Things We Found Along the Way

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

Kate

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,

Mummy

Loss. An interesting concept, and not one that makes much sense sometimes, especially if you’re aged four and nearly three. It’s only recently crept into our life, in a couple of the multiple forms it can take. And it all happened at once, all over the course of one seemingly interminable weekend in October, centering around South Wales as if some kind of mystical portal had opened up there, destabilizing the status quo and leaving everything irreparably changed.

First, we lost a family of dear friends, but thankfully only in as much as they moved away to pastures new. We have seen our friends and near-neighbours the Ropartz family every few days since they arrived here at the beginning of 2011, so it was with some shock that we received the news that they would be pursuing new challenges in the UK. And within six short weeks there was a Se Alquila sign up on their garage door, and they were gone.

Now, look, this is what it is to be an expat. This is what happens constantly. You meet someone, you connect, you become friends, you live your lives as part of a close-knit community, allowing some part of you to believe that things are always going to be the same. Except they’re not. Because one of these days you are most probably all going to move on, move to separate corners of the globe and sure, in some way you’ll still be friends, you’ll still know about each other’s lives, but not as a participant. You’ll go from being friends who appear in each other’s photographs to friends who comment on each other’s photographs on facebook. And that’s just not the same.

This is certainly a major drawback of being an expat. The people you have come to care about are always subtly threatening you with desertion. I wouldn’t know, but I guess people who live in their own country don’t have as many conversations about the future as we all seem to. Well, even if they do I guess these discussions don’t involve as many possible international moves. It seems that life once you’ve left where you started out is always in a state of flux.

However there are benefits to this mad way of life. I had great friends in London and then I left them all behind. I had great friends in the North East and then I left them all behind. I had great friends in Africa and then I left them all behind. Except I didn’t, not really. My true friends are still my friends and always will be. Always. And the day you turn around and realize the distance doesn’t really matter is the day you realize your friendship was built to last. And what about those friends who don’t stay the course? Well, I’m still glad I met them. I’m grateful for everyone I’ve known along the way and there have been so many of them, so many more and of a greater variety than if I had stayed put. What would I know about life in Wisconsin/Canada/Peru/Uruguay/China/Japan/France/the Congo/Germany if I hadn’t known the people I’ve known and learned about their lives? And in any case it’s a constant turnover. We’re in our sixth year abroad now so we’ve seen people come and go, and just about the time you are due to lose someone you find that someone else appears to fill their void.

The lucky thing about the Ropartz family’s relocation was that it took them to one of the rare spots on the globe that our paths will inevitably cross – South Wales, just a short distance in fact from H’s parents’ house. Almost like fate. And in a perfect illustration of yin and yang, of cosmic balance, on the same weekend South Wales gained, it suffered loss as well.

H’s dearest Aunty Mag died suddenly from a brain aneurysm at the age of just sixty-four. Having had her here for a visit just this past February and seen her also in July, we were knocked for six. On reflection, once the initial shock had passed, we began to realize how fortunate we had been to have that wonderful time in February to spend with her. We had this absolutely idyllic trip – a perfect rental house down on the rugged Southern Pacific coast, evenings spent soaking in the infinity pool while watching the sun slip into the sea, dolphins chasing our boat, turtles grazing on coral beneath the waves, fabulous food. But more than that – wonderful conversation, a truly happy feeling of family togetherness and contentment, boundless generosity, rounds and rounds of eggy bread for breakfast in the garden, seemingly endless patience and time for the kids. It was a really lovely visit, and a wonderful opportunity to get to know her (and Uncle Ken) better.

I came to admire her deeply. She always seemed so absolutely centered to me, so grounded, so utterly sure of things and yet entirely open to other possibilities and views. I loved that. And I loved that she still laughed at her husband’s jokes, loved how much they still seemed to enjoy each other’s company, even after all those many years together. You can’t help but be inspired by that.

What a shock it was for the whole of this loving family, for whom this strong, sweet soul had been a touchstone. As the only one of six siblings still living very close to the house where they grew up, it now seems she was something of an anchor for a family that is expanding and moving away from roots that go back centuries, spreading its many branches far and wide like a great Oak tree. In this way, Aunty Mag represented the absolute polar opposite of the kind of life I currently lead. Where I am floating and drifting from community to community all across the world, she was an integral member of her own local network, a member of the church, a familiar face, friend, family member, a constant in the place and the people she had always known and loved. Which isn’t to say she wasn’t adventurous – she had travelled around the globe and flown across the Atlantic countless times. But all her journeys always led her home, to the one home she had always known. And, you know, I really got the sense that she was a completely happy and contented person. Maybe that’s the key to it – to real lasting happiness – or one of them anyway.

So how did our girls absorb these losses? The first, the relocating Ropartzes, was accepted completely. Of course. Of course people live in countries on the other side of the world. That’s what people do in their world. That doesn’t mean they’re gone – it just means they move into the computer screen and wave at you from in there. And then they appear about once or twice a year for a few days before disappearing again. This is the funny life that is the only one our little girls know.

But how to explain the loss of Aunty Mag… how to approach this most difficult of subjects for the very first time. We started with blunt facts, and I guess fairly naturally this led Nyika to develop a bit of an obsession with death for a few days: Ted had died, Dolly had died, why wasn’t her teacher in school today? She’d died. I think experimenting with the concept like that is all part of starting to accept it. But as for really understanding it? Well, it’s only once you start trying to explain it that you realize how little sense it makes. She was here and she was alive and she was all the things she was to so many people, and now she’s gone. Just like I will be one day. Just like you will be. Why? Because that’s just what happens to humans, we aren’t made to last forever, we get tired and worn out or broken, and then our story ends.

Then our story ends. But that’s just it. It doesn’t really, does it? There’s more to it than that. There’s all the things we leave behind, the new people we brought into the world, the things we taught them, the way we touched their lives, the way their smile plays in the eyes the exact same way ours did. There’s our legacy, whatever it may be. I was thinking this as I was putting the hand-knitted dolls Aunty Mag made for the girls away in the cupboard. H and I had decided we wanted to keep them safe, stop them from getting damaged or worn out, preserve them for the years to come. Only the girls wouldn’t let us. They wanted them out of the cupboard, on their beds, at their tea parties, in their play buggies, out in the garden playing picnic. Which is exactly what Aunty Mag would have wanted of course, and also just goes to show that the kids are probably actually way ahead of us in understanding how this whole thing works.

So the dolls are out of the cupboard, living on with us, just like everything Aunty Mag taught us and everything she was and everything we loved about her, built into the mosaic of our story and the one that comes next. Which is something we can always keep, whatever else we may lose along the way.

Dearest N,

As is now becoming traditional I am writing you a letter on your birthday. I want you to know in the years ahead what a joy it was to be around you at these precious ages, while I still know everything about your life. It won’t last forever, so it seems all the more important to remember all the things that will inevitably get lost with the passage of time.

This year we celebrated your birthday at the beach. We have no idea how many times in your life you will get to enjoy your mid-October birthday this way, so we figured we should make the most of it while we can. So we transported you and all your friends down to the aptly named Playa Hermosa where we celebrated your birthday and your friend Antonin’s with a gorgeous poolside party in a little rancho. We ate barbecue, we had a fabulous Black Forest cake, we smacked around an Elmo piñata, and you barely left the pool from dawn until dusk (at which point you had to be forcibly removed and put to bed). At this point you are swimming just like a little fish, your lovely lean body slipping through the water like a torpedo, and the only part of it you haven’t quite mastered is the bit where you come up to take a breath. I think you really should have come equipped with gills, but seeing as you didn’t, watching over you in a pool can be a nerve-fraying experience. The only person who is never frightened is determined, fiercely focused and fearless little you, and you are so so close to being an excellent swimmer, just like your dad. Anyway we had a wonderful weekend, despite the strong earthquake that greeted us on arrival, that rattled our house on stilts in a sickening dance. At this particular moment in our lives we are blessed with an incredible group of friends, and it was just perfect to celebrate with them all and you had an absolute ball.

So what are you like in general at age 4? I hardly know where to begin. As you already were at 3 you are still acutely intelligent, astonishingly perceptive, wonderfully sociable, full of joy, curious and interested in everything. You are also still breathtakingly beautiful, deeply loving, loyal and devoted to your family. You are funny too, you say so many priceless things each day that Dad and I have a session each evening where we make each other laugh with the latest of your wonderful observations. The adults who count themselves among your friends also love hearing your take on things. Walking to ballet the other day with a good friend you pointed out that the blue of the sky was in the shape of a horse. “The clouds are so clever,” you marvelled.

But if this makes you sound like an extrovert, there is far more to you than that. At times, you are incredibly quiet and thoughtful. You have an amazing ability to concentrate – you are a real film buff and you will happily watch an entire movie and, if you’ve really enjoyed it, ask to watch it again. You also adore drawing and colouring, and this is another activity which you will lose yourself in for hours at a time. You are a deep thinker and you pick up on things that kids far older than you would miss. Just last night I read you a story, and it took you less than a half second to realize that there was a moral to this tale, and it was that it was good to share with your friends. Earlier in the day I had watched a teacher tease this conclusion out of an entire class of six year olds over the course of five or six minutes. But then, this shouldn’t surprise me. On the whole, sharing is something you do naturally; which is probably why you are an effortlessly popular playmate and friend.

You still adore your little sister, and the feeling is definitely mutual. You have several times announced your intention to get married, even exchanging rings and practising your first dance, at the end of which you always kiss and have a long-sustained cuddle. It’s only since your Dad pointed out that, since being sisters already guarantees you the ability to be best friends forever, marriage is unnecessary that you have actually given up on the idea. It’s no wonder it occurred to you though. I can’t imagine two people more compatible – you love the same things, but at the same time your differences and strengths complement each other perfectly. Of course you also have your disagreements and stand-offs, but then what married couple doesn’t? You also have quite a fondness for baiting her. At two and a half she is tantalizingly easy to wind up and you never miss your chance. But you also understand how it feels to be this age, after all it wasn’t so long ago, and sometimes if she is really melting down about something, you’ll concede even if there’s no reason why you should. Take your princess spoon – it’s yours, it’s always been yours, and yet sometimes C gets it into her head that it’s hers. You’ll stand your ground a little bit, but when you see her heading into a rage spiral, you’ll just hand it over. You even donated several of your birthday presents to her this year, and you made it look effortless. This is the kind of heroism no-one would expect from a four year old, but you do it regularly, and Dad and I are eternally grateful.

This speaks volumes for your absolute dedication to your sister, and to family harmony in general. If you feel that Dad and I aren’t being nice to each other, you’ll come in and tick us off, and you won’t leave until you’ve raised smiles or even supervised the hug and kiss that you’ve insisted on. You believe in being loving and demonstrative at all times, and you even manage this via Skype, on which you’ve been known to tell people they look beautiful, announce how much you love them and even blow kisses.

You are so appreciative of the good things in life – you often tell us how happy you are, how much you love a present we got you or a day out we had, all completely unprovoked, and it makes our day, it really does. This is why it was hard for us when we realized we’d missed the mark on your birthday. You told us you wanted a play kitchen several times but we didn’t get it for you, thinking you wouldn’t notice. You did though, and it was written all over your face. I guess we must have looked a little crestfallen when we realized what we’d done though, because that evening you took Dad’s hand and said: “I love all the presents you got me, Daddy, really I do.” Because this is the other thing about you – you are strong and you always look on the bright side, and nothing makes you happier than knowing the people around you are happy too. (And incidentally, you’re getting the kitchen for Christmas!)

On your third birthday I wrote about how we were struggling with your tantrums and how I hoped that they would soon pass and wouldn’t you know it – without my even noticing, they have. I won’t swear that it never happens, but you have found different ways to make your frustrations known. You are so articulate these days (in two languages) that you don’t need to resort to these kinds of methods anymore, and this has had a huge effect on family life in general. Even when I went back to work and wondered whether you would struggle to adjust to spending all day every day at kinder, you remained your calm, practical self and supported your sister through a period of transition without a single issue. I can’t even tell you how much I admire your courage and independence, and how much I miss your company now I have the pleasure of it so much less.

So this is four year old you – brave, intelligent, perceptive, charming you – you with that irresistible twinkle in your eye, you who tell me I smell of flowers because you know it makes me smile, you who so carefully brush your teeth twice every day, you who are so long and skinny that no pair of trousers in the world will fit you, you the wonderful actress, you with bruised legs beneath the hem of your favourite fairy dress because you are the perfect combination of princess and tomboy, you who loves your ballet lessons, you with the dirty laugh, you whose favourite film is Kung Fu Panda, you who thinks earthquakes are funny, you whose hair I must smell every night before I go to bed, you who are unequivocally the best thing that ever happened to me by a country mile.

My precious girl, you are my reason, my hero, my inspiration – and even now you can count so very well you will never be able to count the ways in which I love you.

All my love

Mummy

Time travel hasn’t been invented yet.  Just think of all the interesting opportunities that will open up once it has.  We’ll be able to travel back into eras past and find out what they were really like.  We’ll be able to see dinosaurs.  We could head into the future and ride around on a hoverboard like Michael J. Fox.  We could even travel and see ourselves in the future, or back in our own past.  What would you say to yourself if you could do that?  Don’t make this or that horrible decision?  But perhaps using time travel to effect changes in our own lives would be too risky; after all, we have no way of knowing which tiny, seemingly insignificant decisions have led us to be in the right place at the right time.  Maybe all we could safely do is give our former selves a little heads-up, to make them more aware of the things that are ahead.

As an example, I know what I would like to do.  I would like to travel back to just before I became a mother for the first time.  I can’t tell you how many times I have wished I could have been more prepared for the atom bomb of change that detonated the day I entered parenthood.  I would set the clock to August 2008, and the map to the Northern Tanzanian coast, a campsite aptly named Peponi (Heaven in Swahili).  After running through the swirling black and white time spiral like someone in a 1960s TV show, I would fall face first in powdery white sand.  Blinking and looking around I would spot myself, a little way up the beach, reading serenely in a roughly hewn wooden lounger, glancing up at sun dancing on water, hand rested absently on my rounded baby belly.

“You realise this is going to be the last time you read quietly on the beach for at least four years,” would be my opening shot to myself, and once we get past all the bewilderment etc, I will tell a younger, browner, far less tired me just a couple of the things she needs to know.

“It isn’t going to be easy,”  I’ll say.  “But labour and childbirth aren’t the kind of thing you can tell someone about.  They must be experienced to be in any way understood.  A lot of motherhood is like that; and you’ll sometimes wonder why no-one warned you about how hard it can be.  But after a while you’ll find yourself doing the same thing to women about to enter the fray; you’ll realise there’s no point in telling them anything beyond generalisations and platitudes.  She will experience it in her own way, as will you, and no amount of warnings would ever put someone off trying it out for themselves if that’s what they’ve decided they want to do.

“For years, you will work harder and be busier than you have ever been.  At times there will be no rest.  You will find it impossible to remember what you did with your time before you had kids, and you will not be able to imagine what your childless friends spend their hours on.  You will need your husband to be your teammate, and he will be, and you will notice that the work doubles when he is not around, but you will still have to remind yourself to be grateful for him and remember that not everyone is as lucky.

“Though the whole idea of a ‘mothers group’ makes you cringe now (conjuring images of doilies and inane chit-chat), you will quickly become someone that belongs to them and even helps establish them.  You will realise they have a value beyond words.  You will be touched by the deep, gently unity between these women.  Your fellow mums will move you with their honesty, and with their strength.  It will surprise you how much it soothes you even in your darkest moments to know that you are not the only one who feels this way, who makes these mistakes.

“You will spend part of every day bored, part of it frustrated, part of it drained.  You will battle, threaten and bribe; you will be filthy, smeared and puked on; you will sweat, heave and drag; you will be frazzled, grumpy and forgetful.  But you will also laugh, you will also be amazed.  You will sing, dance and tell stories; you will walk, talk and wonder; you will see the world the way your children do, and it will never be the same again.

“Then the day will come when you leave your children and go back to work.    Using your brain this way again will be a challenge, but one that you will relish.  In many ways, being back at work is the most rest you’ve had in years.  And yet you will miss your children keenly.  You will find yourself running through the streets on your way to pick them up at the end of each day, kissing their little faces greedily when you get to them like someone given a drink at the end of a trek across desert.  They have been your constant companions for these last few years and you hardly know how to get through a day without them in it.  They, on the other hand, will move effortlessly into the groove of spending seven hours a day doing their own thing, just as if they were born to do it.  Because, of course, they were.

“So anyway, why am I here?  What did I come to say?  I’m not sure really, except that I wouldn’t tell you to turn back now even if you could.  I suppose I just came to say: savour it, enjoy it, even on the days when you can’t.  Because it all goes by so quick.  Life begins to move at some kind of warp-speed, rushing past your ears in streaks of light.  One day you’re wishing they would get a little older so they can hold their head up/sleep longer/walk/talk, and the next you turn around and they’re in their school uniforms, shrugging off your kisses, so busy playing with their friends that they forget to say goodbye.  This is when you realise that this has always been a one-way street.  Every day they are inexorably, irresistibly, moving away from you.  And while that is what you want more than anything and it will make you happy and proud, it will also hurt a little.  By the time your eldest is four you will already be crying at the end of Toy Story 3 when Andy’s mum looks around his empty bedroom on the day he moves to college.  ‘I just wish I could always be with you,’ she says, and it slays you, every damn time, because you already know exactly what she means.”

And this is when I will walk away, off into the distance, all mysterious.  Maybe I’ll take a little swim in the gloriously warm Indian Ocean before I leave, just for old times’ sake.  And perhaps the old me will come after the new me, full of questions.  But I’ll leave them unanswered.  Hey, I wouldn’t want to spoil a single one of all the wonderful surprises she has to look forward to.

I wonder whether people in England realise how much I miss them.  They should.  It’s obvious.  After all, why else would I spend eighteen hours navigating the horrors of long haul flights and airports single-handed with my two very young children?  Why would anyone do that for anything other than pure and unconditional love?

I won’t dwell on the journey; we all know the drill – sweaty American airports with hostile security, giant bagels, broken fitful sleep, chronic dehydration, capped off by being tipped out into a summer dawn in a London under siege to a rapidly approaching Olympics.  But anyway we were here/there, and this time the kids remembered it and Skype (God bless you Skype) had ensured yet again that the people waiting to meet us weren’t strangers – they were grandparents.

This is the only thing that makes us question our decision to live our funny little expat life; this is the main sacrifice we have made.  Our children’s relationship with their grandparents and vice versa is no doubt affected by us living so far away.  And it’s such an important relationship; there’s so much they can gain from each other.  And it’s only really when you see them together that you realise how sad it is that it can’t happen more often.

That’s just part of living in a country that isn’t the one you started out in.  And it is pretty much the only thing that calls me back.  It’s funny because I remember missing ‘home’ at first and now, more than five years after I left, I guess I don’t.  Home is a funny concept.  Once you’re married and have your family your home just kind of follows you around, like a snail with a shell.  Home is wherever you are.  But even if it’s also about friends, and places, and familiarity, I suppose after a few years you’ve set up a broader sense of home in the community you find yourself a part of; and similarly, you’ve kind-of subtracted yourself from the one you left behind.

The last place we lived in the UK was Gateshead, and we left there, as childless newlyweds, in the summer of 2007.  Small wonder then that our sense of being at home in the UK has faded over the intervening years.  So now, when people ask me if I miss it, or if I feel a desire to go back, I have to say that I don’t.  Well, that’s what I would have said, before this summer’s visit.

I can’t tell you what made it different this time.  Every time we go back ‘home’ there’s something of a disconnect.  When we’re here in Costa Rica we rarely think of the UK, and when we’re there we don’t think about being here.  We’ve always missed our family, but we’re incredibly happy where we are so we don’t long to go back.  But this time, I don’t know, all the things that drive me a little bit nuts about the UK were also the things that made it hard to leave at the end of the visit – the language, the television, the crazy weather, the way it’s such a small place that everyone ends up getting the same ideas, the comfort of being with family and oldest friends, the outward pessimism and inward optimism, the familiarity of places that you’ve known for many years, the way everybody seems to feel like the place is going to the dogs when the truth is that this courageous island nation will keep on surviving no matter how crazy the world gets.

There is no big international move imminent.  Indeed the very thought of leaving Costa Rica is painful.  Who even knows what the future will bring? I don’t, and that’s the way I like it.  But it was a great trip, and it was wonderful to realise that we have two homes now, and we are welcomed and loved and blessed with good friends and totally happy and contented in both of them.

How do you know when your family is complete? I wasn’t sure until recently, but now I do. Well, I think I do. No, I know I do. Most of the time anyway.

I’m pretty sure the way you feel is that you’re glad you’ve got your body back. It may not look quite the same, but it has survived the rigours of multiple pregnancies and childbirths, and it is now back to being fit and strong. And it is my own, it’s not nourishing anybody except me and all the weight and whatever else I gained and lost is a thing of the past. And I’ll take a few battle-scars, they were worth it and, besides, I’m proud of myself for being tough enough to bring two new lives into the world.

I’m also pretty sure you feel glad you’ve got your brain back. Granted, sometimes life with two pre-schoolers robs me of the ability to think straight, but the true Baby Brain years are behind me now. And what with the extra time available to me with the girls at kinder three mornings a week, I am actually working – using my brain and earning money to boot.

I’m pretty sure you look around at your perfect family, more beautiful than you ever dreamed of, and think you’d better quit while you’re ahead. What more could I have wished for than two healthy, thriving, intelligent, happy, gorgeous children? I don’t underestimate the lucky star that has shone on me these last four years. And yet…it almost didn’t work out this way. I don’t mean the kids, the kids were always perfect. I mean me. I almost wasn’t here to see all this; I almost wasn’t here to be a mother at all. Bringing my girls into this world was rough on me, and I nearly didn’t make it through. And now I’m here and I love my life and I’m more important to other people than ever, I can’t risk anything going wrong that means I’m taken out of the equation. Not being here for my girls, missing out on anything that happens in their lives, is now my greatest fear. This is probably the best reason I can think of not to go down that road again.

But there are other reasons. You get older and wiser, and you start to think about how much money this whole show costs to run. They eat, they need clothes and shoes; there is an endless parade of birthdays and Christmases. And every time you thought it wasn’t possible, you love your children even more. So you find yourself wanting to give them the things they need, the things they want (not all of them, but the reasonable requests), and right now there’s no end in sight. Soon there’ll be hobbies, sporting pursuits, school trips and, before we know it, university and then (gulp) weddings. And we’ll want to be there to help, just as our parents were for us.

I was thinking about this recently, when my cleaning lady told me she was pregnant with her fourth child. The thing is I know that money is short for her, and I found myself thinking: FOUR? Are you nuts? Here’s me with a lot more money than her and I already feel like I’m not going to be able to give my girls everything I would like to. How does she plan to manage? What will she do if one of them asks her to support them through medical school? Of course I didn’t say any of these things to her, but it did get me thinking. Maybe it simply comes down to expectations; maybe it’s a case of feeling that we need to give back at least as much (preferably more) than we were given ourselves. Our parents set the bar pretty high. In general baby boomers have been able to give their children comfortable childhoods, generous allowances, support for study and maybe even a little leg-up on the property ladder. Realistically I’m not sure if as many of the current generation of parents with young children will be able to be as helpful. At least by limiting myself to two children, I can give myself a cat in hell’s chance of being able to be there for my girls in a tight spot the way my parents have been for me.

But when I reacted in horror to my cleaner’s announcement (I’m sure I wasn’t able to control my facial muscles) I was also thinking about her family situation. I know her husband would fall into the general category of ‘no good’. He doesn’t seem to have a job, and there are rumours that he isn’t faithful or kind. So while I stood there grimacing I was wondering what had possessed her to bring another child into that house. It’s bad enough that the existing children have to deal with it on a daily basis, let alone making it the reality for yet another young soul.

Look, I realise I’m not making myself look good here. I promise I am not trying to suggest that people with less money and dodgy home lives shouldn’t have children. Of course they should if they want to. I remember talking to someone a while ago about their decision not to have children, and their position, basically, was: What kind of world is this to bring children into? To which I could only respond honestly: But what kind of world would it be if they didn’t?

But it is thinking about this, about the kind of family situation you provide for your children, that occasionally makes me wobble on my resolve to stop at two. Sometimes I look around at my happy, blessed, fun-filled family and I think: this is too good to keep to ourselves. There’s enough joy and love here to spare, to share around a little more. Sometimes I remember that I always wanted three, that palm readers and fortune tellers always told me I would, that I used to love the feeling of sitting round the table with a large and noisy family and be sure I wanted that for myself.

The thing is somewhere along the line that changed. Back in the days I thought I wanted a big family I wasn’t yet a mother. I had no idea how much incredible joy and love it brings, but also what it costs you in so many ways, what it takes out of you physically to bring a baby into this world and on a daily basis over the course of the years. Probably a lot of people are stronger than me, better at it all, but I know my limits. I know when I should quit when I am more ahead than I ever dreamed I’d be.

So I do know I don’t want more kids – my two precious girls are going to create more than enough excitement (and noise!) for me, and I am going to invest everything I have into them. And what do I even have to invest? The change in my pocket, a little flat in Gateshead – not much at all. But there’s more than that; there’s me. There’s the fact that every fibre of me is totally and utterly devoted to them, there’s the fact that I will always do whatever I can to make them happy, there’s the fact that nothing, NOTHING, will ever stop me getting to them if they’re in trouble. And having two people in this world I feel that way about is more than enough for me; I don’t think I could take a third. So my two girls, my legacy, my project, have got my undivided attention and resources for life, and whatever they intend to do with them is none of my business. It just better be something that makes them happy, or there’ll be hell to pay.

I always get a bit perplexed when people ask me for relationship advice. I mean, what would I know? I never really did any dating (not even quite sure I understand how that works), know nothing about casual relationships (don’t get that at all, either we’re crazy about each other or we’re not, in which case go away) and I’m not experienced enough to know much about marriage. And yet people have told me that by some miracle I have been able, on occasion, to give good advice. Maybe that’s simply because I’m interested, because I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it both for myself and for people I care about. I don’t make any claims to being an expert, I really don’t. The most I can say is that I have lived with someone for thirteen years and we haven’t managed to kill each other yet.

So, what is the secret to a happy, lasting relationship? I have seen a lot of strong relationships and no two are the same, so maybe there isn’t one thing that makes the difference, just as I’m pretty sure there isn’t that one soulmate out there for all of us. However, as our fifth anniversary approaches, and by way of marking the occasion, I am going to note down my musings on the subject, just so that everybody who knows about all this much better than I do can smile at my charming ignorance, and wait for the day when it all goes horribly wrong.

1. A Fine Romance
How important is romance to the success of a marriage? In my opinion, not very. Heidi Klum and Seal are proof of that. I love celebrity gossip, I’m a glutton for it. I have had OK, Heat and Hello magazine posted out to every corner of the world as regularly as possible for the last five years just so I can keep up with what’s happening (thanks Dad) and so the marriage of Heidi Klum and Seal has been on my radar for a while. We were always being shown pictures of them blissfully draped over each other, cuddling happy children and beaming on a beach having just renewed their wedding vows. They do this every year on their anniversary – they throw a big party, get all dressed up and stand up in front of everyone they know and declare undying love for each all over again. Romantic, right? Except they’re now dragging each other through the divorce court. So somewhere behind all that front, all those hearts and flowers, there were some pretty serious problems.

That’s the thing with romantic gestures, often they are just that – a gesture. And I’m not saying that romantic relationships are not lasting relationships as often, of course, they are, but all I’m saying is that it’s not a dealbreaker. In the long run it doesn’t actually make too much difference if it’s there or it’s not. But that could just be my bitterness talking – I mean, I am married to The Least Romantic Man in History. The man who doesn’t buy me cut flowers because ‘they just die’, and who chose a particular style of engagement ring based on the fact that ‘it wouldn’t snag on jumpers’. But the thing is, I do agree with his reasoning in these matters, and I can’t claim to be very good at romance myself. In any case, a lot of our story as a couple has been extremely romantic (albeit unintentionally) and, to give him his due, he has had a few little stabs at romance (piece of tanzanite for my thirtieth birthday anyone? New years’ proposal on a windswept Northumberland beach?) and on these rare occasions I have been all the more bowled over simply because it is rare and unexpected. One thing I really appreciate about his lack of romantic gestures is that, from what I’ve heard, a lot of them involve surprises, and I hate, TRULY HATE, being surprised. He knows this about me and so therefore doesn’t do it. In some ways someone having that insight about you is the most romantic thing of all.

2. Friends
Now this IS a dealbreaker. No-one should even consider marrying someone they wouldn’t be friends with. You should enjoy the simple act of hanging out together; after all, that’s what you’re going to be doing for THE REST OF YOUR LIVES. I’ve actually heard people saying on more than one occasion – “I love So-and-so, I just don’t like him very much.” There’s only one answer to this – “Tell So-and-so to get stepping, because the things that drive you nuts about him now are only going to drive you more nuts down the line.” Enjoying doing things together, good communication, honesty, having some shared interests – these are the building blocks of any friendship, and certainly should be of the uber-friendship that is a marriage.

Most of all though – laughter. Most good friends laugh together a lot, and so do most happily married couples. After all, a lot of life is silly and ridiculous and laughable, especially when you’re raising kids, and sometimes if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. Oh but laughing is so much more fun, and I love how much I laugh these days, even when I shouldn’t. A case in point being the other morning when H fell up the stairs, removing part of a banister and splitting his toenail in the process. OK, it doesn’t sound that funny now I’ve written it down, but the girls and I (and even the victim) were in creases. I guess you had to be there.

3. Walking on Sunshine?
Your relationship should be one of the best things that ever happened to you, sure, but it is unrealistic to believe that you’re going to float through life in a pink bubble of happiness. Of course you’re not, nobody does; there are tough times for everyone in this world. What is important in a marriage is that you stick together even when life isn’t the proverbial cherry bowl. And in some ways making it through something together actually strengthens your bond. When you find yourself in stormy waters, the extreme stress can threaten to tear you apart, but if you hold fast, and haul each other up out of the freezing waves, you can feel proud that you made it through together, that you were truly tested, and that you passed. After all, that’s the only way to feel sure that you can face whatever else may lie ahead.

And will you always feel as lovesick as a pair of teenagers? Probably not. There are ebbs and flows to a marriage – times when you’re more Al and Peg Bundy than Tom and Barbara Goode – but I think as long as you’re still friends, you’ll know the next episode of The Good Life is probably just about to start.

4. We’re All Part of the Masterplan
Having the same ideas about where you want to steer this ship of life is completely and utterly essential. If your dreams are completely different, how are you going to pull together to make them a reality? If one of you dreams of having a view of the Manhattan skyline and the other one wants to herd yaks on the Russian Steppe, one of two things is likely to happen: either one of you will end up having to sacrifice your dream, or you’ll end up apart.

One thing really baffles me though – how can anyone end up in a relationship with someone when one of them wants to have kids and the other doesn’t? I may reveal myself to be something of a bunny boiler here, but I have always managed to introduce this topic of conversation pretty early on in a relationship. I think everyone should have this discussion, and others about what your goals are, right away – after all, there’s really no point in getting involved with someone if you’re not headed in the same general direction.

5. Anything You Can Do, I Can’t Do Better
Any effective team utilises the strengths of its members to become greater than the sum of its parts, and this is equally true of a marriage. For example, in my marriage, I’m Head of Communications (I should add that I have a few other titles as well but this is the one I’m most proud of). My husband doesn’t believe in sending emails you see. Some of his friends wouldn’t be sure from year to year whether he was still alive if it weren’t for the sporadic photographic evidence on Facebook. Should they ever need to get in touch with him they do so through me since I, unlike him, actually reply. Unfortunately this seems to be a family trait – the only communication H and his brother have done in the last five years has been effected through me and his brother’s girlfriend, with whom I communicate every few days.

The same goes for the telephone. Should anyone call, the phone is generally hastily thrust in my direction, more often than not because the person on the other end is speaking Spanish, and translation comes under my remit. Congratulations on your wedding, new baby welcomes, condolences – look no further, this is all in my job description.

And this is totally fine, because I’ll admit this definitely suits my skill set, and there are many, many things that H handles that I would be likely to fail at (driving, anything involving money, DIY – yes, that’s right, it’s still 1957 chez Davies).

So that’s my big five, the top five ingredients for a marriage that has the potential to go the distance. But even if you have all these great building blocks going into it, it’s still unlikely to be all plain sailing. Sometimes it feels like you’re suffering with the same frustrations over and over again, and this is probably because you are. The best thing I’ve learned in the past 13 years is that the quicker you realise what you are unlikely to be able to change about your partner and learn to love (or at least live with) it the happier you will be. And one of the things I’ve had to learn to love (live with) about H is a real classic and may be a universal truth. Now listen I’m not a big exponent of the whole Men are from Mars thing – I hate the whole idea of stereotypes – but there are truly are certain differences between men and women. H, like all men, thinks the correct response to being told about a problem is to try and solve it. Most men reading this are probably thinking – yes, of course, what’s wrong with that? What most men don’t realise is that us women like to just be able to talk through our issues just so that through sharing them, through vocalising them, we are able to figure out what we feel about them. Men hate this. They hate it. They just want to get it sorted ASAP, and move on. And after ending up arguing about this more times than I can count, we finally figured this out. We’re just different. And listen, sometimes what I need is a problem solver; sometimes what I really need is to cut the crap and get it sorted. When that isn’t what I want I chat to a female friend.

We didn’t write our own wedding vows. It seemed an impossible task when we’d never been married before and therefore really had no idea what it was all about. Now, even though it’s only been five years, I think I could have a go. Maybe if one day we get round to renewing our vows, like Heidi Klum and Seal (maybe not), they could go something like this:

“I do solemnly promise to be your best friend. I will know you; I will understand things about you that no-one else does. I promise always to talk to you, to tell you the truth about you and about me. I promise to challenge you when I don’t agree with what you’re doing or thinking. I promise to push you to be the best person you can be. I promise to make plans with you, to always be excited about our future, to believe that there is nothing we cannot achieve together. I will take you on adventures. I will make you laugh. I promise to keep you guessing. I promise to enjoy life just as much as you do. I promise to be a tender, enthusiastic, loving parent; to feel as passionately about our children and our family life as you do. I promise to share the work, to work better as a team than we do alone. I will make you proud, and will be proud of you. When things go wrong, I promise to be there; we’ll get through the hard times and smile again. I won’t expect you to be perfect or to always know what to say or do. I will never let you down. I promise to remember every day how lucky and glad I am to have you in my life…

…even when you’re driving me nuts.”

That last bit is an optional codicil.

So since I’ll be eleven thousand miles away on the day, I will get in a little early and say thanks to my best friend in the world for a hilariously funny, thoroughly unromantic, sometimes tough, but always amazing first five years of marriage. Here’s to many, many more.

Well, as I sit here writing this it’s St Patricks Day and I intend to follow my usual St Paddy’s tradition of NOT going out and NOT getting crushed in a rammed pub while failing to order a pint of Guinness from a harried barmaid. But in any case, St Patrick’s Day isn’t the subject of this post.

Neither is my inspiration for this post my own small claim to Irishness – my Meath-born late maternal grandmother Nel – whose birthday it would have been today, and who I still miss.

No, instead my subject on this most of Irish of days is the phenomenon of Irish Twins. Now, contrary to popular belief I am NOT the parent of a pair of Irish Twins, since these are officially defined as two siblings not from the same gestation but born within a calendar year. No, I fall almost two months short of having hit that particular target, but since I’m close enough, I’m going to exploit this catch-all term to my own ends. I doubt anyone is in the dark as to how the phenomenon of Irish Twins got its name (Irish immigrants with Catholic ideals in regard to contraception inspired the coining of the term in the 1800s) and I am aware that it has plenty of derogatory and negative connotations and for this reason is not generally used in polite society. But here I am using it, and let me tell you why: I am a HUGE fan of Irish Twins. So hopefully anyone who may be offended can rest assured that I’m not Paddy-bashing and will relax while I tell you why having two kids a year apart is the best thing I ever did.

“Son gemelas?” (Are they twins?). It’s a question I get asked (accompanied by a puzzled, vacillating, quizzical expression and a tentative pre-emptory shake of the head) probably in the region of 8-10 times a week by perfect strangers in the street, the supermarket or wherever else my pretty little trotting toddlers catch someone’s eye. To which I respond with a shake of the head and a self-deprecating laugh that I have now had years to perfect, and over the next few seconds the stranger and I have a funny little conversation mostly conducted through shrugs, the gist of which is that I’ve got my work cut out for me and must be a little bit nuts, and that they’re pretty glad they’re not me. I’ve got used to this now. This is the general feeling people have when they spot me grappling with a two year old while yelling at a three year old who is about to disappear through the crowd, or having a lengthy debate with them both as they break down in tears over who gets to hold my right hand when my left is right there available but inexplicably not acceptable. People think: Phew, I’m glad I’m not her. And sometimes I wish I wasn’t her too.

But I got myself into this situation, didn’t I? One other question people like to ask me is whether I let this happen on purpose. And the not so simple answer is yes and no. To be honest I hadn’t even thought about when I would have another child until I was standing there staring at a positive pregnancy test. But the one thing I had already thought about was IF I would have another child. I definitely and without a shadow of a doubt knew that I wanted more than one. So perhaps that’s the reason that when I found myself accidentally pregnant again while still a relatively new mum, I wasn’t as panicked as maybe I should have been. I was too busy being delighted.

The reason I knew I wanted more than one probably had a lot to do with my own childhood. It’s funny that the sibling setup I have presented to my children is pretty much the polar opposite of my own. I have three brothers, but they are separated from me by gaps of eight years, sixteen years and eighteen years. I definitely grew up with my big brother, but I was already an adult before my younger brothers were even born. So, even though I do adore them, and actually feel very connected to them as people, we weren’t playmates simply by virtue of the fact that we weren’t really contemporaries. Officially, I’m not even in the same generation as any of them. And, even though there were definite advantages to this situation (I was never compared to anyone, I didn’t get wound up a lot and I had the chance to develop strong one-on-one relationships with both my parents) I guess sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have a playmate my own age, to share the experience of childhood with more closely, to have someone to turn to and say: What did YOU make of that? In fact, the closest I came to having a close-in-age sibling wasn’t even a blood relative, but actually the son of my mum’s best friend who I ended up spending a lot of my childhood with and who is about two and a half years my junior (so, yeah, pretty much exactly the age my fictional little brother would be). And I valued his easy companionship, his undemanding company, the ability to have fun without the complications of my other friendships.

So I wanted the best things about my relationships with my real and fictional siblings for my own children. I wanted them to be able to navigate the sometimes choppy waters of childhood with a shipmate, a co-captain. And what’s more, once I knew Nyika’s little shipmate was on the way I realised there was something else…. I wanted her to have a sister.

I have been able to bask in the reflected warmth of a lot of great sister relationships – my mum and her sister, my two favourite cousins, two of my best friends from school (who happen to be twins) to name but a few. In all the time I’ve known these amazing sister acts I have wondered what it must be like to have such a close female contemporary to turn to, what it must be like to know they are always going to tell you the truth even when it’s not what you want to hear. The thing is I’m just guessing here, I haven’t got a sister remember, so maybe this is an idealised version of how it really is. I know that sisters can drive each other nuts too (believe me, I have now witnessed that first hand), but it always seems to me that, in the end, it’s worth it.

So here was me, excited about the lovely little sister I was about to present my child with. But once it came down to it and we took our one year old and our newborn home, reality hit. We were LOST, utterly LOST under a sea of nappies and burp cloths and sippy cups and pureed carrot for months and months, maybe even for the best part of a year. We might as well have had twelve babies at that point for all the rest or respite it was possible to get, and what’s worse, I felt guilty. Sometimes I looked at Nyika and it struck me just how young she was – barely walking, not yet talking, barely old enough to even hold a spoon – and here I had given myself a helpless newborn to sap my energy and time and concentration completely away from her. I had done a horrible, horrible thing and deprived her of my attention, just when she needed me most. But then I realised that the only person thinking these things was me. Nyika really didn’t mind at all; I’m not even sure she noticed that anything much had changed. She went along just as usual, and even learned things quicker and became more independent than she might have done had her sister not arrived when she did. This is one of the main advantages with having two so close – the whole politics of introducing a new sibling into the family just doesn’t need to be considered, a one year old just hasn’t had the time to build up the expectations and complex emotional responses that a two or three year old has, so they just accept the things that come along and work with them.

And in the end, just like everyone said it would, it got easier. You see, those same people who were busy being glad they weren’t me, would also often say things like: Even though it’s hard now, after a while it’ll be easier than having one. And it’s true. These days, in between the times when they are battling for position on my lap or inflicting lasting scars on each other with their teeth, magical things happen. Sometimes I sit and drink an undisturbed cup of tea while they play together in the garden. Sometimes we get to lie in until after six o clock while they chat and giggle together in their bedroom. And I love the way they turn every walk to and from school into a landscape of adventure – the flowers they always smell, the walls they always walk along, the driveways they like to run down, the holes they check for spiders – and I know I could never have thought of these things. It comes down to this: no-one knows what’s fun for a kid better than another kid the same age.

A while ago I seemingly told Nyika that I made her sister especially for her, as a gift. I don’t remember saying it, but she does, and she repeats it often. And the more time goes on the harder it gets to deny that she IS a gift. Nyika adores her. The other day she said: “Thanks for making me a sister with such a beautiful face, Mum, I love looking at her face,” as she traced the line of her chin with the tip of a tender finger. And aside from being beautiful, Cielo is such good fun; she makes Nyika laugh several times every day and the only way to get them to go to bed most nights (because they are having such a good time playing in the bedroom) is to separate them, at which point they will both weep bitterly. And Nyika has risen to the role of big sister better than anyone could have imagined. The way she takes her sister’s hand when she quails under the weight of expectation during her turn at the piñata, the way she slides an arm around her neck and introduces her to pals at the school gates with such pride, the way she will wrestle toys back off anyone who tries to take them from her sister, in short the way they are THERE for each other through it all, is so exactly what I had in mind when I wished this little sibling into existence for my precious girl.

Now, look I don’t know what it’s like to BE an Irish Twin, so who knows what my girls will think of it all once they’re grown. Maybe they’ll think it was awful to have a sibling right on top of them, right there in the same bedroom and in the year below at school, cramping their style and wanting the same toys (maybe even boys!) as them, always being compared to each other (though it is something we’ll make an effort to avoid). All I can tell you is how it is to be a parent to siblings like this, and it’s a joy. For all the times they are screaming and squabbling and winding each other up (Cielo sure does love to press Nyika’s buttons), it’s all worth it when I go in to check on them in the night, only to find that one has crept into the other’s bed and they are curled together like a pair of speech marks, peaceful and smiling in their sleep. I hope that if nothing else, having each other as a constant, as someone to hold onto on the shifting sands of this life of ours, will be a gift they’re always glad we gave them.

Only a woman who has had a baby can truly understand the meaning of the affliction known as Baby Brain, can truly appreciate the harmful effects of years of consecutive sleepless nights, of having your entire consciousness filled with the wants and desires of a needy little person to the extent that you never finish a thought, let alone a sentence and… what was I saying again?

Anyway, now that those initial crazy days are in our past and we have a three year old and a two year old who (halleluiah) sleep through the night most nights, occasionally play nicely together in their room or in the garden, and even go to kinder a couple of mornings a week, I have begun to find my brain showing signs of life. It turns out that, after all, it can do things other than stew carrots and boil-wash nappies.

I recently did a couple of weeks of translation work, covering a friend’s maternity. It really was the first time I had used my mind in any way for years, and I was a little nervous initially as to whether I was up to the challenge. I also wondered if I really had the time in my schedule to get it done. And, while there were moments when I could feel the cold dread of failure creeping up my neck, or the girls were getting up early from their naps and I was screaming inside (or outside) because I was sure I was going to miss my deadline, I thoroughly enjoyed the challenge. It was almost like waking up from a dream. I was rusty, no doubt about it; at the outset I found I had to sit at the table in total silence, to concentrate so hard that I was mostly in a light sweat and jigging my legs frantically under the table. As the week wore on I regained the ability (now proving crucial) to tune out surrounding noise and focus easily on the task in hand. But the best part was learning again – learning new words and phrases in Spanish, and even learning from the content of the work itself (business news in the Central American region). I suddenly had interesting facts at my disposal, things to drop into conversation, that weren’t related to burp cloths or pooey nappies. It was exhilarating.

This is what inspired me to try and get some of my own work in the field, so I’ve started to advertise myself as a translator and am seeing what will come of it.

Meanwhile over the Christmas period and January I started to rediscover an old flame. Most people who know me will know that I like to make stuff up and write it down; it’s always seemed a ridiculous thing to be good at and have qualifications in but, either way, I do. But I found my creativity lacking during the time I have been devoted to my children. It was almost as if, having poured all my creative powers into making two new people, I was drained (or more likely I was tired, didn’t have any free time or energy, and my brain wasn’t functioning). But recently I managed to put together a collection of short stories and publish them for Kindle to sell on Amazon. And I’ve found myself so enthused on occasion that I have sat up late into the night to finish something off when I’m on a roll; pretty exciting when I’ve spent the last three years barely making it to nine o’clock without dozing off on the sofa.

It got me to thinking that in many ways I can understand the appeal of being a working mum (even if I can’t imagine how it is actually possible). There’s something great about using that whole other side to your brain, almost like a form of exercise. And at the same time it’s about having another identity as well, I imagine even more so when you actually leave the house and have a whole other sphere in which you operate, a workplace where you are yourself rather than Mum, for a little while at least. Whereas I don’t ever actually leave the house to work and am not as such employed, even having projects which I’m working on has given me a taste of this independence. The return to spending some time on my own pursuits has given me a new lease of life, and even more excitingly, has even served to renew my enthusiasm for spending time with the kids. Rather than being waist-deep in dirty washing and grumbling at my girls, taking a break from them when I can and using it to work (rather than sleep or do the washing-up or stare blankly at the ceiling in sheer exhaustion), means I come back to a game of Hungry Hippos or taking turns with the colouring book refreshed and keen.

That’s the really exciting thing about my prospects these days: I know I am already doing the best and most fulfilling job in the world – everything else is just the icing on the cake.

Shameless plug: I’m available for Spanish-English translation jobs or freelance writing/editing projects of any kind. Contact me on kdtraduccion@gmail.com. You can buy my short story collection ‘Bad Roads’ for Kindle on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk, or in fact on any of Amazon’s international incarnations http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bad-Roads-ebook/dp/B007690BPC/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1329537454&sr=1-1 (this is a link which you may have to copy and paste if you are so inclined).