The one where I met your dad

He is the first boy I ever went out with who had proper shoes. Before him there’d only been skate shoes or beach sandals. His were shiny and grown up.

I was working in an office as a Recruitment Consultant on a posh street in Edinburgh living a life with no schedule. Days filled with nothing or shopping, lie-ins or watching telly, skinning up or eating cereal for tea.

I’d not long been dumped, my heart mashed up. As luck would have it my best friend had had hers mashed up too so we were saving for a trip round the world. A much needed focus. I wasn’t looking for a boy.

Then – into the office – walked The Boy. Subtle Northern Irish accent. Expensive blue pin striped suit lined with orange and a fat tie. Good hair. Shiny proper shoes. With a massive football kit bag over his shoulder.

He’d moved over from the Belfast office to the Edinburgh one to be with a girl. But luckily she dumped him.

At the end of that first day seeing him, I asked him out for a drink. He was the first boy I ever asked out for a drink. He said yes and, together with the office manager, we went to the pub across the road and started drinking, not stopping for about two weeks.

He kissed me that first night. I can remember phoning my best friend from my taxi home, after 11pm, whispering that I’d kissed someone. She remembers me calling and first thinking – never mind the kiss – how come she’s not in bed when it’s after 11pm?

Six months and he’d proposed. Fifteen months later – ten years today – we were married in a beautiful bright room, with bird wallpaper, full of our closest friends and family.

As I walked down the aisle I felt invincible, tall and strong and sure.

Your Dad, well, he started crying when he saw me and carried on throughout the whole ceremony, his best man handing him tissues to stem the flow of tears and snot.

Somewhere in between me driving him crazy by being a messy cow, that I loathe dancing and he loves it, or that I still can’t believe he doesn’t smooth the sheets before getting into bed, we meet in the middle. We very happily and perfectly meet in the middle.

Ten years today. It makes me feel like a grown up. Like I’ve always been married. Like they were different lives, the ones before we were together. But it makes me ever so excited about what lives we’ll have next, together.

I want to go on a long train journey, see more countries, camp more, have adventures, laugh, keep drinking Toro Loco, be with friends, stick close to family and – of course – watch you two grow and fly.

The final whoooop

Although in a matter of weeks she’ll be eighteen and has bigger (better) boobs than me, when I think of my niece she will forever be the little girl wearing stripy tights.

I can remember looking down at her as she lay across me, her belly full of bottle, head asleep on my shoulder and her legs just about reaching my waist. She had stubbornly refused to take a bottle from her mum, point blank. I can’t remember much about it but I believe my twenty year old self told my sister that I’d sort her. She came to stay overnight in my shared student flat and with no choice, no hint of anything else on offer, she downed the lot.

When she was older, maybe three or four, I’d stay over with them and sleep on a mattress on the floor next to her bed. She was always an early riser and to rouse me from my sleep she’d waft the blackout curtains above my head, letting in bright sunlight and freezing cold Scottish morning air. I like my sleep but for her I didn’t seem to mind being woken before 6. I’d ask her if she wanted to hop in with me and – in an era before apps - I’d set the alarm on my Nokia for five minutes time, sometimes ten. She’d lie, phone held against her nose and wait. Wait for her face to be lit up and alarm clock graphics to dance across the screen. When she tired of that we’d creep through to the living room and watch Sesame Street or Tellytubbies.

Then came the dancing.

First ballet, of course. All pink tutus and chubby legs. No tap, thank god. But the dancing, it just kept on coming. It became her thing.

I’d try to go to as many shows as I could. I can remember being at the back of her studio when I was a new mum still breast feeding – baby latched on, standing up, swaying and smiling encouragement all at once. We’ve watched her go from an uncertain mover who had an air of embarrassment and awkwardness about her, eyes sharply on the older kids up front, to – well – a kick-ass dancer. A front row dancer. A dancer I could watch all night. A choreographer. Someone who’s been accepted to study contemporary dance.

When she’s dances I like to whoop. I do a big loud ‘WOOOOOOOOO’ just a beat before the first clap so she can hear me. I’ve never been 100% sure whether she’s ok with this. I can see she hears me. Sometimes I see a fraction of a smirk. I think (hope) she likes my whooping. I don’t whoop for just anyone.

You have to be careful though; two years ago at the Christmas show I whooped too loudly in my daughter’s ear and made her cry.

Last week was the last of her school shows and I fear it was my last chance to whoop. I was a little sad. Contemporary dance doesn’t really go with whooping. We have an uneasy relationship, contemporary dance and I. It’s just, well, it’s a bit shit sometimes isn’t it? But – you watch – under the tutelage of my niece I’ll come to love watching a barefoot dance practitioner waft herself about an empty room like a tree blowing in the wind to the sounds in her head.

The fierce protectiveness I feel for her is no less than that I feel for my own children. I felt it for her first. And now she makes me feel proud. Deep down proud.

My (faulty) invisibility cloak

No-one can hear me.

‘What do you want to drink?’

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DRINK? Will someone PLEASE ANSWER ME.’

‘Come on, get your coats on.’

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

‘Are you listening? Hello? Anyone? Will you PLEASE PUT YOUR COATS ON.’

It’s like they don’t see me. Someone slipped my invisibility cloak over me without my noticing.

Then there are the times when I grab my cloak, hold my breath and wait to disappear.

I go and sit on the toilet. I pick up my phone. Or pour a coffee.

‘Muuuuuuuuum.’

Feckin’ thing.

Live in the now, dude

I used to do something when I blogged more frequently. A monthly task that I’m so glad I did, one that really summed up why I started blogging in the first place. It was called ‘Live in the now’ and I just sat down and captured what was happening in our lives at that moment. No theme, no reason, just for fun, just ’cause. My friend Ruth has dusted the idea off and it’s been so nice reading her snapshots that I thought I’d give it a go again.

We are still all about the imaginative play.

Some are obvious ones. Shops, schools, hairdressers.

Some are a little more obscure.

Passport control: ‘And where are you travelling to today?’ ‘Ireland‘ ‘Northern Ireland or plain old Ireland?’

Or ‘Imagine I’m a baker but I also like shooting guns’

Thankfully you two still love playing together, for the most part. Cracks do appear more often now, usually when one of you doesn’t obey the other. There is less giving in from you, little one, than there used to be. You’re less comfortable being quite so bossed about.

A first day at school approaches again and in five months I’ll have two children there full time. A new phase will start. Again.It’s all about phases this parenting gig isn’t it?

‘Whats that? You’re used to this one? It’s working just fine? Finally? Yeah, sorry about that, it’s time to change again. Best get yourself a new childcare spreadsheet’

I might go from having 1 hour 30 mins a week on my own to two whole days. How would I cope with that? Do I want to? Should I go back to full time hours? I might (only might) be starting to feel something I haven’t done for a good while; wanting to have a career I care about. It’s felt like that’s been on pause these last few years, I’ve had more important things on my plate, it’s not been my priority. I’ve still done a good job but I’ve left it at the door at 4:30pm, I’ve worked to pay the bills. We both have. But now .. Imagine having a job you loved and paid the bills. Do they exist?…

You, my long tall slim jim with your tummy of steel, are turning seven next week. Seven. Jeesh.

On the top of your list for things you’d love right now is having your own room. Sure, bunk beds are fun but not when your little sister wakens you before 7am by shoving a large Miffy in your face. But you’re still so patient with her, a thoughtful deep little lovely thing.

Cooking is becoming a bit of a hobby. You have a brilliant palate and can pick out spices and tastes far better than I. Whilst you keep making profiteroles I shan’t complain. Gymnastics is a weekly 45 minute drive and you stay for two hours in a class with much older kids, but you love it and this makes me happy. And, lo and behold, maths seems to be your thing at school. Your father’s daughter.

Little ball of squish, you’re a funny little one. You go from making me think I’ll explode because you’re so damned cute, to making me want to throttle you. You have selective deafness, leave a trail of mess wherever you walk and rarely do as you’re asked.

You still love getting in to bed, wriggle with glee. This week whilst I was tucking you in you declared; ‘I’m soooo saucy, mum’. I took this as a sign you were happy in your pit. Your mother’s daughter.

You also now have a ‘spot’ in bed. ‘This is my best spot, mum. As long as my belly button doesn’t go on the wall.’

Fair enough.