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Seven Years Good Luck

10632350_1657966791149305_1342054062_nDear N,

This year, for the first time, I’m writing to you with an apology. I admit I’ve been a totally substandard mother this year. Distracted, preoccupied, tired, checked out. More on the reasons for that later, but for now, let’s talk about you, aged seven.

You’re still beautiful, maybe more so than ever. And people still notice; people still talk about it all the time. Sometimes I wonder what you must make of this world where people feel the need to touch your hair, give you things, gaze at you, comment to you or me or each other about how breathtakingly gorgeous you are. We don’t yet know whether you will carry the flag of epic beauty into adulthood and to be honest I’m not sure I would want you to. Seeing as it isn’t something we have any say in, we’ll just have to believe in your ability to play well with whatever hand you get dealt, and my faith in this increases every day, for a lot of reasons.

I mean, for a start, you are so intelligent. Sometimes it is actually scary how much you understand, how much of even the most adult conversation you pick up on (and recall at inconvenient moments). Half of this is to do with how clever you are, and half is because you are so perceptive and good at reading people and situations. You have a wisdom that is way beyond your years and I have already found myself asking your advice, which I know sounds a little bit nuts, but it’s true.

You are fantastic at school and we are so proud of how well you do. You ace your homeworks, rack up housepoints, can read and write in two languages (working on a third!) and often get full marks in your tests. We only ask that you do your best, but I can’t pretend we don’t think it’s fantastic that your best is so impressive. And on top of this you have a big circle of friends, you’re a keen budding gymnast and for the second year running you are auditioning, undaunted by an unsuccessful attempt, for the school talent show.

You started reading this year, really reading, and since you started, you basically haven’t stopped. And your avid bookishness extends to just about anything you can find. You’ve already read about ten or twelve chapter books as well as quite a range of nonfiction, covering topics as diverse as food, the human body and the Battle of Trafalgar among many others. One of the great side effects of this is that you are able to utilise a vast vocabulary and you have quite the selection of interesting facts at your fingertips with which to fill any lull in conversation. And fill the lulls you do, to the point at which we sometimes have to ask you to take a breath or just plain cork it. I hope you realize this doesn’t mean we don’t love talking to you (and listening to you), because we do, and when you’re out with a friend we feel your absence keenly in every millisecond of silence that we know wouldn’t have existed with you around. No discussion of your conversational skills would be complete without a word about your voice: deep, fruity, more suited to a forty year old woman than an elfin-faced, seven year old waif – this is just one of the many many contradictions that make you truly one of a kind.

Your bravery and fearlessness is one of the things I love most about you. Whether seeing you flying along on your bike, backflipping into the deep end of the pool or marching into a party and becoming the effortless centre of attention, I wish I had a fraction of the nerve you have. But sometimes the challenges you set for yourself are a bridge too far even for you. During the summer you insisted that we took a pedalo out (the kind that has a slide attached) and merrily threw yourself into the open ocean without even stopping to consider it. You do such a good job convincing everyone of your invincibility that we were as surprised as you when you took fright and started begging to be rescued. But I think it makes me admire you all the more now I know that you are not fearless after all: that, in fact, you do feel the fear, you do feel it, and yet you never let it stop you.

My princess, fan of makeup and dresses and party shoes; my girly girl who will happily leaf through fashion mags and play makeover games. And yet at the same time you are the girl who strips down to her pants to roll in the mud in the garden, who hates her hairbrush and having a shower and tidying her room, who chose to have her party at an aerial assault course when most of her friends favor the spa. Yes, you are all about contradictions and we will never tire of wondering how you will surprise us next.

So I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted this year. You know the reason – you’ve already started telling people that I’ve written a book – and it means so much to me that you’re proud of me. But I know that you don’t enjoy the fact that every time you talk to me I end up staring middle-distance, that when you want me to hang out on the weekends or evenings I lock myself in my room, that you have had to get used to sharing my lap with my computer, that I have been almost permanently exhausted after another 2am finish.

My only defence is that it’s not been easy doing two jobs while also being your mum. You’ve suggested to me a couple of times that I just not write ‘my stupid book’, but I know you understand really. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I did it all for you because that would be a cop-out. I did it for me – I did it because I’ve always wanted to, because I’ve always known that it was in there and I had to get it out, because I love it, because writing is like breathing for me and I just have to do it. I know there have been costs to you, and your sister and your dad, but I do believe it will be worth it in the end.

One day maybe you’ll read my story, and you might even enjoy it. Like all the best stories, it starts with a girl. She’s clever and funny and cool and tough, she’s fiercely loyal, she works hard, she tries her best, she knows what she wants, she loves with all her heart, she’s flawed and that’s OK, she sees things other people don’t, she feels the fear but never lets it stop her. She’s a walking contradiction in fact – no prizes for guessing where I got my inspiration.

Happy birthday my darling girl, and thank you for the best seven years of my life so far.

All my love as always,



PC280181 To my girls,

I am writing this on New Years Eve, the last day of the year you turned six and five, because I didn’t get time to write your annual birthday letters.  Our life, at this point, is rather like that.  Things that don’t have definite deadlines get pushed back and back, at the expense of all the things that need to happen, can’t be delayed – school and work, homework, playdates, cleaning out and feeding the guinea pigs, housework, all that good stuff.

But now it is the holidays and this is our time.  This is the time I get to spend with you, the time I spend suddenly realising how much I miss you during all the weeks and months we spend being apart for most of our waking hours.

And this Monday started out as a really good one.  This would be the first time you saw snow.  You were each going to have your very own Let It Go moments.  We were going to build a snowman.  It was all so perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

I’m sorry our perfect day had to end up the way it did, but even us parents make horrible mistakes sometimes, and maybe yours make more than the average.  But look, let’s just begin at the beginning and you can make your own minds up on it, OK?  Because hopefully reading this in the far future, you don’t even remember this.  I fear you probably do, but let’s just hope you don’t.

PC280184Morning.  Driving up to Sierra Blanca.  Snow on the mountains, plenty of good patches of it visible through the roadside trees, so we pull over and get involved.  Having been raised in warmth and sun you are both a little perturbed by the feeling of cold lips, cold noses, numb hands, and more than a little unsettled by the sensation of sliding around on ice.  And it’s important to note that it is really fricking cold.  Really cold and the snow is really icy.  So icy that we can’t actually make a snowman at all, despite best efforts, and end up with a loose pile of ice that you both gamely decide is a snow dog.  So after a bit of playing about we end up back at the car, at your request, since you’ve had enough of being cold and are angling for a side trip to locate some hot chocolate and churros.

We head into the actual ski resort and find somewhere to park so we can go for a mooch.  Heading down a path that hairpins down from the top of town we soon find ourselves in gorgeous, sun-bathed snow, gazing down across the pistes.  Then a few things happen:

  1. We spot a cafe, diagonally down the slope from us, that we see as a contender for having churros.
  2. A family struggle up the path and let go of their toboggan, only to see it go skidding off and seemingly plummet over a precipice.  Dad laughs at this and says “Well that ain’t coming back,” and both he and I fail to recognise a hideous portent for what is about to unfold.
  3. While heading down the path to the cafe, holding your (C’s) hand, Dad slips, falls, and skids with all the velocity of the aforementioned toboggan towards the very same edge, shooting off into the void before plummeting to unknown depths, and an uncertain fate.

I know what you’re thinking, and at this point I am thinking it too, but I don’t have the same benefit of hindsight that you do now, so I really do seriously consider the fact that we have just watched him die.  But these moments are slow, the world slows right down, so I find myself deciding that I don’t have time to think about that now.  Instead I need to think about you two.  C, since you were holding your dad’s hand you are now sliding slowly towards the same fate and calling for me so desperately, in such terror, that there is nothing else for it but to dive for you.  Unfortunately, as I try to take the four or five steps towards you, all that happens, immediately, is that I start slipping and I am telling you now that I do everything I can to stop myself.  Even as it is happening I still don’t believe it.  I drop your hand (N) and dig my fingers in, dig everything in I can in a truly desperate attempt to stay with you, and I am telling you I have never been so scared.  I try so hard to stop myself but the ice is so hard, so frozen, it is basically the perfect storm for this scenario.  Snow, sun, a melted and refrozen surface – there is basically no chance.  But because I am begging people to help me in these few split seconds, and they have just seen your Dad disappear, this one Spanish couple nearby do all they can.  He heads for you, C, and the woman actually lies on her front and tries to catch hold of me but we miss each other.  He then starts telling me that it’s OK, that he doesn’t think (!) there is a cliff where I am headed and as I go, as I fall towards the edge, it is of some comfort to me.


There is no real need for me to tell you how it feels to fall, to fall down seventy metres of sheer ice slope, away from you, never knowing if at any moment I will find myself airborne and falling onto rocks.  Just know that it is scary; it is one of the scariest experiences I have ever had, but all I can think about is you, that I have left you alone, and that you have just seen your two parents fall to their possible deaths.  I seem to get faster and faster, speeding up and rocketing down, desperately trying to slam on the brakes but all the time failing.  Finally, finally, after what seems like an eternity, I am realising I have stopped and I am realising that I am alive, and the first thing I hear is your dad saying:

“Kate, is that you?”

And it is so amazing that he is alive, that we are both alive that I can barely even answer before he says:

“We need to get back to the girls,” and he is gone, terminator-style, powering through the snow and ice along the bottom of the slope until he can get to the road that will bring him back to you and I watch him go, amazed at how fast he can move when I can barely make progress at all, alternately sinking through the ice crust and skidding further down, feeling this horrific burning in my hands that I put down to the cold, and all the time staring up desperately, fearfully, at the brow of the hill in abject terror that I will see one of you follow us.  It is only later that I will realise that I have ripped every one of my fingernails up out of their beds in an attempt to stop myself falling and that I am bleeding all over my clothes as I struggle down to the road that will lead me to you.

I see Dad get to you in record time, and that soothes me, especially with the way, from my angle, he seems to stand shrugging as he talks to onlookers, casually running a hand through his hair.  Only later will I learn that he arrived to find you pinned to the slope by sticks and the arms of kind strangers.  Only later will I learn that he had to rescue both you and the couple that had kept you safe from the irresistible physics of this particular place and time.

But in any case within a few minutes you are coming to me (along the road) and I come to you, and I am holding you and you are crying and I am trying not to and after a while we realise that I no longer have my handbag.  Among the items in it: iPad, SatNav, iPod, mobile phone, purse, keys etc.  Yes, circumstance had conspired to make this the most ridiculous time to scatter the contents of my bag across the side of a mountain (not that there’s a good time to do that really).  So without a complaint your dad sets out to see what he can retrieve while we continue our shell-shocked trudge back to the car.  And all the way back all I do is tell you how sorry I am and all you do is cry.  And it is only once we’re nearly back that you start noticing the blood on my hoody and skirt, the blood dripping off my fingers, and this is why it is you two who open the car, you two who help me pull off my freezing snow-soaked jumper, you two who push the keys into the ignition so we can start the heat that might stop our shaking.

Your dad gets back, having found everything, and it seems like we may actually have got away with this, in more ways than we could have hoped. The only thing is that, having only just got his phone, he had forgotten about its existence and neglected to look for it, and so ends up having to head back down again, and repeat the whole process of finding a stick and moutaineering around the slope to search it out.  I still don’t know how he did that, but then your dad is able to do a lot of things that seem unfathomable to me.  What’s really nuts is that while he is doing this, two more guys come flying off the mountain just as we did, tumbling right past him.

He finds the phone, and finally we are all together in the car.  How Dad drives for the two and half hours it takes to get home – again, no idea, especially when he had taken the far more hairy route down the precipice of tumbling end to end, head over heels, earning himself an impressive array of ice burns and cuts and a bleeding nose.  Anyway on the way home, despite shakes and pain and stops to buy plasters and painkillers and me unable to do anything but quiver with my bloody stumps resting on my knees, Dad and I keep breaking out into fits of uncontrollable laughter.  And maybe it’s shock, but man, it seems funny.  It’s just so random, so mad, and now that all is well it seems OK to laugh.

You don’t think it’s funny though.  You sit in the back looking baffled while we laugh about it.  And you’re right, because actually it isn’t funny at all.  It’s horrible.  It is dizzyingly vertiginously appallingly terrifying, and believe me when I tell you that I know that.  I lived it.  And I feel so bad about what we must have put you through.  I know how it felt to see Dad go flying over the edge, and you had to do that and then watch me do it too.  I know that for several (maybe ten) minutes you thought you had lost both your parents and for the first time in your lives you were alone, so alone, more alone than ever, more alone than I ever want you to be.

This definitely makes me question my ability to assess risk.  I know I can’t let this happen again.  I just can’t risk leaving you, or losing you.  Dad and I keep reminding ourselves how much worse it could have been, if it had been one or both of you who had fallen.  We know we couldn’t have watched either of you go over that edge without diving off after you.  We know the sound of your terrified screaming as you fell would have been a sound we could never have forgotten.

I wish I could turn back time and make it so it never happened.  I wish your first snow day, which was supposed to be so magical, hadn’t been ruined.  I wish I was more effective in a crisis and hadn’t just lunged across the slope unthinkingly.  I wish I wasn’t jolting awake during the night reliving it.  I wish I wasn’t listening to your copious sleep-talking and knowing how much this experience has stressed you.  Maybe I wish Dad and I were different people, because this kind of thing seems to happen to us more than it does to most.

I just hope in the years to come when you remember this day (and you probably will!) that you think of it and smile.  These things do seem to happen to us I know, but I guess it’s because we want adventures for you, we want you to be as excited about the world as we are, we want you to get out there and explore and experience and never be afraid to find out what’s around the corner.  But I promise I will be wiser next time, I won’t forget the importance of suitable footwear in the snow, I won’t underestimate the power of ice on our next venture into the mountains, which will be soon.

So to you, my girls, on the last day of the year you turned six and five, I want you to know how brave you are, how you went through something so horrible and are already able to laugh and make jokes about it, and how happy I am that you take all life has to offer, both good and bad, in your stride.  And if we learn anything from what happened let it be this – everything can change in a heartbeat, so it’s important to make every moment count.  Luckily, living with you, that isn’t hard to do.

Thanks for another year of moments that count, my darling girls,

All my love, as ever,



This is what you get for trying to stop yourself from falling down a mountain

Edge of the road (over which we fell) visible in the background

Edge of the road (over which we fell) visible in the background

Moments before

Moments before

20140618_180838I know now why people say Brits drink a lot of tea.  I mean, it’s nuts.  It’s borderline insane.  It’s like a sickness.  We’re in the UK for a few weeks a year, and I would say a good percentage of that time is spent offering tea, talking about tea, considering a cup of tea, planning to drink tea, refusing tea, making tea, clearing away the teacups, offering another round of tea.  This is made all the more absurd by the fact that I don’t actually drink tea.  This is irrelevant in the United Kingdom of Tea, where withholding the blessed beverage from visitors is tantamount to serious physical abuse.

Anyway once the tea is made and poured for one of a seemingly endless stream of (I should add) utterly cherished visitors, the next item on the agenda is the question: “So how are you finding Spain?”

I’ve had to answer questions like this quite a lot over the last seven years, as I have moved to three new countries in that time.  What’s interesting is that I don’t ever really know what the answer to the question is going to be until I am on the spot and hear whatever words appear out of my mouth.

And I definitely don’t enthuse about Spain the way I did about Costa Rica.  I don’t struggle for words to evoke the terrible beauty and sheer contrast the way I did with Tanzania.  Spain just isn’t as different and wonderful and other worldly as either of those places.  But maybe that’s why I actually quite like it.

Recently in the staff room I ran into one of the teachers who started at the same time as me and we both seemed to be in the mood for evaluation.  I asked him whether, with a year under his belt, he liked living here in Spain, and he simply answered:

“Well, it’s hard not to, isn’t it?”

And it is.  No matter how much you might try to resist it, who wouldn’t like coming home to syrupy warm sun, views of mountains, moons rising in soft clear skies, a swimming pool?  Who wouldn’t love to spend the evenings after work barbecuing on the terrace or relaxing with a beer on a sun lounger while the kids jump in and do widths?  WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?  You can’t fight that.  For everything that sucks about it, the Costa del Sol does a pretty solid charm offensive on you on a daily basis, and it becomes pretty hard to resist.

It’s tacky, and most of the people are either pretty weird or up to their necks in dodgy dealings or both.  The whole place is like an illustration of the shattered economy and the broken dreams of Brits abroad.  It’s a ghost town in winter and heaving in summer.  Everyone lives in one of a long string of gated compounds connected by highway in a line along a polluted and built-up stretch of coast.

And yet.

The food is incredible, the drink is plentiful and cheap, and the lifestyle is great – everything happens outdoors and kids are active and appreciated.  The school is friendly and busy and, in a good way, old-fashioned.  Spanish people are warm and welcoming, especially to those who try out their smattering of halting, Latin-American-accented Spanish.  Spain as a country is huge and only lightly populated, meaning there are vast empty spaces, quiet villages, unspoilt sand dunes and beautiful snow-capped mountain ranges.

I mean, look, I miss Costa Rica.  I catch myself talking about it all the time, and I wish I didn’t.  I know people find it boring and lame that I tell stories about it; I know this because I find it boring and lame when other people tell stories about the places they used to live.  ‘Be where you are now’ is my motto, is the way I’ve always lived my life.  I don’t want to become a whenwe.  But a side product of looking for the best in the place you live means that of course you fall in love with it, and as with anything you’ve fallen in love with you find it hard to leave behind.

You never forget your first love.  But all the same, one day you might find there are reasons he’s not right for you, and you might find someone else who suits you better, who fits in with the things you want for yourself, for your life, for the bigger picture.

But that doesn’t mean that part of you won’t always be a little bit torn, a little bit conflicted.  That doesn’t mean you can’t cry when your current love’s team crashes out in the first round of the World Cup and cry just as hard (but happy tears) when your first love’s team exceeds everyone’s expectations and gets into the quarter finals.

Personally, the more I learn about the places I have lived the more I love them.  Whether I could love any more places, I just couldn’t say.  So for now I’ll stay where I am.  This World Cup was busy and emotionally taxing enough for me without taking on any more loyalties.  Spain and I aren’t married – at least, not yet – but I’ll stick with him, for now.  I’ll stick with him until at least 2018, when the next World Cup comes along.

And by then, who knows, it may be too late.

A Thing of Beauty


“How lucky I am to have ended up, just by sheer chance of genetics, with the most beautiful children in the world,” said every parent ever.  Though in my case it happens to be true.  No really.  No really really.  They are.  Just check out my photographic evidence; I have several external hard drives’ worth of it to show you and I don’t need much provocation to do so, every chance I get, on every social network there is, ad nauseum.  I’m so love-stuck I’ll even set video montages to music and parade them in front of your eyes, just so I can fish for comments to further indulge my fantasy that my children have redefined the paradigms of physical perfection.

All that aside, my point is this – why are we designed to feel this way?  If what we’re constantly being told (and vehemently telling our children) about beauty not being important, about not judging books by covers etc etc is so true then why are we designed to gaze upon them like they were a priceless work of art at every chance we get?

We know the answer to this.  Basic biology.  We’re set up to love the way they look so that we’ll feel more disposed to look after them, to basically sacrifice our lives on the altar of their welfare for most of the forseeable without a second thought.  I´ll wake up several times a night for you because you’re so beautiful, I’ll clean up the stuff you constantly redistribute around my house because you’re so beautiful, I’ll do a Peppa Pig puzzle with you five times over because you’re so beautiful.

But shouldn’t it be based on something more substantial than beauty?  Shouldn’t I be willing to do all this because they’re so intelligent/thoughtful/funny/kind?  Shouldn’t I be teaching them that they need to do more than just bat their eyes and pout their lips to get ahead in this world and to win people over?

Well the truth is of course that I do do that, because these days there are far more people in their life than just their parents, and these people (teachers, friends etc) aren’t under the same spell as we are and so playing the beauty card doesn’t quite cut it.  So this is the point at which they have had to pull out the other weapons in their arsenal – charm, wit, intelligence, humour, generosity.  And yet I am aware that they still fall back on trading on their looks from time to time.  Why wouldn’t they when it has been so effective in getting them exactly what they want up until this point?

I know this won’t last forever.  I know that everything will change between us and, though I will always love them more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything, these mutual feelings of crazy, stupid love won’t be quite the same.  In ten years, when they are fifteen and fourteen (God help me) and I walk into the bathroom to find that they have left wet towels on the bathroom floor, I’m pretty sure I´ll tear a strip off them.  If they knock a drink over on the carpet or turn the TV up too loud I’ll be furious.  They do these things now and I mindlessly service their needs but I won’t then.  Is that because by then they´ll have lost those little soft button noses and rosebud mouths that allow them so much free passage now?  Have I just solved the age-old mystery of why teenagers and their parents just don’t get along?

No, of course not.  It’s nothing to do with that.  It’s because by then they should know better.  By then we should have taught them the qualities and life skills to get along in this world.  They come to us beautiful and clueless.  They’re packaged perfectly because there’s not a lot else they are able to offer.  And as we build them up, shape them, teach them, they turn into adults and their looks morph into the kind designed to engender a different type of love.

So I’m taking pictures.  I’m taking a lot of them and I defend my right to do so.  Sometimes I look at my girls and can hardly believe they’re mine.  I made them.  I made two perfect little beings, two sumptuous little works of art.  I remember pushing them along in their double buggy a few years ago when I ran into a friend who gazed at them and said:  “It must really brighten your day when you look at those two lovely little faces.”  And it did.  It brightened every single day, even the dark ones.  And it still does.  I have never known a joy like the one I feel tracing the freckles on those perfect peachy cheeks or planting kisses on those darkest little fans of eyelash.  They’re the faces that launched my thousand ships and inspired my sonnets; my darling girls, wars have been waged over less.

A thing of a beauty sure is a joy, maybe not forever, but certainly for now.


What Frozen Things Do


I’ve got one good thing to say about my first winter in seven years.  It’s over.  Thank God it’s over.

While I was living in the tropics I used to hear a lot of people from cooler climes saying they missed winter.  They’d reference cosy pubs, open fires, cuddling up in warm jumpers, mulled wine, Christmas markets, making snowmen.  Those were not the memories I had myself, which went more along the lines of scraping ice off windscreens on dark mornings, getting numb toes walking through dirty brown slush, pinpricks of icy rain on your cheeks and a cold that seers your throat.  These were things I was more than happy to leave behind for good.  But maybe there was the tiniest part of me that wanted to spend a cold day snuggling under a thick blanket, watching movies and drinking cocoa.  So here we were back in Europe but not too far north, looking forward to the novel delights of the “winter lite” on offer on the Costa del Sol.

Let me tell you the novelty wore off pretty fast.

Having spent six years in places with twelve hours of day and night year round, the short days and darkness were punishing.  Waking up in the dark, getting home from work just as night was falling again – I know most people accept this as a yearly reality, but once you’ve spent some time not having to do it, you realise just how miserable it actually is.  I mean the saving grace here is the skies are actually so clear that there was quite a lot of sun during the hours of daylight (such as they were) and those dark walks out to the car in the morning were more often than not overseen by a spectacular banner of stars, but it doesn’t stop you feeling like all you do is work and sleep.

Ok so then there’s the actual cold and I’m not going to sit here and tell you we really had it bad.  There’s no polar vortex in Southern Spain.  But here’s what there is.  There’s pretty low temperatures, particularly at night (single figures) and there is absolutely NO protection from it.  The houses here are just not built for any season other than summer, partly because most of the houses in this town were not intended to be (and in fact mostly aren’t) lived in at any other time of year.  So in fact they are specifically designed to be cool.  To this end they are airy and breezy; in fact our utility room actually has a whole wall made of air bricks and is therefore completely open to the garden.  What’s more the floors (ee gads the floors) are made of solid slabs of marble that conduct the cold so efficiently they may as well be actually refrigerated, and this has a knock-on effect on the room in general.  And God help anyone who walks on this slab barefoot or even in anything that doesn’t have a sturdy rubber sole, because anything that touches it will soon find a perishing, permeating cold seeping up into your flesh, into your bones and taking up residence there.  I made the mistake of sitting on a floor like this at work over the Christmas holidays (they don’t turn the heating on when the kids aren’t in) and was incurably, deeply cold for the next four days.  The only heating in our place is an air-con system which can be persuaded to produce vaguely warm air which utterly fails to even take the edge of the crypt-like chill while simultaneously clocking up the kind of energy bill that makes your eyes water.

And we just don’t have the clothes for cold weather.  It’s not just that we stopped owning cold weather clothes (which we did) but we also just completely forgot how to dress for winter.  Even midsummer in England poses us problems these days, so December days were a challenge, usually involving multiple layers and odd combinations that will likely get me reported to What Not To Wear one of these days.  My children didn’t own much that wasn’t a strappy summer dress; neither of them had ever possessed such a thing as a pair of slippers until this point, let alone thick tights, welly boots, woolly hats, thermal vests and all the other things we ended up investing in this winter.  I swear, there were days it felt like we were wearing every piece of clothing in our wardrobe simultaneously just to keep warm.  And yeah, spending your evenings lying on the sofa in hoody and socks and slippers and with a duvet tucked under your chin while your nose goes numb gets old.  It gets old quickly.

There were good things.  There were.  There was the most beautiful snow on the mountains up behind our house, and it always seemed to be rosy in the rising or setting sun.  There were festive moments; there were invigorating early morning runs enhanced by the freshness of the air.  Maybe part of the reason we all, as a family, fell in love with the movie Frozen was because we were feeling it so vividly for the first time in years, or in C’s case for the first time EVER.

Either way, it’s behind us now, and hopefully next time we’ll be a little more prepared, we’ll be ready to embrace the joys of wintertime with our new-found knowledge.  And in hindsight, now the initial shock has passed, I can see that we get off very lightly here and I am aware that the very fact that I have spent a whole blog post moaning about a winter that most people probably wouldn’t even call a proper winter may be one of the more irritating and lame things I’ve done, but what can I say?  I’ve become a warm weather person and I’m not sure there’s any way back from that.

In any case, for now, thank god, the barometer is set fair, 27-28 degrees all next week and the bluest skies you’ve ever seen, and we’re back spending our weekends in the pool and on the beach where we belong.  Which is probably why I find myself singing a song from Frozen so often these days, because maybe I feel just like the snowman who longs for the summer, finally thawing and yes maybe melting just a little, because I’m finally doing what frozen things do…in summer.


So, this will probably sound a bit lame, but imagine our surprise and delight on arriving in Spain to discover that we had a Sky box that picked up all the UK TV channels.  Yeah, I know, it’s ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous to live in a culture as old and rich as Spain’s and spend your evenings watching the television stations of your native land, a land you haven’t even lived in for seven years.  But man, it was great.  It was great to watch in our own language and watch all the shows and in the pattern that we’d been used to from childhood.  So this is why we took it badly when all this recently came to an abrupt halt.

The launch of a new satellite means that Sky’s signals no longer beam down to Southern Spain as they have done for the last good many years.  Just our luck. After all these years, we arrive, and six months later the sun sets on the golden age of television for the Brits of the Costa.  There are options of course.  There are ways to watch television in our native tongue, but they all involve the internet, and they all involve intent and planning.  And that’s what makes me sad.

I know the way we, all of us the world over, watch TV is changing.  I know we do a lot more binge-watching, and on the whole I completely approve.  I think the TV revolution is a good thing – watching a series an episode (or generally several) a night for a week or two intensifies the experience, with the tension building episode on episode almost like an awesome twelve hour film.  But I will mourn for broadcast TV now it has become a thing of the past in my life, and I will also mourn for it when it becomes a thing of the past in the world at large.  And it’s the random discoveries that I’ll miss the most.

Here’s what I mean.  The kids’ dad and I take it in turns to get up on weekend mornings, and when it’s my turn, here’s how (up until recently) it used to go.  The kids would get fobbed off with the iPad for a while (they would play games and we would doze) but once they got too hungry I would make them their breakfast.  After that was when we would generally turn the TV on for a bit.  I would flick channels aimlessly, still half asleep, and when they saw something black and white they would tell me to stop, usually with the words: “Stop, stop, old movie, Mum, old movie!”  And apparently this is because, at some point not so long ago, I stopped on some such film, announcing a preference for old movies, and we all thoroughly enjoyed the results.  Just a few weekends ago, we enjoyed Enchanted April (1932).  The weekend before that it was Sodom and Gomorrah (1962) – which was probably not the most appropriate viewing for a four and five year old but they loved it and it certainly provoked some interesting discussion.

But now that it’s all about choosing something to watch on the computer of course I don’t put old 1930s movies on for them.  I put on Monster High or a Disney film, which is OK, but just think of all that classic James Cagney that we might have come across on that rainy morning instead.

One of my fondest childhood memories is watching the original Terminator film in bed with my mum and a box of chocolates late on a Friday night.  And I’m pretty sure this isn’t just the memory of one occasion but of a whole series of times when they showed that film on a Friday night, so that it kind of became a tradition of ours to spot it in the TV listings in the paper on the way home and stock up on chocolate and get ready to hide behind the duvet for the bit where the skeletal remains of the Terminator just keeps on coming.  I already know I’m going to miss those moments, memories and maybe even traditions that are created by being served up with something surprising.

Look I know it’s not cool to like TV, but I do.  In fact, I love it and I always have.  And it’s not popular to like showing it to kids but I do, and I defend my right and privilege to do so. The moving image has been around for more than a hundred years, and by now it is probably just as much a part of who we are as the written word, and I want my kids to know it and even love it like I do.  And while I approve of this brave new world in which we have any number of the TV shows we love at our fingertips, I will miss discovering new and unexpected things while channel hopping.

So we’re experimenting with Spanish TV these days.  So far the results have been a little mixed – a nature show that got heckled off screen, an episode of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares dubbed into Spanish and a weird cartoon about animals who seem to have lost all their fur – but it’s OK, we’ll keep trying, because you never know what could come on next.

December Birthday Blues


Dearest C,

You can only imagine how delighted I was the day I found out I was pregnant with you, only to realise with dismay after an hour or so that you would be born right in the thick of the festive season.  It just seemed so unfair to me that you would celebrate your birthday and Christmas within a couple of weeks and then spend the rest of the year watching everybody else have parties and get presents while you had nothing to look forward to.  I also worried that you and your special day would get lost amongst it all.  Sure, it’s a nice time of year and there are twinkly lights and songs on every corner, but it always ends up so chaotic.  There’s just so much to do, with lots going on, all that shopping and endless lists of stuff to organise.  And somewhere in the middle of all this – there’s you, turning four.

This year, your birthday fell in the last week of term, just before family descended for the festivities, and through an unfortunate series of events it managed to surpass all predecessors in sheer craziness.  Your birthday was a shambles.  And all I can do is tell you how sorry I am that it turned out the way it did, but you just need to believe me when I tell you that it was meant to be the perfect birthday that you so completely deserve.  But it wasn´t, and it wasn´t my fault.  I blame it all on timing.  I blame it all on December.  And you´ll see that there really is no other explanation.  Here´s how it went down:

Friday Afternoon: Jail time at the Christmas Fair

Dad and I are working at the school’s Christmas fair (bottle raffle and food hall respectively) so you are bunged in a classroom with a teaching assistant for the duration.  We have five-minute visitations with you as we might have done had you been in prison, smuggling in provisions.  I even manage to facilitate a jail break at one point and convince one of your friend’s mums to take you to sit on Santa’s knee, eat some candyfloss and stand in an endless queue for the bouncy castle.  After that brush with freedom you are back in your cell, colouring in yuletide pictures while odd reindeer cartoons play on the whiteboard on an endless loop.  Finally, Dad and I are done humping tables up and down the stairs and we find you inside a pet carrier with the adopt-a-kittens.  And we have nearly done it, we’ve nearly escaped, when you tell me your tummy hurts, seconds before hurling bright pink candyfloss vomit all over the school corridor lino.

Friday Night:  Puke-o-Rama

No need for details beyond the fact that I spend the night holding you over a bucket every hour or so while you bring up everything that passes your lips, even water, and I feel sad.  I mean, of course I feel sad, watching your precious little body heaving away like that even when there is nothing left.  But on this occasion I feel most sad because the next day is your new best friend Sophia’s birthday party and I know how much you have been looking forward to going and it looks like that is now completely out of the question.

Saturday Morning:  Christmas Waits For No Man

Now, look, as I’ve already said, this is basically the week before Christmas and with family about to arrive and festivities soon to be underway, there just isn’t time for you to be ill.  So, armed with a bag to be sick in you are bundled off into the Christmas shopping crowds where we lose your sister on an escalator, lose you in the linens department (all because we’re trying to buy you a Barbie in secret), then shove you in the seat of a trolley and haul you round a supermarket.  Trembly, green and still unable to hold anything down, you gamely choose a gift for the birthday party you are so unlikely to make it to – not that you’ve accepted the fact yet.  I make a deal with you – if you can hold down a piece of toast and some water then I’ll let you go to the party for an hour or so.  Once we’re home you tackle your toast and, in typical fashion, in a triumph of mind over matter, it is the first thing that doesn’t come straight back up in almost twenty four hours and you are in your glad-rags and off to party in Puerto Banus.

Saturday Afternoon: (Almost) Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

And I think we both let ourselves believe it is all going to be OK, right up until the moment that we walk through the door of Jack’s on the marina and you chuck all over the floor, right in the middle of the busy lunchtime crowd.  I’m so mortified I hardly even hear your repeated assertions that you’re fine, you feel great etc as the waiters rush over with mops and buckets and tell us it’s OK and the party is upstairs.  So up we go, sheepish and vomit-splashed, to where the party is in full swing and as you trot off completely happy into the throng, I’m thanking my lucky stars that we managed to have our ugly scene downstairs well out of harm’s way, when the hosts of the party explain to me that the restaurant actually belongs to them.   In any case I try to relax while stealing looks at you jamming mini burgers, chips and nachos in your little mouth and trying not to imagine how they’ll look on their way back out.  And my God you pull it round – eating, playing, even getting picked by the mad Russian magician to be his assistant in doing a pretty impressive trick that involves setting fire to something in order to make a live goldfish appear.  Standing and watching while chatting with the other mums is pretty funny too – particularly when, within the space of five minutes, I am told by six separate mums how glad they are to meet me because apparently you are each of their daughters’ best friend.  But this is you.  You’re not as outgoing as your sister, you’re a slow burner, but once people fall under your spell, there’s not a lot they can do about it.

Saturday Night: Christmas Dos (and Don’ts)

Home, and after a sleepless night and crazy day, you and I are looking forward to our beds.  But they are to prove elusive.  Tonight is the school’s staff Christmas party, a pretty lavish affair happening at a hotel up the coast.  So for me, it’s a quick shower, cover-up on my eyebags, dress and heels, and for you it’s welcoming a colleague’s kids for a sleepover.  Your dad and I aren’t sure who wins out in this deal (I think it’s him) but either way I’m off up the coast in my LBD and he’s left attempting (and failing) to convince the four of you to watch The Polar Express.  You don’t last the course for long, and apparently pass out on the sofa half an hour after I go, leaving the other three to bounce off the walls and give Dad the run-around late into the night, while I eat turkey and am deafened by a club singer doing ‘Love Is in the Air’ and variations thereupon until 2am.

Sunday: Frozen in Fuengirola

Although it’s still a day away, this is the day we have decided to celebrate your birthday with you, so first thing in the morning we wheel in your brand new bike to much delight and take it down to the park.  You’re a bit tentative at first but it’s amazing how quickly you get the idea.  All this time I’m already feeling pretty nauseous but it’s far more reassuring to put it down to a mild hangover than to let myself consider the other possibility (horrible winter vomiting bug that eventually cuts a swathe through everyone we know).  Anyway we have tickets to the matinee, in English, of the big Christmas Disney movie, and you and your sister have been looking forward to seeing this celebration of sisterly love with all your hearts all advent (you have Frozen advent calendars).  So we head off to Fuengirola, a town we’ve never been to before, and follow a completely fictional map to an imaginary cinema before nearly running a few people over, feeling like we’re in a pinball machine of narrow Spanish streets and finally finding a local who can give us the right directions.  So it turns out, following a lot of sweat and stress and one-way systems, that the cinema is deep in the bowels of a gargantuan uber complex of a shopping centre where THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF SOUTHERN SPAIN is currently doing their Christmas shopping.  This combined with the fact that we got lost and are therefore a bit late, renders our lunch plans impossible.  So after agreeing to make do with popcorn we queue up (forever) to go into the cinema only to be turned away at the front because our tickets won’t scan.  I am then sent to the back of yet another of the longest queues in the world to wait for the problem to be solved while you head to the scruffy looking concession stand and I ponder a bit more on my queasy stomach and banging headache, while talking myself out of having a bit of a cry.  Anyway whatever, the film turns out to be good, and I seem to be able to ignore the clenching grip that is tightening in my stomach and it’s only once we’re back out in the foyer and your sister’s looking a little green around the gills and I’m feeling it that the wheels come off once and for all.  Picture this:  your sister and I jostling for space as we simultaneously hurl our popcorn down the cinema toilet, being steered by your dad through the endless surging crowds, gagging in the greasy cave of Burger King while begging for a paper bag to be sick in on the way, me bent double vomiting noisily in a busy car park while horrified shoppers look on aghast.  And it doesn’t get much better at home.  We can’t face dinner but we force ourselves to sit at the table so that we can do your cake and candles; regrettably we don’t even make it through the happy birthday song before your sister has to make a run to a bucket and so do I, leaving you alone with the abandoned camcorder, finishing off the song yourself and blowing your candles out against a background of puking noises.  Happy birthday.

And yeah, guess what, Monday, your real birthday, wasn’t much better.  We all went to work and school despite getting almost zero sleep, at a supermarket stop your dad’s laptop was stolen out of the car, and back at home we were greeted by a sea of sick-stained sheets, pyjamas, floors, buckets, you name it, which all had to be made presentable for the arrival of your grandfather and uncle the following morning.

Well, look, you get the picture.  Proof if ever you needed it that life doesn’t always work out the way it does in Disney movies.  You can plan the perfect birthday weekend and it can still descend into chaos, and vomit.  And believe me it was supposed to be perfect, because you deserve nothing less.  I want you to know how heartbroken I was that we weren’t able to show you how much we love you, because you are just such a joy to us every single day.

So,yeah, having your birthday at this time of year wasn’t part of the grand plan, but I guess if you hadn’t been born when you were you wouldn’t be you, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.  Look, I’ll level with you – the truth is I was never the biggest fan of Christmas; I’ve been accused of being a Scrooge on more than one occasion. As I’ve said it’s so busy, so commercialised, there’s so much pressure to have a good time, so much danger of the whole thing being an anti-climax and descending into disharmony.  But here’s the thing – all that changed on 16th December 2009, four years ago today, when I got the best Christmas present anyone ever had…and it was you.

Mi cielito lindo, I wish you the happiest of birthdays.

All my love, as always,






Take This Broken Wing

5th Birthday on the Beach

5th Birthday on the Beach

Dear N,

Another birthday, another letter, and yes you are still amazing, maybe even more so than you were last year, if that’s possible. You’re asleep as I write this and we’re in Spain, having moved here about seven weeks ago. I have no idea at this moment whether you will read this, aged twenty nine, and smile to think of us new and unsure in the country that became your home, or whether you will find it strange to think you once lived here in a place you have no memory of. All I can tell you is this last year was a big one for all of us, moving from somewhere we had lived for four years (almost all your life) and arriving here to start all over again. And I can’t even tell you my darling, how wonderfully well you’ve taken having the rug pulled out from under you like that – how you’ve never complained and never stopped smiling and have gone rushing into school and everything that’s new with all your usual enthusiasm.

But I can’t talk about this year without acknowledging one major milestone you reached. It was probably the biggest thing that’s ever happened to you, and also one that should never have happened at all.

It starts like this: April 27th 2013. Our leaving party. I’m laughing, in the middle of a conversation when I see a friend, stricken, running towards me with you in her arms and I know instantly that a Very Bad Thing is in the offing. I know even before I see that most precious of arms completely, visibly, snapped in two, that the going has gotten tough and it is time for the tough to get going.

Back into town towards the Hospital De Ninos is probably a journey of about twenty minutes, but on this day it takes twenty years, and every moment of the way you, who are still yet to cry, repeat your steady yelped mantra: Ow…ow…ow…ow…ow…. You are so brave, so stoical and yet so obviously in agony that it’s all I can do to stop myself from crying. But I know it isn’t an option – I know that watching me break down in tears would serve nothing but to make your terror complete.

Cut to this: me and you on a wooden bench waiting for the X-ray, and you have entered a Zen state. No more yelling, still no tears. Instead you are quiet, utterly still, blinking slowly and gazing at me with soulful eyes, and we are cradling the arm gingerly between our bodies, guarding it.

“I promise you it’s going to start getting better now,” I tell you. “The worst part is over.”

But I am wrong.

You are brave against all odds while they sandwich your arm between two battered bits of wood for an x-ray while I stand four feet away in an iron apron as if abandoning you to the radiation. Outside, waiting for the result to develop, you even manage to fall asleep. Your system, overwhelmed, simply shuts down. And all this while I am holding in my arms the most precious perfect thing that has ever been mine, and it is broken.

But it is back in the osteopathy department that things really start to get interesting, and by interesting I mean excruciating. The bones, you see, have not just snapped but have then proceeded to slide back over each other. This means that someone is going to have to pull them back into place. Fine, seems straight forward enough, until I learn that all of this will happen with NO pain relief and I am expected to pin you down while they do it.

In the end, though, you don’t need to be pinned down. That’s so not your style anyway. All you need is to have it explained to you that this has to happen, that this is it, this is the real worst moment of the whole thing and after this, I PROMISE, things will start getting better. And so with eyes as wide as oceans and a deep swallowing breath, you ride a tidal wave of agony while doctors twist and manipulate and pummel at that little arm, and set up your steady mantra of ows while staying completely calm, until it is done.

I’ll gloss over the next four weeks, because it would probably just be extremely boring to read my repeated testimonies to your resilience – the way you had to shower with a plastic bag over your cast every night, the way the cast weighed almost as much as the rest of your body put together, the way you never complained, never let it hold you back from doing everything you do, the way you learnt to write and draw and eat with your left hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way you never, not once, said it was itchy.

Instead I’ll cut to May 27th, exactly a month after the Very Bad Thing, and exactly a month before we leave Costa Rica for good. This is the day we go to the hospital to get the cast taken off, and I go into it bouncing with enthusiasm and an air of celebration. We get a taxi into town, you and I, giddy like it was Christmas Eve. But what happens is NOTHING like Christmas Eve.

I should add here that I feel so blessed that we had the Hospital de Ninos, the biggest and best childrens’ hospital in Central America, right there on our doorstep and I cannot fault the service we had and the staff we met. The guy who takes the cast off is a perfect example – he does his level best to prevent the terror from seeping into your heart the way it does (showing you the little circular saw he is about to employ and reassuring you that it won’t hurt) but seemingly it is inevitable.

“Are you scared?” I ask you, disorientated, so rarely have I seen fear etched on your face.

You shake your head, an adamant no, but then proceed to quake so hard I can almost hear your bones rattling. But after a bit of high-pitched whirring the cutting is done, and the guy is parting the halves of the cast like someone shucking a corn on the cob, and there is the arm.

It’s your arm alright, but not as we knew it. It’s shriveled and noodle-like and grey; it’s tiny, and it even emits an odd, slightly cheesy odor. And God only knows what it feels like, but I assume it doesn’t feel great since you take one horrified look before cradling it in against your chest and bursting into tears, refusing to let anybody look at (let alone touch) it just as if it was broken all over again.

Maybe it seems odd that getting the cast taken off was more traumatic than having it put on, but there it is; and though I was surprised at first, on reflection it seemed perfectly natural to me. You’re your mother’s daughter and I would have reacted exactly the same way (in fact I did, not so long ago). Just like me, you are fearless at the business end of illness: blood and guts – no problem, excruciating pain – we laugh in the face of it. It’s the atrophy that scares us, the alarming swiftness with which your body starts to fail you, to decay. It’s far too visceral, this ugly reminder of our own mortality, far more horrifying than the fresh brutality of blood and pain, which after all mostly show us just how alive we really are.

I carry you to x-ray just like I did a month previously, but this time you weep sadly against my chest. While we’re waiting we start to integrate the alien arm back into our lives. I convince you to let me touch it and it is cool, lizard-like, utterly limp. I pass my thumb back and forth across it as wads of brown dead skin ball up and drop away; you are actually quite amused and join in until I get a bit too carried away and blood starts to bubble up through the fresh pores.

X-ray done, we wait outside the doctor’s office for a while, mostly because, as is typical with the Costa Rican health service, about thirty other people have the exact same appointment time as us. I’m annoyed about it until I realize the transformation that’s coming over you as you watch all the other kids that are lined up along the wooden benches. Many of them have casts on their arm or leg, or are cradling a little shriveled limb just like you and they are, to a man, saucer-eyed and ashen faced, just like you. But it is the boy on a gurney who really catches your eye, poor little thing that he is, plastered from toe to hip and staring down the barrel of months on crutches.

“I’m so lucky it wasn’t my leg, Mummy,” you whisper, color returning to your lovely cheeks. “That would have been awful.” And I kiss you and we hold hands, and we both begin to feel a hint of Christmas Eve again, because it could have been so much worse, and it wasn’t.

We get the all-clear. The doctor seems slightly bemused by how well your rubbery little arm has knitted itself back together in four short weeks (during which you persisted to bash it about so much the plaster had developed several cracks) and we are assured that the arm will be good as new in a matter of days.

As if you had simply been waiting for this confirmation you start to tentatively use it on the way out of the hospital, and in the shower that night, we slough away at it until its sad unshed layer of skin is gone and there is a brand new arm, pristine and freshly pressed and beautiful as ever, and it is like it none of it ever happened.

And here you are aged five with a great story that you love to tell and an arm that functions perfectly and it is all behind us. And yet inside, deep down, there is a scar, a memory written in your bones. Some doctors say an arm that has been broken and has healed is stronger than it was before. I can see how this could be true. The things we go through have a habit of doing that don’t they – of making us more resilient than we were. You will learn that soon enough, if you haven’t already.

All I know (and this might sound strange) is I feel lucky every day that you broke your arm. A broken limb is right up there in the top ten of best case scenarios when it comes to problems with your health. Sure it hurts like hell…but it heals, it is completely fixable. I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am not going to get to the end of my days without seeing you ill or in pain. I just hope that every time I have to do that I get to see you perfect again the way I did this time, fixed and healed and stronger than you were before. And the good thing is that now I know just how tough you really are. My darling girl, it is quite clear that nothing is ever going to stop you.

Happy fifth birthday.

All my love, as always,




The Odyssey

Dear Costa Rica,

I wasn’t nervous at all when we left England for lands unknown in Africa. I suppose that seems really weird. But back then I was twenty-nine, just married, looking for new adventures and just so ready to take the world on.

Things changed once I became a mother, and this was the reason why when it came to leaving Africa to come here to you, I was only ever totally focused on finding a safer place for my family. I was ready to leave behind the difficulties of living there, the omnipresent threat of malaria (and the memories of having had it), and the sacrifice of losing the friends and the home that I had made there seemed one worth making.

Nothing could have prepared me for the happiness I found in you, our next home, for how perfect you were, for how eerily well things clicked into place, so much so that sometimes I wondered if you were just a dream. So much so that I named my second child for the heavenly peace I had found in you. And this is why now, on the verge of leaving you behind, I know that this move isn’t going to be like the others. This time it’s going to be really, really hard.

Don’t get me wrong, this time as before, I know this is the right move for my family. We’re heading for Spain which, on paper anyway, couldn’t be a more perfect destination. It’s warm and sunny, quality of life is high, we already speak the language, we have jobs and free school places and (here’s the kicker) we’ll be just a short, cheap flight from the friends and family we’ve neglected for six years. And I do firmly believe that we’ll be happy there. None of this is in doubt. It’s simply that I have fallen deeply and irrevocably under your spell. Under the spell of my laid-back life here, under the spell of my network of wonderful friends, under the spell of your staggering natural beauty, under the spell of your sweet, reserved people.

When visitors first come to you, I don’t know, but I think maybe all they see is potholes, big iron gates and barbed wire. Your capital certainly doesn’t have the kerb appeal of some. I guess you have to live here to really know your heart. To know the way the weather is so often just that perfect sunny, breezy summers day; to know the way the mountains can suddenly loom out of passing cloud; to know the way the chattering parrots at sunset can lift the spirits on a simple walk to the corner shop; to know the way it simultaneously drives you mad and soothes your soul that strangers in the street tell you how to manage your children.

We found a home in you. We love our cool, light-filled little house and its sweet quiet neighbours that bring the girls presents when they return from travels. We love driving to the beach on a Saturday to soak away the cares of the week in the blood-warm pacific. We love your hearty breakfasts. We love that you’ve led us to some true and lifelong friends. We love that you gave us the time and space to really know our children while they still want to be with us.

And now we have to throw it all up in the air and start again. Again. And to be honest sometimes I don’t know if I can do it. When I first found out about Spain I was over the moon – I had a great new job, my parents were thrilled by our upcoming proximity and we were being given free education for the kids. Plus we would be back in Europe – the land of culture and old buildings and cheese and camping and cycle paths and lots of other (on reflection pretty silly) little things that you have never been able to offer us. But since the first flush of joy subsided I’ve realized I’m struggling with this. I’m finding the thought of leaving you really tough. We’ve still got almost three months together and already I’m losing sleep, already I’m worrying, already I’m missing you.

There’s been times over the last four years when I’ve wondered if you would be our forever home – the unexpected, inconvenient, wonderful place that we ended up staying in for good. Life is like that – always full of surprises and paths that take you in different directions – you taught me that. And I think we could have been happy together, you and I; I think we could have made a beautiful life. But then Spain came along and was just too good to ignore. I’m sorry I let another place turn my head when what you and I had was so special. And I may well live to regret it, but I guess that’s just a risk I’m going to have to take.

You gave me so much, so many precious gifts, but none so precious as the one which you may one day claim back. My Cielo is your national through and through and always will be, and I know that you will call her home one day, even if just for a short time. I allow myself little daydreams of her spending a summer here, falling in love with you just the way I did, maybe even staying long enough to mean that I visit her, that I get to come back to you.

And so here we are getting ready to say our goodbyes. And when the dreaded day comes when I must leave I will be strong, I will be brave and I will try not to cry. And as my feet leave your ground just know that I love you, that I always will, that I never loved anywhere the way I love you and I doubt I ever will. Just know that you healed me, that you made me feel safe, that you made me believe that anything was possible, and that no matter where I go or what I do, a part of my heart will always be here, with you.

For everything you gave me, mi pais, muchisima gracias. And I hope that this won’t be adios, but merely hasta luego. Let’s make sure these last months are just as memorable and joyful and perfect as all of those that have gone before.

With all my love


Bajo Este Cielo

Dearest C,

As I did with your sister I am starting an annual tradition of writing you a letter on your birthday, starting with this, your third. And you know what? I hardly know what to say. I could write a book about you, about how much I love you, about all the things you are, so how can I possibly hope to distill it down into only a few pages? But for you, I’ll try. For you, I’ll try anything.

You were born three years ago today, on a typically beautiful mid-December afternoon – breezes off the hills, nicely warm temperatures, blue blue skies that were crystal clear to all horizons. Small wonder then that we named you for this Costa Rican sky, under which we have found such a deep and satisfying contentment. Cielo, a word that means sky but also has other meanings – Heaven, angel, darling – and oh, how very aptly you would turn out to be named.

It’s a funny thing having a second child. I had a one year old when you were born so I haven’t always had much time to enjoy you – in fact you spent a good part of your first year sitting in your bouncer chair in a mostly observational capacity while I ran around after a busy toddler. But just the fact that I was already comfortable in my skin as a mother meant that I didn’t waste as much time worrying as I had the first time. So when I did have a moment for you it was almost always a happy one, a snatched minute of pure unadulterated joy, during which I could get drunk with love on the smell of you or the feel of your little arm curled around mine.

At first we had no idea that you were blond, or that you would have the same chocolate-brown eyes as your sister. You were born completely hairless, blue-eyed, and though your eyes changed quickly we didn’t see that beautiful bombshell-blond hair until you were more than six months old. This was around the same time we heard that infectious giggle of yours too – the one that elicits a reciprocal laugh out of everyone who hears it.

Even from the start you had the most expressive, mobile little face. You never need to tell us what you’re feeling because we already know – it’s right there in that gorgeous pout, those drawn together eyebrows or that light-the-room-up smile. Even before you could talk you had us all wrapped around your little finger. No wonder men already fall in love with you. Despite being the quieter sister you still charm the socks off nearly everyone you meet and I have watched people fall irrevocably under your spell. In Tortugero you bewitched our tour guide – who even told me he planned to come to England in eighteen years to find you… bit sinister really, let’s just hope he isn’t a man of his word.

One of the things he found most adorable about you was the fact that you are, at heart, a true Tica. Being born here you automatically qualified as a Costa Rican national (earning us permanent residency as your family into the bargain) but it would appear that there is more to this than simple paperwork. Somehow being born under these peaceful skies ensures a nationalism that is bone-deep, soul-deep… certainly, in your case, stomach deep. You are a fantastic eater, you love your food, but nothing more than the classic dishes of your nation – Gallo Pinto, Tres Leches, Cas juice – these are you staples, these are always your first choice in any given situation. What’s more, you even sleep patriotically – taking up the position of that most emblematic of local animals, the tree frog. You grab your pillow into your chest and draw your knees up on either side of it, and there we find you when we come to check on you each night, just as if we had turned over a big banana leaf and discovered you there.

How appropriate then that your first best friend should be a fellow English-speaking Tico, born just six days before you and a main character in your everyday life ever since. Your friend Ian has been at your side from day one, but there was no reason to assume that you would actually get along the way you do. But, almost as if he was the brother or cousin you have never yet had, you and he are the perfect little pair, comfortable undemanding companions, an invaluable source of support, and I don’t recall that I have ever seen you fight or disagree. How wonderful it was that you started school together, hand-in-hand on the first day in this new stage of life so that you instantly earned the reputation of being best friends and have done nothing but reinforce it ever since.

I think one of the things people find so irresistible about you is your vulnerability – that sweet little worried frown you have above your smattering of freckles, your little bell-like voice, porcelain skin, the way your lips turn blue when you are even slightly cold – no-one can resist coming to your rescue. But heaven help anyone that should under-estimate you, because beneath this exterior lies an inner-strength forty times that of anyone else you know. In truth you are tough, you are absolutely confident, you know exactly what you want and, crucially, how to get it. As your grandmother put it, you are a force of nature – you are as strong and utterly unstoppable as an ocean. Up until just lately we never saw any evidence of ‘terrible twos’ in you – you were always able to get what you want without resorting to these kinds of tactics. But as you have become more vocal, grown up a little, and the things you want have become a little more difficult to get, you have employed some of the more classic tactics of your peers and have experimented with the tantrum. And my oh my, what an expert in them you are. You could teach a class. Yours, though less frequent than those of most people your age, are more like seismic events in size and scale, and have you absolutely incandescent with rage. But hey, Dad and I have been here before, and we know it doesn’t last. We just need to batten down the hatches and wait for Hurricane Cielo to pass.

And you have another little secret – you are fiercely intelligent. All we need to do is see you complete a jigsaw puzzle in record time (studying each piece before slotting it into the correct location) to see that you are an engineer, a scientist or an academic in the making. You might disagree with this however, since your current ambition is to become a princess (Cinderella to be more exact). Knowing you, you’ll probably somehow manage to be both.

Considering how precious you are to us, I find it bizarre that we’ve managed to lose you twice. Once in the market – we got distracted buying green coconut drinks and before we realized what we’d done you were gone. I don’t think you were gone more than fifteen or twenty seconds but for me it was an eternity. All there was in this world was my inability to breathe; I couldn’t see, couldn’t think, until you were back in my arms. The second time was at the children’s race – you ran the race, got to the finish and there was such a scrum of parents that I couldn’t get to you. I swear I tried to rip the world limb from limb to find you, while everyone stared at the crazy woman screaming in English and flailing through the crowd, fighting tears. This time it may have been as long as two minutes or so, during which I aged fifty years. And then you were there, fished out of the pack by your dad and it transpired that you were being looked after by a kind stranger (that irresistible vulnerability of yours) and not trampled underfoot, which had been among my worst imaginings. On these occasions one of my other worst case scenarios is generally that you’ve been taken by someone. I know fine well you are a prize worth risking it all for so why wouldn’t other people think that too?

I know some day someone really will come along and take you from me. I know I won’t always be number one in your heart the way I am, unabashedly, now. At this point in your life, given the choice you will always choose me. You want me to hold you, me to help you get dressed, me to strap you into the car. And though it drives me nuts sometimes, it also makes me proud to be chosen by you. And when whoever it is that usurps me in your heart comes along, all I know is they had better deserve it – because it is the greatest honour in the world and I will have loved every single second that it was mine.

All my love, as always,


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