Happy Birthday big girl

To THE most beautiful girl in the world...

(Cut me some slack - I am her Mother).

Happy Birthday little one.

Four years ago today we met for the very first time.

It was just before three o'clock in the morning, 12 days after you were due to arrive and I have to say, it was about bloody time. Not least because we were moving house two weeks later.

I'm sorry if the first noises you heard from me weren't exactly comforting, but you did have rather large shoulders, even then, and gutteral screams were all I could manage. It wasn't your fault sweetie. I think it was more likely the resulting stitches which caused the agony.

When I look at you now I truly do think you're the most beautiful creature in the whole world. You AND your sister of course *cough*. She'd never forgive me.

But four years ago I couldn't have said the same thing. I can't lie. Your face was more than a little squashed, rather angry, and a funny shade of purple. And that rather unsavoury goo you were covered with? Well, let's just say, it did occur to me at the time how lucky I was that I wasn't a lion or a sheep or else I would have had to lick you clean.

*shudder*

But a lot can happen in four years.

And I'm pleased to say that you've had a few baths since then.

It's been a good year being three hasn't it? In fact I know the tantrum you threw last night was only because you were sad to say goodbye to three, wasn't it?

But four is good. At least that's what your sister says. I don't think I can remember that far back.

She says that you'll learn to ride your bike this year because that's what she did. And maybe, just maybe, you'll learn to write your name too. Your mastery of the letter E is certainly coming along nicely.

I can't wait to see what this year holds for you. You're beautiful Edie. You really are. And I'm not just saying that because I'm your Mummy. Your Daddy says it too.

Happy Birthday beautiful.

She's Not my Daughter

There was once a time when I was an embarrassment to my husband. I know - surely not you cry? Not me. Not me of the effortless 'I just got out of bed and look gorgeous image'. Yes, I know - I do like to make myself laugh on a Friday morning.

But, yes. Me. Me dressed in an ill-fitting, so-huge-you-look-like-a-blamange-in-a-duvet ski suit who isn't able to (a) walk a step without tripping up in ski boots or (b) carry those stupid skis that won't stay together even if they're glued, let alone rest nonchalantly on my shoulder and allow me to look at least a little bit cool.

It was truly hideous. Did I ever say I hate Skiing? Well I do.

Husband, on the other hand, is not only French, but was born and brought up in the Alps. He is, I say through gritted teeth, the epitome of French cool. Remember that ski scene in James Bond - The World Is Not Enough or the one in Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason? Well, he filmed them.

How we ever ended up together is anyone's guess.

But we did. And there we were, pre-children, pre-marriage, hanging out in Courchevel 1850 being cool. Well he was. I was just waddling after him trying not to slip up in those pesky ski boots.

And that's when it happened. The moment when I realised he was embarrassed by me.

'Oh hello (insert appropriate French name - I fear I may have blocked it out). So good to see you. It's been such a long time. No, no. I'm just here for the weekend. Oh right yes. This? This is my, er....friend, Emily'.

I grimaced.

Friend? Huh. Bloomin' cheek. I think the word you're looking for, husband-to-be, is girlfriend. Fiancée even. Future wife possibly. Partner. Love of my life. Anything. But not your bloody friend like we've just met and I've been hanging around like a bad smell.

So I think I may have not spoken to him for a while.

But it's fine. I'm over it. Really I am. Ahem.

Anyway, me dressed up as Bridget Jones isn't really the point of the story, but it's good to be reminded...

Because a couple of days ago I took my darling Renée, her of the 'I may only be 5, but I can swim and cycle and climb and run and generally do all the things my Papa can do just as easily', to the swimming pool. And do you know what? Part of me thinks it can't be true. But I'm going to confess anyway. I think I may have been a little bit embarrassed.

As I sat on the side of the pool, with the other Mothers (all of them who's children seemed to float, rather than sink), my heart fell. Why was she sinking? She's normally really good (of course she is, she's my daughter). But, seriously she is. She loves swimmng. And if she didn't, well she'd have no choice anyway because she's been going once a week since she was 4 months old and I dread to think how much money we would have wasted otherwise.

Now I'm still not sure what actually happened, other than the fact that she had temporarily forgotten how to swim, but when another Mother asked me which one my child was, rather than saying

'That one there. The one that's coughing and spluttering and sinking, and heaven forbid, possibly drowning',

I chose to be rather evasive, and instead muttered something along the lines of,

'Oh she's somewhere there. I can't really see her. They all look the same with their hats on, don't they?'

I am an awful mother.

Renéee I love you.

Husband you are forgiven. I finally understand.

Happy Birthday my little one

Now I should really be posting about my trip to Butlins, but I can't escape the fact that today my eldest daughter turns 5. So sorry Butlins, but you will have to wait. And just as a quick update, I wanted to let you know that the party for 25 little monsters in my own home turned out to be not quite as hideous as I had imagined. The sun shone for the whole three hours of the party, there were no tears, no accidents and no one actually set foot inside the house, except to use the loo of course...I'm not quite that mean. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say, you can now call me party planner extraordinaire!

But now back to today.

My darling Renée. Happy Birthday little one. I can not believe that you are 5 years old - so grown-up, with your long hair and flawless skin, able to tell me what clothes you want to wear but quick to throw a tantrum when I choose something you don't like. A big girl, but still so small and vulnerable. You are brave beyond words and can hold back your tears when you fall over and scrape your knee, but you can still cry when your balloon bursts (and I'm so sorry about the enormous red one that you saved all the way through Butlins, even rescuing it after it had flown off the balcony, only for me to burst it on the rose bush as I was unloading the car at home). I'm sorry I made you cry - I will buy you another big red balloon and kiss your broken heart better.

I remember when you were first born. Your face was so wise. I seriously thought that you had already lived a thousand lives. Maybe you had. Your name means 're-born', so maybe that says it all. When you cried I sang you Amazing Grace and explained that you had to stop crying or else you'd wake up the whole hospital and I'd look like I didn't know what I was doing. You obliged in an instant and I will be forever grateful.

Thank you for coming into my life and making me smile and cry and feel things that no one, except you could make me feel.

You are unbelievably clever. More so than I ever was, I am sure. And as much as I am able to teach you, you can teach me too. You have taught me a lifetime of lessons already - to be patient, tolerant, kind, loving...all these things I owe to you.

Thank you for being the most amazing daughter. Every day when I look at you I realise just how lucky I am. Happy fifth birthday my little horserider, swimmer, comedian, daughter, sister, grandaughter, friend.

May only good things happen to you in your life. And if for any reason they don't, then I will be here for you, always loving you and remembering the first ever time I fell in love with your little squashed face.

Letter to my daughters

So after a hectic weekend of Grandparents and yet more eating, I have finally been able to sit down and read the newspapers. This is a huge treat since I normally don't have time to buy them, let alone indulge in them. But today, for an hour or so at least, I did. And as it was Mother's Day yesterday I came across a few articles relating to the very subject. My favourite was a collection of letters written by three or four authors to their daughters offering help and advice for their later life (all the daughters were young and this letter was to be given to them at the age of 21). And it got me thinking about what I would write in a letter to my two daughters. This is what I came up with.

To my darling girls,

I'm going to start with a cliché, but believe me when I say that it is true. I would die for you both. I really would. I never understood how that felt until the first moment I saw one of you in pain. You were a day old and the doctors were performing their routine 'heel-prick' test which involved extracting four or five drops of blood from your heel. You were hysterical with pain and shock, not understanding why anyone could hurt you so. And in that moment, as I watched your rigid body and your contorted face I felt it. And I still feel it now and every day. I feel it when I watch you sleep at night with your soft, peachy skin and your perfect features, your eyelids flickering with all your excited thoughts. I feel it when you tell me that you love me and when you put your arms around my neck and let me take in your irresistible scent. I feel it when you share your excitement with me and when you are wise beyond your years. I would die for you in a heartbeat my darlings, and this is the truth. But don't let that make you feel under any pressure to please - the love I feel for you will always be there - no matter what you do, or who you are. Because here is another cliché for you - I just want you to be happy. Truly. Of course I want you to be healthy too, and adored by all who meet you, and kind and successful and loving. But most of all I want you to be happy with whatever it is you choose to do.

So here's my advice to you - and I hope it helps somewhat towards your path of happiness.

1. Try not to fixate on the future so much that you don't enjoy the present. The journey itself can be so much more rewarding than the destination.


2. Always treat people the way in which you would like to be treated. Be kind to everyone you meet. And if they are not kind back, then don't think it is your fault. Maybe they're having a bad day.


3. Don't be afraid to follow your dreams, whatever they may be. Only you know what really makes you tick.
   
4. Travel if you can. Go to places that make you open your eyes and realise that there is so much more to life than what is inside your own front door.


5. Don't be afraid to trust people - but only if you understand that sometimes the people you trust can let you down.


6. Marry for love, but try to remember (and this piece of advice comes from Grandma) that however much love you have, if you have no money, then love sometimes goes out of the window.


7. Believe that you are capable of doing anything that you want. Don't be scared of trying. If at first you don't succeed, then try and try again. You can and you will do it.
   
8. Always be yourself - whoever that may be.


9. Try not to get excessively angry about things - nothing is that important. And if you realise half-way through an argument that you are wrong, then have the courage to back down.


10. Never forget that I will always love you.


11. Never bite your fingernails.


12. Always put on clean underwear.


13. Eat your vegetables.


14. Don't shave your legs - wax them.


15. Never go to bed on an argument or with an untidy kitchen.


16. Always listen to your Mummy and do exactly what she says.

And if at any point you forget this advice, then remember just one thing. I will always be here for you. If your heart is broken and all you want to do is curl up into a ball and sob, then I will be here for you. If someone hurts you, I will be here for you. If you are scared or lonely or panicked, I will be here. Never ever forget that.

Your Mummy