Nine

Oh, Rowan. Nine times around the sun, and still such a small pixie creature.

This past year has been such a tough one for you. You often retreat into being a cat right now when the world is too frustrating. It's okay to get scared and sad. You aren't broken. You are strong and brave, and kind, and so smart.

We're half way through your extremely elaborate birthday plans now. You couldn't decide which of All The Things you wanted to do most, so because of a home ed group and some tentative plans we already had with Connor you are doing trampolining AND swimming AND rollerskating this year. And getting both sushi and curry, though on different days.

Your favourite things are still sea creatures (or in fact pretty much any animal at all). You really want a rabbit. Or a dog. You like to have your hair stroked when you are sad or tired. Your favourite colour is apparently pale pink (you told me a couple of days ago) but if there is a choice of coloured items you almost always want blue or purple. You love making potions and are really proud of mixing your own salve for your eczema. You have a huge shell collection. You're learning piano, and play scales constantly.

I will sort of miss the eight-year-old-you, though I'm already proud of a delighted by the nine-year-old-you. I am so very much looking forwards to this trip around the sun with you, and more adventures and sparkle.

Early morning notes

This'll all change the moment I write it down, I'm sure!

Right now, Alder wakes at about eight when two of his sisters get up for the day. He coos at them while I get up, and then falls back to sleep on one of them when we get downstairs. I get to have breakfast, wash some dishes, prep ahead for meals later in the day, hang out the nappies from the evening wash, and set up anything we need for the day ahead. It's amazing having all these hands wanting to love on the baby, and him being so happy with them.

I have never been this organised, with a newborn in the house or otherwise. I mean I've not done my tax return or anything, but...

A birth story

It begins in a series of painful compromises, and a lot of anxiety. I was booked for induction on the 6th of December, at 42 weeks pregnant. The consultant listened to my history of short, spontaneous, hugely overdue labours, and told me that statistically if I hadn't gone into labour by ten days overdue I wouldn't at all and would have to be induced eventually. I've never been induced, and never gone into labour *before* ten days over. I felt horribly uncertain and worried and guilty.

Birthday season was upon us, and I knew if I declined intervention that day I would quite likely end up in hospital for several days over Morgan and Talia's birthdays. I wasn't comfortable going past 43 weeks, but 43 weeks would put me at Morgan's birthday as Alder had the same due date just eleven years later. There seemed to be only wrong answers. 

Eventually, I went home. As soon as I had decided to give myself a couple more days to think about it, I felt at peace again. I slept well, and only half roused when Martin left for work in the early hours of the morning. I had the clear, distinct thought that I should tell him I was having contractions - but I was more asleep than awake still and the waves were light. I drifted back to sleep.

When I woke at six I knew I was going to be having a baby soon. I let Martin know, and he started trying to make arrangements to redistribute his workload (work had refused to make any arrangements for cover because, and I quote, "we can't plan for what hasn't happened yet"). I swayed and walked through some very irregular contractions, then felt a very small "pop" and trickle of waters. I woke Jenna to help me, and she phoned her grandma to come over in case any of the kiddos didn't want to stick around later on. Then I phoned for a midwife, to be told the homebirth service had been cancelled overnight and a midwife wouldn't be available until 8am. Things were happening pretty fast and I wasn't convinced either a midwife or  Martin would be with us in time. My options were to wait for my mum and then phone an ambulance, or wait at home and prepare to birth unassisted just in case nobody got to us in time. (Not something we hadn't considered, anyhow, given how quickly Talia arrived!)

Jenna set out a waterproof sheet, found me a towel to sit on, calmly let grandma know there wouldn't be a midwife for a while, put lavender oil in the diffuser, and made sure I had something to drink. She was unbelievably poised and reassuring, in spite of later telling me she was running through all the things she knows about birth and quietly hoping we wouldn't be alone.

My mum arrived, followed mercifully by a midwife who told my (now two!) assembled supporters that she didn't think they'd have time to set up the birth pool. I didn't think so either, but I was starting to feel both slightly spacey and a bit uncomfortable that Martin might not make it home in time. I was mainly labouring leaning forwards on my elbows, trying to get some breathing space between contractions which were occasionally coming one after another without any real break from the intensity.

At some point the new shift of midwives arrived (the first had been at the end of a hospital shift and had come out anyway, hearing I would otherwise be alone) and one was a soft voice I knew from Talia's birth. I was almost fully turned inwards by then, barely aware of voices as distant irrelevant things in a world of powerful surges and shifting within me. I felt Martin's arms around me, and leaned in to him, feeling fully safe and ready for the first time. I had been in labour for about three hours in total by that point but it felt both incredibly fast and endless. 

I have no idea how the last part of my labour passed, right up until I recall refusing a sip of water followed by being aware that my body was bearing down and a HUGE splash of clear waters, and the satisfying weight of a head fully birthed. Then a pause, the first gap in contractions in hours, and a midwife offered me an arm to help me change positions. I gathered later they were concerned about the wait, but at the time I was quite happy to move now I was finally not contracting back to back, and I held on to her arms to move myself, aware of Martin supporting my back. Baby just slid out without a push from me, caught by several hands and then in mine. A heavy soft slippery warm real presence in my arms, my eyes still closed, everything in the entire world irrelevant for a moment.

Hands, my family there patting me on the back (quite literally, darling strange children), the midwives sending children running for another towel, a fresh drink for me (water has never tasted so wonderful after an intense labour and eight months of acid-taste!), and all the while just gazing at a tiny pink confused puffy face with huge dark grey eyes.

I felt like a warrior. I could have done *anything* in that moment.

Walking to the sofa with shaking legs, after birthing the placenta and exclaiming over having a son and all four sisters having a little happy cry, turned out to be quite enough anything for a while. Of course. And then we weighed the little pudding and discovered he was actually 10lb 4oz. Heck yes I grew that whilst suffering hyperemesis. Somehow.

It took over a day to name him. And almost a month later I can still barely believe we get to keep him. But the second I held him, it was pure overwhelming love and such a sense of rightness. I can't imagine our family without him.

Alder Luc. Welcome, welcome, tiny one.

Thirteen

The ways in which you drive me frantic with worry and frustration are all the same things I deeply admire and respect in you. You've never not been a spark, little wildfire. And now you're almost adult sized and articulate enough to pass for older than your years. There's no taming you, only my attempts at ensuring you think through which consequences you can quite handle. There's no stopping you, only my reminders to look before you leap.

Honestly the next couple of years scare me a bit. If the proof is in the pudding, has my mothering been spent wisely?

You're brave and you know yourself. You're caring. You have boundaries and you know how to stand your ground. You're so filled with passion and wonder and life. I don't want the world to squish you.

Happy birthday, Bean. I hope I can be the person you need for these last precious years of your childhood.

On first journeys

It's a cold, damp, grey day. I put Morgan on a bus on her own for the first time earlier, and my mum just returned her home. These gradual transitions to independence seem different the second time around.

Morgan is so much steadier than Jenna was, but less articulate, less suspicious, less spiky, more vague. I used to worry most about Jenna deciding to take on a teenage boy for his use of the word "gay" as an insult between pals, or trying to run up the down escalator. Acts of bravado and inability to walk away from a challenge. This time around I worry more about Morgan getting lost, or walking face first into a plate glass door and giving herself a concussion. (All of these scenarios have occured in the past year.)

It was bitterly cold on my walk back to the house. I brushed off the what ifs with the light first drops of rain. She didn't even turn around to wave goodbye. But she did hug me when she walked back in, just now, with a huge smile.

Seven ish days of adventures and these big kids

1: Morgan, outside the William Morris Gallery in London (weekend road trip including a snowball fight with internet friends, and playing in the rain with a cousin).
2: I've been trying to capture more of the children using technology, because blogworld can reflect an oddly skewed picture of just the prettiest moments (here Jenna is writing fanfiction).
3: Sarcasm face outside the cinema, walking up there to see Moana with a crowd of friends.
4: Morgan is the boat girl. Our friend has a little canal boat and Morgan has gradually learned every task she can, from operating the engine to tying knots, from reblacking the little wood stove to doing the pre-journey checks. She has a lovely calm confidence about her out on the water.

Ten

Morgan celebrated ten years yesterday. She has recently grown up so much and looking at her through milestone-primed eyes was a disturbing experience. I mean, look at her! Where have ten years gone?

Ten years ago I wrote her birth story. Nine years ago I secretly wondered if her adorable little elf ears would ever be even. Eight years ago I laughed at her pixie antics. Seven years ago I quaked at the depth of her determination. Six years ago I worried she might never really connect with other children apart from her worshipped older sister. Five years ago I enjoyed taking the slow route with her every time. Four years ago I marveled at how she went from never even having drawn a human-like figure to writing her name on the bathroom wall almost overnight. Three years ago I loved her happy dreamy little bubble. Two years ago I rejoiced with her as she started making real friendships. A year ago I wished fiercely that I could be more, for her, have more hours in my day just for quiet with her.

She's a dreamy little mouse, and she's immovable when she does finally fix on something she wants. She's accommodating and she's stubborn and loud when she has been pushed too far. She's thoughtful and yet cannot ever look where she's going. She's scarily smart and analytical, and she falls over her words (and her own feet). She's like a much younger child in some ways, and yet look how far she has come from a child who seemed always so alone and so unaware of anything outside her bubble!

Her current style is really quite punk, with elements of the floral layers she used to wear so often. Punk with lightness and pastel pink. Hippy with an edge of huge boots and black leather jacket. Her favourite things are prime numbers, red lipstick, board games, tacos, Pentatonix, Lego, and notebooks with plain paper inside.

Little starlight baby born under the Christmas tree, tall and strong and brave and bright.

Week in pictures - an extremely busy sort of week

1: Emergency rainbow silks to the rescue
2: Jenna and Rowan pausing to enjoy the canal boats on our way back to the train
3: More work. Lots of work. Busy busy busy.
4: So, they asked for hair dye again. Morgan has a blue streak, Rowan has magenta dip dye, and Tali has pale pink all over which keeps causing me to do a double take because she doesn't look like herself somehow!
5: Highly Sprung, performing Urban Astronaut at Derby Feste. Fantastic!
6: Twelve year old on a bridge, climbing things, being ridiculous, and wearing her new jumper which I had to smuggle through the wash last night.
7: Woodland Festival and Talia begged to go in the sling again (I think because she didn't want me to carry the borrowed toddler)!

My Life in Shoes

We are still not at a point in life where, when I say we are going out for some reason, everyone can locate a pair of shoes that actually fit them without a protracted search involving lifting furniture and a lot of people all doing things at cross-purposes and telling each other, "I already looked there!" as if outrage were some guarantee of efficacy.

If we have gone more than a month without anyone having a hole in one or both shoes, it was a while ago. Partly this is encouraged by the belief that I am a mind reader and that just *thinking* about needing new shoes makes them magically appear. Partly it's the lurching-from-paycheque-to-paycheque thing (yes, I know your feet are wet, we will get new shoes on Monday, could you not have worn your wellies just this once since you knew it was raining and all?).

The newest ones in this pile are Morgan's. She had a pair of black boots a month ago, but the uppers came away from the sole, as I knew they would when I spent £4 on them, but she was in love and would not be dissuaded. It was also the sixth shop we had been in, and I was bored. Morgan dislikes strange textures, those sewn-in labels, shoes that are shiny or delicate looking, and things that are no good for climbing. She rarely wears socks. Her shoes cannot have holes or flouncy bits stuck on. If I can't get big clumpy boots for her that have a zip (but a zip which will not touch her skin in any way) we are in trouble. Mercifully when the newish pair of very very cheap boots finally gave up, we were standing in Lidl next to a display of boys school shoes and she liked them and all was well with the world.

Jenna's are the blue ones. Adult shoes now, not children's ones. She's happy so long as they aren't black. She likes charity shop bargains and never has less than three different pairs.

Rowan wears wellies most of the year. Her current pair need the liner stuck down again, but they are a lovely bright yellow colour and she's really fond of them. The navy patent shoes are her backup and I have a suspicion they are a size too big but she absolutely swore that the correct size pair pinched her feet and honestly it seemed a silly point to argue for a child who is usually barefoot wherever remotely feasible.

Talia likes glitter and butterflies and novelty shoes with animal faces and boots that look like rainbow caterpillars and she LOVES pink. Her shoes are always dainty and cute, and always filthy.

Every week I gather these shoes from around my home. I dig the missing one out from behind a radiator, or pull it out of a park sandpit as we're trying to leave the park (and have been for an hour). I gather them together, lay them out, trip over them, tidy them away, and wonder how on earth someone managed to kick them off in such a way that one landed in the mop bucket.

One day they'll be gone. But, okay, in the meantime I reserve the right to curse under my breath the next time I fall over one in the kitchen or find one in the bath. Or maybe not even under my breath.

At five o'clock in the morning

She woke me at 4am by lying face down draped across me until I put my arms around her and she could relax and squirm into the bed, under the covers, between two parents. This has happened more than once lately, usually an hour or two after bedtime when she is woken by some sound in the house and comes to tell us about invisible people in her room, or that her knees hurt so much she can't sleep. Cuddles, return to bed, hold her hand until she sleeps, repeat the following night.

"The bed" last night was the inflatable kind, in the living room. Creak, creak, crunch as she crawls up the bed to me. Elbows. Those pointy four year old elbows as she grows into all limbs and angles and strength.

Guests are sleeping in our room, and I didn't wonder until now whether she tried to climb into bed with them first. I think she didn't, because last time she stumbled blearily onto my friend looking for me at night she reported to me confusedly when she came downstairs to me. "Mumma, Emerald in YOURS BED?!" Like I might not have realised and just be sleeping in the living room for fun, because it wouldn't be the weirdest thing in her life probably.

She still falls asleep so effortlessly. A busy hour of helping me to put the bed down, cuddling on the sofa, talking about cats and trees and asking me how moths fly, and she goes quiet and stares up at me from her end of the sofa. That minute of stillness is all it takes for her eyes to drift closed. But I'm awake now, not quite rested but mind too busy to nap with her.

I sneak out. Snap a sleeping-baby picture of her (how many more of these before she's grown?) and take myself into the kitchen to brew a cup of tea and paint something.

I'm not ever going to be the kind of person that leaps out of bed at five and Gets Things Done before the children wake. I've tried it a time or two, never for more than a week at a time, but I've come to accept that I'm a nicer person with an extra hour or two of sleep if I can possibly get it and I really can live without being so very organised about things. Today it's nice though. Warm, and sleepy, and my first cup of tea of the day is so very good.

Twelve

Twelve years ago a complicated and stressful two days in labour had retreated smoothly like an evening tide, depositing a tiny baby at the strandline and washing gently away leaving my life quietly divided into before and after.

When the last person finally left the room and turned off the lights, I cradled the future skin to skin and began to sing.

The night was deep blue, and perfectly still. The earlier storms that had flooded part of the hospital corridor vanished without a trace. My nineteen year old self, singing in the dark, had not the first idea what the next years of our lives together would be.

Today we celebrated twelve turns around the sun, madly whirling, frequently clueless and stumbling. She's becoming a woman before my eyes, that little strandline storm baby, that little china doll of a girl who is such a bold fearless creative wild climbing creature. She wasn't ever as breakable as I first feared, yet I still very much fear not being good enough, not giving her something she might later need. Do we ever know we didn't mess it all up? Do my parents know I'm broken and whole and happy and anxious and *right where I always wanted to be, even when I didn't know what I wanted at all*?

And today we laughed and cuddled and swam and made home made pizzas - and ate carrot cake just now, at 9pm, by the dim orange light from the kitchen. My heart is still singing, still a happysad song of true love and this is what it looks like, messy and raw and real and hopeful.

Me according to Jenna (age almost 12)

Remember the interviews I did with the children a couple of years ago? (Eventually I might manage a link but my computer brain isn't up to much today *edited to add those are now at the bottom of the page!). I messaged it to Jenna again and she filled it in independently.

1. What is something Mummy always says to you?
I love you.

2. What makes Mummy happy?
The sea.

3. What makes Mummy sad?
Fighting.

4. How does Mummy make you laugh?
Bad puns.

5. What was Mummy like as a child?
Like me!

6. How old is Mummy?
31?

7. How tall is Mummy?
Erm?

8. What is Mummy's favourite thing to do?
Talk to her friends. Steal Torin.

9. What does Mummy do when you're not here?
Work or watch Star Trek.

10. If Mummy becomes famous what will it be for?
Singing.

11. What is Mummy really good at?
Singing.

12. What is Mummy not very good at?
I've been sitting here for ages and I have no idea.

13. What is Mummy's job?
Selling her dyed and knitted things.

14. What makes you proud of Mummy?
She's so strong. 💗

15. What is Mummy's favourite food?
Easter cake!

16. What do you and Mummy do together?
Watch science and stuff YouTube.

17. How are you and Mummy the same?
We both like lots of the same things.

18. If your Mummy was a cartoon character who would she be?
Nanny Plum

19. How are you and Mummy different?
She doesn't like How I Met Your Mother. 😮

20. How do you know Mummy loves you?
She needs to work on her poker face.

21. What does Mummy like best about Daddy?
Lots of things?

22. Where is Mummy's favourite place to go?
Anywhere with a beach.

(This is the face of a child whose mother just landed them in Grantham rather than home, by means of getting everyone on the wrong train.)

Previous interviews;
Jenna age 4 (Facebook notes)
Jenna age 7, Morgan age 5, Rowan age 3 (Carried Family blog)
Jenna age 8 (Facebook notes)

Portrait of a (quirky, beautiful) nine year old

(Since I haven't been writing regularly, I keep wanting to write about what the children are like right now. I have a bit of a "where to start" dilemma, but I'm going with it and starting anywhere.)

So, Morgan Anne, nine years old and so tall and calm and stubborn. The least like me in personality in many ways, but still just as quirky as you ever were.

You have entirely your own sense of style. Sort of floral punk, mainly. You layer things seemingly at random. When you asked for your undercut just before Christmas my hands shook shaving it for you as you laughed and said, "It's only hair, it will grow if I don't like it." When I catch you stroking your "fuzzy baby hair" behind your ear it always makes me grin.

If I have to listen to every Pentatonix song over and over forever I will try to rejoice in it with you, but I am always up for part singing (and dancing with you). You always did like to repeat the same stories and songs over and over. You can shimmy perfectly (how?) and can copy almost any style of dance. You are such an excellent mimic.

I wish I could give you the kind of ordered and beautiful nest you would like. I'm a bit disorganised, you may have noticed, and easily distracted from housekeeping. I'm grateful that you enjoy setting things right and are so willing to help when I ask. If that lasts I will be pleasantly surprised, but right now it's one of the things I honestly appreciate. I am trying to keep on top of the chaos, I really am.

Your calm and patience awes me. Every baby we know instantly takes to you and considers you a safe easy person. You don't get up in their faces (perhaps because you appreciate your own space) and you rarely get scary-loud when you're excited.

You rarely dig your heels in but when you do we all know that whatever it is will happen your way. You're so happy in your own little bubble you don't bother about what's going on around you. Honestly, that makes it still absolutely terrifying for me near roads and at the swimming pool, but it makes life easier when there is wrangling over who gets which ice cream or where to go for a walk.

I remember when you were a baby, you testing the radiator temperature by putting a hand on it, and then shouting at it furiously when it was hot, before trying again, as though you could change the fact of it by sheer determination. I still see that baby in you sometimes!

Right now you're sitting in front of me wearing shortie pyjamas and your dark amber necklace. We re-dyed the ends of your hair bright purple a few days ago and it falls just past your shoulders. Your pointed little pixie face is calm and you are just starting to get darker summer freckles across your nose.

I think, "I don't hug you enough," and "when did you get so tall," and, "how did you get lipstick on your shoulder?"

Weird kid. I love you.

Birthdaying: Rowan is seven

I think my head is perpetually stuck at around four years ago. I find it hard to remember that it's actually four and a half years since Talia was born, that Jenna now wears black eyeliner, that Morgan has lilac hair, and that Rowan is not a little chatty toddler following me around asking for "up". But nope, Rowan's seventh birthday arrived and I had that little half-mournful reality check.

The decorations change, but the fact of the birthday breakfast table remains. I almost forgot to set one up for her until she informed me firmly that she wanted pink and purple candles, and "science things". She's forever rearranging these water molecules, which they built a couple of months ago, to show me water vapour, water, ice, and back again.

I have no problem at all with getting a request for my favourite cake as a birthday cake... (Nigella's Easter Nest cake.) All she wanted to do for the day was go to the kitty cafe, which we ruled out on the grounds of it being so very expensive, but then I had an order for some playsilks so...

We also ended up with a meltdown because she wanted to see her best friend and we had somehow managed not to anticipate that. Getting back home involved some frayed tempers and an exhausted birthday child whose dreams hadn't quite perfectly lived up to her high expectations. When we got home it was to a parcel of science toys and a message from her best friend to say we would be welcome to visit, which cheered her right up.

(Yes, that's Morgan with the magnets, because all of the pictures of Rowan came out as one bright rainbow blur!)

Writing this I'm having another moment... Seven! My little thirdborn parcel of excited bounce and sweet empathy! Seven journeys around the sun. Seven years of hugging it out and listening to jokes that don't have a punch line (okay, only four years of that latter). Several years of soft breathy squealing over all animals and small things. Seven years of Rowan.