass the popcorn and show me the emergency exits - I suspect come September I'll be too stressed, sleep-deprived, hyper, emotional and exhausted to appreciate any of it!

Notes on a scandal

It's funny the things that trigger it off. You think you find a place for the grief, and then you open the Sunday paper and it bleeds out all over the pages.

I won't go over old ground here. Suffice to say loosing three babies took its toll and took time to try and deal with. When the draw of diving into a depression of grief became too tantalising, I had to make a decision that I wasn't going to let my losses become the over-riding force in my life. That has to be my gains; our girls, and now my third baby on its way.

But there are still moments. Moments still given over to my lost children; moments that belong to them; moments of longing and lost memories. But they are moments amid the mayhem of life and living, happy loud days where the sound of Daisy singing and Poppy laughing fills the silence. And my moments are easier because I know definitively that my babies were lost. I know absolutely they had died. And I know why. I know my chromosome disorder meant they were never going to live. I am lucky.

For the countless women reading the paper with me today who have also lost babies and do not have those assurances, I cannot imagine their pain. The ultrasound scandal that has jammed the Irish radio airwaves and blackened the newpapers has opened up raw wounds for so many vulnerable parents. As more and more women emerge to tell their tragic stories of being told their babies were dead, booked in for D&C's, but somehow had the instinct and strength to fight for second opinions only to discover their babies were alive and well, more and more women who didn't fight, who couldn't insist, who believed the authority bestowed on medical staff - and will now never know if they lost more than their dreams must be feeling the earth has shifted on its axis.

I have felt my losses all over again this week, and my heart aches for those women forever haunted now by the thoughts of 'what if'......

Post-holiday blues

Ah the joys of coming home from two glorious weeks of sunshine and lazing about while hubby becomes my hero and does all the cooking, to pouring rain, unfathomable amounts of washing and ironing, and empty fridge and a week of cooking to get organised. Some things never change. Some things do though. This is what I used to say on holiday before I had children:
- Pass the Marlborough Lights love
- Another cocktail? Sure, make it three.
- Do you sell Ambre Solaire oil?
- Let's go to that cosy little restaurant and have a long romantic night
- Let's go clubbing!!
- We can walk around these ancient Greek ruins and then have a bottle of Rose for lunch
- Oooh - Shops!! I'll meet you in an hour.

Here's what I said on a holiday with two young children and pregnant:
- Put your hats on girls.
- Have you put cream on the kids?
- Shall we just go to bed when they settle? It's been a long day.
- Don't run round the pool!
- KEEP YOUR SUN HATS ON!
- NO! You'll turn into an ice-cream if you have any more.
- OK, no more ruins. Let's find a playground.

Still, wouldn't change a thing. OK, maybe the loads of washing.

The Time of my Life

Life is hectic. One side of my brain - the one that is getting all the complaints from my sore back, my heavy feet, and my sleepy head - considers it hellishly hectic. I'm in a list frenzy of epic proportions. This week I'm planning my mum's birthday tea, Poppy's birthday party, my husbands birthday surprises on holiday, packing for said two week family holiday, trying to organise childcare so I go have a scan and take my mum out for lunch, baking for Poppy's school birthday celebration, baking and cooking for birthday party etc etc etc. I have lists for my lists. Holiday lists. Party lists. Present lists. My lists are so colour co-ordinated they look like the aftermath of a fight in a wool shop.
The kids sceam, the cats meaow and as soon as I sit down, the baby kicks the hell out of me.
"Take it easy," they tell pregnant women. Are they having a laugh?

But the other side of my brain is happy and relaxed. Whenever the frenetic fury of the other side stops squawking for a moment, my happy side realises that this is actually the time of my life. I have two glorious, gorgeous girls, one gorgeous, glorious guy, and one much loved, much wanted, long awaited baby on the way. My mum and dad, and brother's fmaily are close, alive and well.

My life is hectic, and rushed, and chaotic, and challenging, and exhausting and exhilerating, because my life is full. For the last two years, grief and confusion has played a large part in our life and the loss of three babies will always be felt. But. My life is alive and filled with love and laughter. I may be exhausted most of the time, but I am also grateful. And I need to tell the other side of my brain to chill out a bit more. This is the time of my life, and I want to live it.

What am I doing with my life?

Maybe it's because I've recently turned 40. Maybe it's because I'm facing the prospect of bringing another life into the world. Maybe it's just the unfurling of my brain after a winter of hibernation. I've always been a liver and lover of life. But recently I've been wondering if perhaps I could have crammed more in.

There are mornings as I lay in the yet unseen bedroom, my eyes still shut, and I wonder what new things I will learn today. After a lifetime of learning, I seem to have gone on sabatical since my girls were born. And what makes my eyes spring open and stare, slightly perplexed, at the ceiling, is the vast dark abyss of the things I don't know.

I read an article recently about a man. He's the top dog at the British Museum. He has touched history (literally), he has studied life, he has experienced knowledge I could never attain. His whole life has been about discovery and learning. There are days I feel my whole life is about wiping bums and finding good deals on fresh fruit. Then I watched an interview with the award-laden Irish author John Banville. Litering his literary library, his knowledge in Greek and Roman mythology was so ingrained in his everyday thoughts, it didn't even seem like something specific he knew. It was just knowledge that I did not know.

I don't have a specialised subject. All those years of travel and working and reading - what did I actually learn? My geography is appalling, my third world development politics faded as my management skills took over - and lets face it - there's not a lot of knowledge there. Yes, I've read lots of novels, but what have I learned? Surely someone as widely educated and travelled and well-lived as me should know a few things? The essence of French cuisine? The planetary portfolio? The names of common plants and flowers? The bird species of Ireland? How to download the footage from my video camera to my computer?

So I have to start cramming. I have to put down my novels and pick up my text books. I have to get off the couch and go back to night school. Maybe once the baby's born. Ok, definitely once the baby is sleeping through the night. Maybe next summer. In the meantime I'll just have to wing it. But then again, not always. Yesterday Daisy asked me why I loved her. Ah. That I know. That I can answer that. Easily.

Love Letter to Poppy

My Precious little Popstar,

You are turning three and although it is your birthday I'm buying for, you are actually the glittering present unwrapping before me every day. No matter how much I peek, or size you up, you always manage to jump out of the box and shout "Surprise!"

In the last few weeks my little baby has become a little girl, and as usual, like most things you do, it's like being hit on the head with a sledgehammer. I've already written about your own personal style (not practising walking with me depsite all my efforts, and then standing up one day and walking nonchalently into the kitchen; refusing all attempts at toilet training until one day you simply announced you were off to do a wee wee on the toilet and promptly did, completely bypassing the potty stage.) You do things your way, and you seem rather amused that I haven't figured it out yet. Last week you took one look at the plastic sheet on the car seat, and quietly removed it with a firm "I do wee wees and poo poos in the toilet now," with a look that told me 'Oh Please Mum, don't you know me by now?'

It seems Mother Nature has a sense of humour. You are my mum's revenge on me. As a child, my mum had an annoying habit of telling me she always worried about my brother, but she never worried about me. It used to annoy me at the time, but now I know what she meant. I was simply very sure of what I wanted, and had no doubts about my abilities to get it. It was just my personality type. And it is yours. But I will be worryng about you - I have no doubt whatsoever I'll discover my 16 year daughter is actually partying on Ibiza while I think she's at Irish school for the summer! But you are all your own self too. Totally self-contained, yet amazingly generous and kind. Since toilet training you now attend Daisy's pre-school twice a week and off you trot as if you'd been going for years. No fear. You never have. We go to the soft play, and you head straight for the big kids' section and whizz down the monstrous slides cackling with glee, while your older sister runs after you terrified for her life, but unable to leave you on your own. She's very protective - she hasn't realised yet there is no need! Despite your little-ness (only reaching 0.1 % on the centile chart) your strength of character is a giant. There may be 99.9% of children your age taller than you, but I suspect there are 99.9% of children your age who won't ever get one over on you. You wear big boots on those little feet, and I have no doubt the years ahead will be full of adventures and excitement (on your part) and stress and sleepless nights (on ours). But I know one thing. Despite the fact you still insist on wearing tights in bed (just one of many of your little foibles) and love your mee mee soother more than life itself, my baby is growing up. Happy birthday sweet sweet girl, and as you unwrap your birthday present I look forward to unwrapping your present to me for years and years to come - the wonder of you.

Love mummy

Why the Spare Room Saves our Marriage

It seems in most marital folklore, the spare room is the dark dungeon of doom, the place where stroppy spouses sulk, and where only anger and resentment sleep. But I offer an alternative view.

My hubby is an oncologist who gets up at 6.15 every morning and is out of the house by seven before the girls wake up. He leaves work early so he can see them before they go to bed and then works every evening catching up on patient's notes and paperwork. He's busy. He's tired.

I'm on my sixth pregnancy in 5 years (my third baby) and have been pregnant two and a half years of those five. I don't sleep well, not helped by Poppy who decides to visit me at least four nights out of seven - often wearing a tutu. I have no childcare, and as well as looking after them and the home, I try to write magazine articles, blogs and a novel. I'm busy. I'm tired.

So sometimes we need a night off. The spare room in our house is not the Room of Resentment - it is the Bedroom of Bliss. We've never ever used it as a retreat from each other, but we often use it as retreat from the children. It is the Reward Room, the place we offer up to each other as a treat to refresh ourselves and get a good night's sleep. "Why don't you sleep in the spare room tonight?" is one of the nicest things hubby can say to me!

The other day I mentioned sleeping in the spare room to my mum and she raised that ever-expressive eyebrow (I've mentioned before how much my mum can say without actually talking just by raising her eyebrow - I've tried but I just look like someone whose face lift went wrong). "That's not good for a marriage you know," she claimed. I knew better than to argue (merely rolled my eyes - standard response to raised eyebrow - we barely have to talk). But I did ponder it. And as such, I've decided to go public with my findings.
THE SPARE ROOM IS A MARRIAGE SAVER. I'll tell you one thing that's a marriage breaker - Exhaustion, along with its team mates Grumpy, Short-temper and Snappy. If they are not controlled on a regular basis, then the spare room would indeed be used for altogether different reasons. So I just wondered... is anyone else a closet Spare Room User? Does anyone else want to come out and admit that closing that spare room door is the best part of the week?

Parenting Pressure

There are some wonderful words being bandied about these days to describe modern maternity methods - positive parenting; raise your praise, not your voice; reward not reprimand. All sounds very pretty. All sounds very fluffy. But we all know what it really means. A less pretty word. The golden rule to happy parenting is - bribery.

Now I'm not dishng it. I started Daisy on sticker charts at about 18 months and was amazed how her behaviour changed (to my way of thinking!). Now I have three star charts on the go. Daisy needs 20 stars for eating her meals properly and she gets a small treat from the toy shop. Poppy is working (slooooowly) towards 10 stars for sleeping through the night - all she wants is a Jelly Baby. I can live with that - bad teeth for good sleep - sure isn't parenting all about compromise?? And of course at the moment, we have the potty training star chart - frankly she can have the entire toy shop if we get to the end of that one.

But there are other levels too. I threaten quite a lot (sorry, positively persuade). No TV if I get to three and you are still putting the cat in the washing machine. No Peppa Pig toys for a day if I count to three and you are still biting Daisy's arm off. We can use the right words, or we can be honest. Bribery. Threats. Extortion. I've decided to change my blog name from Mummy Mania. I'm now Mummy Mafia. Now I'm off to make them an offer they can' refuse.

... and my universe shifts again

I've been changing nappies for nearly five years now. I can change nappies with them standing up, lying down, awake, asleep, in a car, on a floor, on a table. I can change nappies with my eyes open, my eyes closed, talking, cooking, telling a story, or just plain gazing out the window wondering if this is my two millionth or three millionth nappy. So ingrained in my every day routine, it's on a par with breathing, drinking and eating. It's just what I do. Occupation? Nappy changer. Hobby? Nappy changing.

So even though I've spent the last few months cajooling, negotiating, discussing, demonstrating, bribing, pleading and begging Poppy to consider giving up her nappies for the pleasure of pants, and been met with a definite 'NO!', I haven't been able to envisage a world without them.

And then yesterday my world shifted on its axis. Poppy announced she wanted to do a wee wee on the toilet, strutted off to the loo, promptly did her business, wiped and flushed and sauntered out with that look I've come to know so well. The look that says "on my terms, Mummy. On my terms." Two hours later, a poo was delivered with the same aplomb and we haven't looked back since. And just like that I'm living in a nappy free world. I am no longer a nappy changer. (I'm well aware that in exactly 26 weeks and 3 days it'll all start over, but I can enjoy it for a while!). I'm slightly at a loss.

I shouldn't be surprised though at the suddeness of it all. I saw that same look when I was trying to encourage Poppy to walk. She refused. Point blank. Then one day she promptly got up and strolled into the kitchen with a backward glance to my dropped jaw that said with a wink, "Gotcha."

I have a funny suspicion that I'm going to be gotcha'd quite a lot over the next few years.

Retreating into Myself

They don't call life a rollercoaster for nothing. You have a dip, and then suddenly before you know it, you are climbing back up the ladder of life and squealing with delight at the top of the world. Does the universe just work it's magic sometimes without you really knowing? I really believe it does. Could I ever have imagined a year ago when I first thought up the idea for a week's writing retreat for my 40th birthday present, that the week that I chose was probably the week in my entire life when I would need it most?

All the dips of the last year - lost babies, a medical maelstrom, chromosomal chaos - have been overtaken by the climb back up. I write this with the sun on my face (yes, the universe even chucked in some hot sun on the west coast of Ireland in March to prove it's mystical magic). I have found a peace I don't think I've felt in years. Even the six hour drive was a treat - I'd piled up the passenger seat with CDs I haven't listened to in years, and belted out my youth as the sun shone on my road to the sea. I arrived on Sunday, and admittedly felt like the twelve year old who has arrived at boarding school. I missed home, I missed my girls, my room looked lonely and I was the new girl. But when I woke up on Monday morning in Anam Cara (Irish for Soul Friend) and pulled back the curtains, I literally stopped breathing. And I realised this place really was going to be a friend to my soul. The sort of friend who throws a blanket round your shoulders, bakes you a chocolate cake and hands you a slice with a large mug of tea. The view still takes my breath away. The desk in my room is against the window and every time I look up from my laptop I am still surprised by the beauty. The shimmering sea glistens in the crook of an arm of mountains and cliffs. I'm in the land of ancient celtic heritage. Mystical stone gatherings and folklore litter the landscape, while my own literary landscape has become as endless and textured as the mountains around me.

I write every day, and I walk, and I talk with the other writers here. Even my belly is swelling with happiness - although more to do with the freshly collected egg breakfast every morning and warm baked blueberry muffins, rather than my busy baby. As a self-diagnosed terrible sleeper, I am shocked to find I have to prise open my eyes in the morning to break the seal of sticky sleep.

This is a very special place, and a vey special time for me to renew, regather, regenerate - to write and sleep and to think (there are so many glorious places that make you want to stop and contemplate life it's amazing any writing gets done at all!) I needed this. So thank you universe for conspiring to make this happen, and thank you hubby for taking care of our girls for a bit so I can take care of me.

(http://www.anamacararetreat.com/)

Thanks to Susan partridge for your photo!)

TV is good for kids!

Now before you all report me to the PC Police, let me explain my New Found, U-Turned philosophy. Before I had children I was one of those Pre-Parents who arrogantly (it has to be said) and confidently announced that no child of mine would ever be plonked in front of the evil box. Not that I had anything against TV per se - there was and is nothing more I love than curlng up of an evening with a glass of vino and Grey's Anatomy. It's just I figured that TV would have absolutely nothing to offer a child that would be so entertained and taught and enlightened by moi!

How preposterous us pre-parents were! Actually I was fairly strict at the beginning and the TV was never put on before Daisy went to bed for her first 18 months. And then I needed to feed my new baby which Daisy took great exception to and suddenly Dora became my new best friend.

Now four years on, I still have some issues with TV - I only let them watch taped stuff so they don't get exposed to adverts. They get half an hour at lunchtime (although I have to confess in my pregnancy fog of late, that might have been extended to an hour when that sofa gets a bit too comfy for my weary self), and half an hour at bedtime.

So admittedly we all know TV is good for us parents - a little in-house babysitting so we can send an email or make the tea. But I also think it does have value for them too. At least, my girls' current addiciton is. Who'd have thought a little pink pig called Peppa would make parenting so much easier? She's fiesty (but polite), curious (and smart), sociable (and kind), loving (and funny). Her family are a little madcap but they also do lots of everyday things - Peppa goes to school, she loves her friends (and falls out with them), her family go on outings, they talk about stuff, they have lots and lots of fun.... and they teach my girls quite a lot! Now I'm able to say things like "well Peppa always eats her dinner", and Daisy says things like "Peppa goes to the museum, can we go?" We even dealt with riding a bicycle the other day because Peppa had finally managed it!

Now everything I need to explain I can use Peppa as our perfect example. Admittedly English hubby is less enamoured and I'm secretely delighted that Mummy Pig is rather fantastic and Daddy Pig is a bit of a bumbling idiot....... but, his payback is that my little Irish girls now talk with a perfect English accents! Ah, how I eat my pre-parenting words as I curl up on the sofa with the girls. TV is good. Now, where's the damn remote.

Fabulous Forty - Part 2

Sorry - that was a long intermission. The nausea fog is clearing, but the clouds of exhaustion still hang low.... anyway, back to my list. My Forty Fabulous Things I Love about Life (in no particular order) Part 2:

1. The colour purple
2. The way Poppy looks at me when she is naughty
3. Lists - making them, colour coding them, crossing them off
4. Planning and organising.... it's an affliction I know...
5. The crackle of a fire and the heat from the blaze on a cold windy night
6. A heartbeat at that first scan
7. When a little hand reaches up into mine when I'm walking down the road
8. My husband's laugh
9. Daisy's goodnight kisses
10. Stepping off a plane on holiday and feeling a foreign sun welcome me
11. Green chicken curry
12. Sunday's at home, pottering in a sunny garden with the girls running round throwing sand on the lawn.
13. Disappearing into a book and feeling like I live there on the pages
14. Every single thing about Christmas
15. Driving in the car (alone) and listening to music (other than the Wheels on the Bus) very very loudly
16. Colin Firth as Mr Darcy jumping into the lake
17. Saturday morning cuddles in bed with the girls, all warm and entangled
18. My family - and the fact that 40 years on I still want to spend time with my mum, dad and brother
19. The knowledge that the first half was great, and the second half will be even better because I will get to watch the best show on earth - my girls growing up
20. The thought that I'm going to spend the next 40 years of my life with him and them

So there we are. The celebrations are over, the presents unwrapped, the balloons burst. Back to getting on with this 40 year old life.... and just so I don't get carried away with all the love and affection I've received the last week, my girls know just how to keep me grounded. When I told Daisy I was forty last week, she was quiet for a moment and then looked at me forlornly - "That's old. Are you going to die?"

40 and fabulous - Part 1

Yes, it's been quite a week. An extra heartbeat and an extra decade - I've finally left my 30's behind. I don't actually mind getting older, and despite what we're going through at the moment, I believe my life is pretty amazing. So that is what I'm going to focus on. Here is Part 1 of my Fabulous 40 Things I Love about Life (in no particular order).

1. The smell of my husband's skin, especially on his neck
2. The sound of Poppy's laughter, and Daisy's giggles
3. The feel of the sun on my face
4. The way the first sip of Gin & Tonic tastes after a long day
5. The way I feel when I write something good (like standing on top of a mountain)
6. Standing on top of a mountain
7. The smell of M&S chocolate chip cookies as they are taken out of the oven
8. The possibilities of life
9. The purr of my cat at my ear
10. Baking
11. Looking at my babies in the dead of the night, their faces perfect in sleep
12. The smell of bread
13. The surprising sound of birdsong when I realise winter is over
14. The smell of tropical sea
15. The memories, so many, so varied, so intrinsic
16. The smell of the pages of a new book (and even better, the smell of an old book)
17. My mum
18. My girls, my oh so funny, smart, loving, beautiful, astonishing, wondrous girls
19. My girlfriends, without whom life would be a mere shadow of what it is
20. Colour coding, lists, and planning - I'm salivating at the mere thought of it.

I could go on, but this burst of bustling energy is slowly fizzling out as the fog of nausea returns, like a curtain announcing the end of the play. Time to retire until they open again. I might just drag my forty year old ass upstairs and look at my girls as they sleep. Always good to do something we love.

First hurdle

A heartbeat. A glorious, furious, tiny, fragile little heartbeat. We have reached 8 weeks (is it only 8 weeks?? I feel I've been pregnant for 8 months!) and our early scan showed a beautiful beating baby. I know it's still so early. I know we have a long way to go before I can breath a sigh of relief (about 18 years I suspect) but it's a start. A baby step. A baby heartbeat.

And while a little heartbeat wildly beats alongside mine, my other wild hearts continue to run riot amid my nausea fog. Today it was my make-up drawer. The sight of my Benefit liquid rouge spilt all over my bedroom, mixed madly with my mascara and nailvarnish would normally have me hitting the roof. But today, I sat on the floor, and laughed. A hearty, heartbeating laugh.

Wild at Heart

I've been to the dark side - and emersed myself in some of the realities I might have to face over the coming weeks and months. But I didn't like it there, so didn't dwell, deciding for now that it is better for me, the girls and my baby to focus on the positive and take this rocky road one step at a time.

I'm having a good hour, so I've rushed to the laptop. (I should probably be rushing to do the ironing, hoovering, stocking the freezer and all those other neglected jobs but hey, I'm not feeling THAT well). Despite this being my 6th pregnancy, I had STILL forgotten how debilitating the tiredness is and how devastating the nausea. I must lie on the floor at least 6 hours a day, and then go to bed at 8pm. The girls have taken to talking to me with their heads tilted to the side, since they rarely get me in a position where they have to look up to me anymore. I groan a lot too. Not sure it's as affective as the ginger tea, but I do it all the same. And as I lounge (groaning) on the sofa, the girls are running a little wild. Yesterday, as I hugged the floor they floated into the kitchen. How much harm could they do? Quite a lot it seems. They decided to do the washing up (sad indictment of my lack of energy these day that my four and two year olds feel they need to take things into their own hands....) I finally dragged myself into the kitchen at the sound of shattering glass.... it looked like the early stages of the sinking of the Titanic, everything within a little arm's radius of the sink had been submerged in suds - including my radio.

Later, after I'd cleared up, I let them go upstairs to dress up, thinking "I'll just lie down...." When I eventually called them for dinner, I misinterpreted their sheepish grins - their outfits were a tad Vivienne Westwood. It was only when I dragged them upstairs for bed almost dead on my feet I discovered their secret. Their floor had disappeared. Completely. In it's place was a sea of clothes. Every single item of clothing from their two chest of drawers, their wardwrobe, their bedding, the (extremely full) laundry basket and anything else they could get their hands on. It was almost too tempting to just lie down on it, but I resisted and it took me 45 minutes to refold and put everything away. My pregnancy fog clouded my anger, and I had to even suppress a smile.

It's like they've been let off the leash, their imagination no longer constrained by my boundaries and presence. My good hour is up, I feel the wall of nausea wrap itself around me so I am off to lie (groaning) on the sofa. And they can run a little wild. I'd say it's good for us all.

Swirling and Whirling

Firstly I have to say thank you. Thank you to all my on-line friends for your words of love and support. And thank you to my off-line friends for all your hugs, emails, and endless cups of tea.

This has been one of the most difficult weeks of my life. The Geneticist threw up more questions than answers. My head is swirling and every time I try to think of something else, I eventually come crashing back down to this dark unknown road all over again. As those of you who know me by now, know I'm a type A, list-upon-list, micro-managing, uber organising kinda gal. Having what I deem the most important parts of my life out of my control is like not being able to wake up from a nightmare.

It's not just that I have a rare chromosomal disorder anymore. In between getting the tests done and being called in urgently for the results, I found out I was pregnant. Delirious and determined, I absolutely believed this baby would stay. Three miscarriages was just bad luck, and my luck was going to change. And then the shocking news that it wasn't bad luck at all. It was bad chromosomes.

So now this doesn't just affect my beautiful girls, it also affects my unborn child - my dream third baby that I have fought and grieved so hard over. And this is what I know. I have a 40% chance of losing it. If I don't (and these days tick by slower than purgatory as I try and notch up enough weeks to make it more and more viable) I have a 50% chance of having a healthy girl or boy (with my good X chromosome). But I have a 50% chance of having a baby with my defected X chromosome. If a girl, she (and my two girls who we have not tested yet) have a 10% chance of having fertility and ovarian dysfunction. This ranges from the pretty bad (what I have) to the bloody devastatingly awful (no eggs, no ovaries and no prospect of natural puberty). I can't even take my head there. If it's a boy, because of where the chromosome break is, they suspect he would have significant learning (and possible physical) disabilities. I don't even know where to begin trying to figure out what I even think about all this. All day nausea (a good sign, right?) is draining me pretty low, not leaving much for this, the biggest thing I've ever had to deal with.

I write this because A) it helps to get it out, and if I repeat it enough it might start to make sense to me, and B) because I might be a bit distracted over the coming weeks and withdraw a lttle from my beloved writing world and women.

While I don't want this to take over my life - I have two beautiful girls to raise and an unborn child to nuture - I need to take time and space to work through this. So please forgive my silence while I try and deal with this. The other possibility of course, is you'll have to forgive my endless witterings - I don't know which way it will go yet.

So thank you again, to all my virtual and physical friends - I couldn't do this without you.

My Own Personal X-Factor

Sometimes when you ask a question, you get a different answer. I think every person in the world hopes they are unique, standing out a little from the crowd. But now I wish I was a little more like every one else. This week, results came back from the various tests I had done to try and discover why I have had three miscarriages. Because I have had two healthy girls, they didn't expect to find anything. But they did. Oh yes indeed. (Excuse my slightly manic upbeatness - it keeps me off the windowledge). I have been diagnosed with a phenomenally rare chromosome disorder. To be precise (and if I repeat this enough, it might eventually make sense to me) I have a pericentric inversion of my X chromosome. This means part of my chromosome detached itself, rotated 180 degrees, and reattached itself and is present in that twisted way in every cell of my body. Two days ago I knew nothing about chromosomes other than they sound like hormones and we all know how much trouble THEY cause. Now, I'm an internet expert, and still know virtually nothing.

Except this. When my dodgy X chromosone meets my husbands (perfectly good) Y chromosone when we conceive, we produce a fetus that is incompatible with life. And that is what they were. Three pregnancies incompatible with life. Which is funny, in that heart-breakingly awful sort of way, because I thought they were wonderful beginnings of life. We are seeing a Geneticist on Wednesday to try and find out what implications my 'disorder' (thanks, like my chromosomes are guilty of disorderly conduct) have on my girls, me and our chances of having another much-wanted baby.

So on one hand, I now know why I have lost three babies and there is some comfort in that. Not enough to take away my grief, but enough to know I hadn't done something wrong. On the other hand, a whole scary vista of not knowing has opened up before me. And there may not be any answers. Out of 7500 people on the UK's Rare Chromosome Disorder Support Group database, only 7 have a pericentric inversion of their X chromosome, and none have what I have. None. My consultant has never come across this in 20 years. When my husband said I was one in a million, it seems he was being very conservative.

And my chances of having another baby? My head is hurting from the swirling odds, and statistics and percentages that actually tell me nothing. But all I know is this. Somehow, in the chaos of my chromosomal catastrophe, two miracle girls emerged in a statistically sinister environment where the odds were not stacked in their favour. I have been incredibly, incredibly lucky..... and that, more than anything else in the last few days, is what has turned my world upside down.

The Green Eyed Monster

Following on from my last post, I’ve moved on from Swine envy to child envy – from Mummy Pig to the Green Eyed Monster. Maybe because my 40th birthday is breathing down my neck like a dirty old man on a crowded tube, but I’ve been having weird thoughts about my eldest daughter recently. Up until now, I have firmly been the mother, and she has firmly been the child. I am the boss, and she is the bossed around. I have all the wit and wisdom, and she has all the innocence and ignorance.

But once or twice recently I’ve caught myself looking at her and feeling a little off colour. It’s not that my rose tinted glasses have slipped off – she is as dynamic and dazzling as ever. It’s just that there has been the hint of a haze of green that clouds my eyes. I’ve actually been feeling a twinge of jealousy. Is that awful?

Her life sprawls before her like a long lazy summer’s day, while I feel a chill in the air as I enter the autumn of my life. Is this normal? I think of all the life and loves she has yet to experience, all the excitement and energy she has yet to enjoy. Her life is like a beautiful map – a chaotic ramble of roads and avenues unknown and unexplored. Mine resembles a shopping list – things to get before I run out.

But then as I snuggle her up at the end of a long day of shared moments together (making collages) and shared moments apart (like this one, where I ‘do important work on the computer’ at the kitchen table and they play beside me lost in their imaginary world of Peppa Pig figures – life imitating art more and more!) and she asks me to tell her a story. As I rack my brains, she prompts me to tell her about when I was a little girl. And I sit on the floor beside her, stroking her long hair and I tell her about my eating so much chocolate one Easter, I threw up. I tell her about my rabbit who nearly bit my dad’s finger off. I tell her about the elephant that chased us in Africa. “You were chased by an elephant mummy?” I was. And many, many, many other adventures and excitements and experiences, many in far away lands, that have made my life incredible. And in telling her, I suppose I will relive them again. And I realise that while she has her whole life ahead of her, I have half of mine behind me and it is a map littered with roads and avenues explored and enjoyed. And hopefully I have another half yet to live, more paths to travel, unknown and unexplored, and the difference is now her footsteps will walk alongside mine.

And so I embrace that smidgen of envy and mix it up with large dollops of pride…it will keep me reminded that I must keep making my life – and now hers – extraordinary.

Which Cartoon Character are you?

Since we mums spend so much time watching, singing about, helping to colour in, and picking up soft toys of cartoon characters, they can sort of take over our lives. The other day I even found myself thinking, "You know, I'm just like Mummy Pig". For months now, Daisy and Poppy have been obsessed (with slightly worrying stalker tendencies) with Peppa Pig. They only get half an hour TV a day, but it has to be Peppa. All they will play with are Peppa Pig characters.... and since the family have pretty much moved in with us, I feel like they've become us. Or us them! Certainly Mummy Pig is worryingly like me. She constantly tells Peppa she "has important work to do on the computer." Ahem. Sounds a lot like me. The great thing about Peppa is that Daisy now respects my work as something very important. I was writing my blog the other day and I could hear her tell Poppy, "Leave mummy alone, she has important work to do on the computer." I gave them an extra episode that day! Mummy Pig is the voice of reason in the midst of mayhem, and I like to think I bring a little calm to the chaos...... (I'm hoping my hubby doesn't read this one...). Mummy Pig is kind and loving, and smart and intuative, a great mother, a lovely wife, a worker, a warrier, and I find myself smiling when I hear her hamming it up, bringing home the bacon, and fixing whatever pig's ear Daddy Pig has made of things.

And so it has come to this. I used to aspire to great women - Virginia Woolf, Kate Adie among others. And now? I'd be happy to live up to the moral code of a pig. Mummy Pig. Honk honk. Forget Swine Flu, I have Swine Envy.

What children's character are you???

my favourite photo

Thanks so much for Hot Cross Mum's tag - to show and tell my favourite photo. In this digital age when we have more photos than blades of grass in our garden, this was no mean feat. But I'm a great believer in instinct and not over-thinking, so the first picture that popped into my head when faced with the challenge is the one I'm going for (as opposed to the 254 subsequent ones that i picked after much thought).



This is me and my mum at Daisy's christening. I love this photo for so many reasons, the obvious one being the sheer joy and happiness and love we all share - three generations of smiles. But it also represents the beginning of so many things. A new relationship with my mum - one based on our love of my children, and her being needed once again, after years of being pushed away by an independent, cocky teenager and twenty-something. It represents the beginning of my life as a mum, an incredible journey that I am still only on the first tentative steps of. And finally, it represents the beginning of my writing career - this picture was included with my first ever published article called Mothers & Daughters (www.alanakirkgillham.com/Publishedarticles.html ) that began a new era for me and hopefully the stepping stones towards a lifetime of writing .


The future is impossible without the past, and often I have struggled with managing the two forceful elements of my life - the pre-children and post-children me.... and yet my mum has been the bridge between the two, keeping me sane and intact while while I often unravelled. Three generations of smiles are still smiling, and that makes me happier than pretty much anything else.

My history of feminism

Dare I open this debate again? Many previous blogs on the princessing of our daughters - and my responses (afraid to speak my mind if I’m honest, because the consensus seemed to be against me, and I was feeling on shakey ground as you’ll see below) – have left me feeling like I got up in the middle of my lunch and never got a chance to go back and finish it. So here I am, taking a big bite. Like many things these days, it was my daughter’s natural assumption that women should rule the world that made me strong again.

I regard myself as a feminist, and here’s why. I believe in my potential – not just as a woman, but as a person. I believe in my daughters’ potential, and will make it my life’s mission to ensure they know that they have every opportunity open to them to suceed in life. Suceed in career, in love, in knowledge and most of all, in happiness. But I’ve been rather confused of late, unsure what legacy as a stay at home mum I’m leaving my daughters, and by the (seemingly minority) opinions I have that there’s nothing wrong with girls being princesses. Did this mean I was no longer a feminist?

I started out believing the tired old crap I learned by rote…. “all men are bastards.” I actually used that phrase in my youth…. yet my brother is one of the best men I know. I didn’t think for myself, just took on board the beliefs (wrong as it turns out) of others. But at uni, I fell apon a course that changed (literally and literaryily) my life. Through Women Writers and the words of Virginia Woolf, Mayo Angelou, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood and others, I began to empower myself and open up my mind to the realisation that feminism has nothing to do with men, and everything to do with women – strong, brave, kind, loving, generous, creative women. I built my life on their teachings, and they journeyed with me on many roads. I travelled the world, I broadened my knowledge, I made friends, I worked hard and strove harder. I did my best and did well. I had a wonderful career and I found love. The perfect feminist life: all the brilliance with none of the bluster; all the vigour with none of the violence; all the adventure with none of the aggression; all of the loving and none of the hating.

And then my world turned upside down. I became a mother. I fulfilled the role my body, my biological engineering, my nature and my nurture was destined for. It was less a case of earth mother and more a case of coming down to earth with a bang when I gave up that career to stay at home with my girls. I loved my job but I loved being wth them more. It was that simple. I have no regrets whatsoever about giving up my (paid) job but I often worry and wonder about how I look to my girls -the personification of all I had fought against. They see daddy go to work while mummy washes the dishes. But then I realise that actually it was my most feminist of all my actions – making the choice that best suited my lifestyle. And the one thing Virginia Woolf wrote about in her essay A Room of One’s Own, and others that blazed (braless or not) the way for women, was not actually that we just have to reach to pinnacle of the career ladder, but that we have options and choices available to us to follow the best path to reach our own potential and development. For me, that was the choice to take time out from my career to focus on bringing up my girls while they are very young.

Into this came the blogging debate. “Prissy” was used regularly to describe (you could almost see the lips curling in scathing disgust) the awfulness of daughters loving pink. 'Pink is the problem' was the message. But I kept asking myself why? I kept asking why ‘tomboy’ (a kowtow to the ‘men are better’ attitude that supressed women for so so long) was a better message? If a girl likes pink, let her wear pink. Surely that is what Virginia and others fought for – our right to be who we want to be? Our right to be feminine and still achieve all we want?

Daisy is a pink girl through and through. At one point she would only wipe her bum with pink toilet paper. Poppy however is red. And occassionally orange. I love both of their individuality (sure many other girls are into pink, but because it’s Daisy’s own choice, her own nature that views the world through rose tinted glasses despite the fact I had never dressed her in pink previosuly, that makes it her individuality). She also likes digging up worms. Wearing pink doesn’t make her a prissy princess, any more than liking worms makes her a ‘tomboy’. It makes her her. She might like watching Snow White, but she’s smart enough to know when things don’t seem right to her. I was singing The Sun Has Got His Hat on last summer, and she turned to me, and said “No mummy I think the sun has got HER hat on.” Quite right, I thought. We went out to build a snowman yesterday and she said, “Actually mummy, why don’t we build a snowgirl.” Quite right, I thought.

So now that I feel ok that despite my dishwashing she will naturally grow up in an environment where it won’t even occur to her that she can’t achieve anything, and already questions the masculinity of phrases (like Snowman), and that the women around her – me, her godmothers, my friends , her family – are all vibrant, smart women, I’m brave enough to enter the blogging debate again, and this time, defend my pink position.

I believe those who diss girls for being ‘girlie’ are doing them - and all women - a great diservice. They should be allowed to be exactly the girl they want to be. A good parent will teach their daughter to be happy and confident with who they are, and smart enough to always strive for their potential, whatever colour they wear – that is what feminism is. Are Disney’s princess stories bad for them? I don’t think so. Yes, the stories are old fashioned – and isn’t that a good talking point? But they are also all, without exception, about good beating evil, about kindness and generosity over nastiness and selfishness, about overcoming challenges to follow your dream. Isn’t that what feminism is teaching us?

We were watching Sleeping Beauty the other day, and I could see Daisy was a bit agitated. “Why does she keep sleeping through everything?” Quite right, I thought. So I’m a stay-at-home mum, with a pink princess for a daughter. Am I a feminist? Damn right I am. Because I made choices that made my life amazing, and I will let my daughters do the same. My girls won’t be sleeping through the action, but they may be wearing pink.

What do you think? If you disagree, let’s talk. I’m ready this time.…. And for those of you who haven’t already, please go and join Judith’s Room – Virginia’s legacy of wonderful women who have made choices to make their lives extraordinary.

Postscript- 3 days later - Just asked the girls what they want to be when they grow up. Daisy said "builder" and Poppy said "a man." You gotta laugh!